FORT LEE

MR. PRESIDENT, DAVIS SAID. WOULD IT BE POSSIBLE FOR YOU TO simply explain yourself. No stories, no riddles. It's awfully late, and I don't have the energy to be patient and respectful.

Edwin, I like you. Most of the assholes I deal with tell me either what they think I want to hear or what I don't need to know. You're different. You tell me what I have to hear. No sugarcoating, just straight up. That's why when you told me about Ramsey, I listened. Anybody else, I would have let it go in one ear and out the other. But not you. Yes, I was skeptical, but you were right.

What have you done? Davis asked.

She'd sensed something, too, in the president's tone.

I simply gave him what he wanted. The appointment. Nothing rocks a man to sleep better than success. I should know it's been used on me many times. Daniels' gaze drifted to the refrigerated compartment. It's what's in there that fascinates me. A record of a people we've never known. They lived a long time ago. Did things. Thought things. Yet we had no idea they existed.

Daniels reached into his pocket and removed a piece of paper. Look at this.

It's a petroglyph from the Hathor Temple at Dendera. I saw it a few years ago. The thing's huge, with towering columns. It's fairly recent, as far as Egypt goes, first century before Christ. Those attendants are holding what looks like some kind of lamp, supported on pillars, so they must be heavy, connected to a box on the ground by a cable. Look at the top of the columns, beneath the two bulbs. Looks like a condenser, doesn't it?

I had no idea you were so interested in things like this, she said.

I know. Us poor, dumb country boys can't appreciate anything.

I didn't mean it that way. It's just that

Don't sweat it, Stephanie. I keep this to myself. But I love it. All those tombs found in Egypt, and inside the pyramids not a single chamber has smoke damage. How in the crap did they get light down into those places to work? Fire was all they had, and lamps burned smoky oil. He pointed at the drawing. Maybe they had something else. There's an inscription found at the Hathor Temple that says it all. I wrote it down. He turned the drawing over. The temple was built according to a plan written in ancient writing upon a goatskin scroll from the time of the Companions of Horus. Can you imagine? They're saying right there that they had help from a long time ago.

You can't really believe Egyptians had electric lights, Davis said.

I don't know what to believe. And who said they were electric? They could have been chemical. The military has tritium gas-phosphor lamps that shine for years without electricity. I don't know what to believe. All I know is that petroglyph is real.

Yes, it was.

Look at it this way, the president said. There was a time when the so-called experts thought all of the continents were fixed. No question, the land has always been where it is now, end of story. Then people started noticing how Africa and South America seem to fit together. North America, Greenland. Europe, too. Coincidence, that's what the experts said. Nothing more. Then they found fossils in England and North America that were identical. Same kind of rocks, too. Coincidence became stretched. Then plates were located beneath the oceans that move, and the so-called experts realized that the land could shift on those plates. Finally, in the 1960s, the experts were proven wrong. The continents were all once joined together and eventually drifted apart. What was once fantasy is now science.

She recalled last April and their conversation at The Hague. I thought you told me that you didn't know beans about science.

I don't. But that doesn't mean I don't read and pay attention.

She smiled. You're quite a contradiction.

I'll take that as a compliment. Daniels pointed at the table. Does the translation program work?

Seems to. And you're right. This is a record of a lost civilization. One that's been around a long time and apparently interacted with people all over the globe, including, according to Malone, Europeans in the ninth century.

Daniels stood from his chair. We think ourselves so smart. So sophisticated. We're the first at everything. Bullshit. There's a crapload out there we don't know.

From what we've translated so far, she said, there's apparently some technical knowledge here. Strange things. It's going to take time to understand. And some fieldwork.

Malone may regret that he went down there, Daniels muttered.

She needed to know, Why?

The president's dark eyes studied her. NR-1A used uranium for fuel, but there were several thousand gallons of oil on board for lubrication. Not a drop was ever found. Daniels went silent. Subs leak when they sink. Then there's the logbook, like you learned from Rowland. Dry. Not a smudge. That means the sub was intact when Ramsey found it. And from what Rowland said, they were on the continent when Ramsey went into the water. Near the coast. Malone's following Dietz Oberhauser's trail, just like NR-1A did. What if the paths intersect?

That sub can't still exist, she said.

Why not? It's the Antarctic. Daniels paused. I was told half an hour ago that Malone and his entourage are now at Halvorsen Base.

She saw that Daniels genuinely cared about what was happening, both here and to the south.

Okay, here it is, Daniels said. From what I've learned, Ramsey employed a hired killer who goes by the name Charles C. Smith Jr.

Davis sat still in his chair.

I had CIA check Ramsey thoroughly and they identified this Smith character. Don't ask me how, but they did it. He apparently uses a lot of names and Ramsey has doled out a ton of money to him. He's probably the one who killed Sylvian, Alexander, and Scofield, and he thinks he killed Herbert Rowland And Millicent, Davis said.

Daniels nodded.

You found Smith? she asked, recalling what Daniels had originally said.

In a manner of speaking. The president hesitated. I came to see all this. I truly wanted to know. But I also came to tell you exactly how I think we can end this circus.

MALONE STARED OUT THE HELICOPTER'S WINDOW, THE CHURN OF the rotors pulsating in his ears. They were flying west. Brilliant sunshine streamed in through the tinted goggles that shielded his eyes. They girdled the shore, seals lounging on the ice like giant slugs, killer whales breaking the water, patrolling the ice edges for unwary prey. Rising from the coast, mountains poked upward like tombstones over an endless white cemetery, their darkness in stark contrast with the bright snow.

The aircraft veered south.

We're entering the restricted area, Taperell said through the flight helmets.

The Aussie sat in the chopper's forward right seat while a Norwegian piloted. Everyone else was huddled in an unheated rear compartment. They'd been delayed three hours by mechanical problems with the Huey. No one had stayed behind. They all seemed eager to know what was out there. Even Dorothea and Christl had calmed, though they sat as far away from each other as possible. Christl now wore a different-colored parka, her bloodied one from the plane replaced at the base.

They found the frozen horseshoe-shaped bay from the map, a fence of icebergs guarding its entrance. Blinding light reflected off the bergs' blue ice.

The chopper crossed a mountain ridge with peaks too sheer for snow to cling to. Visibility was excellent and winds were weak, only a few wispy cirrus clouds loafing around in a bright blue sky.

Ahead he spotted something different.

Little surface snow. Instead, the ground and rock walls were colored with irregular lashings of black dolerite, gray granite, brown shale, and white limestone. Granite boulders littered the landscape in all shapes and sizes.

A dry valley, Taperell said. No rain for two million years. Back then mountains rose faster than glaciers could cut their way through, so the ice was trapped on the other side. Winds sweep down off the plateau from the south and keep the ground nearly ice-and snow-free. Lots of these in the southern portion of the continent. Not as many up this way.

Has this one been explored? Malone asked.

We have fossil hunters who visit. The place is a treasure trove of them. Meteorites, too. But the visits are limited by the treaty.

The cabin appeared, a strange apparition lying at the base of a forbidding, trackless peak.

The chopper swept over the pristine rocky terrain, then wheeled back over a landing site and descended onto gravelly sand.

Everyone clambered out, Malone last, the sleds with equipment handed to him. Taperell gave him a wink as he passed Malone his pack, signaling that he'd done as requested. Noisy rotors and blasts of freezing air assaulted him.

Two radios were included in the bundles. Malone had already arranged for a check-in six hours from now. Taperell had told them that the cabin would offer shelter, if need be. But the weather looked good for the next ten to twelve hours. Daylight wasn't a problem since the sun wouldn't set again until March.

Malone gave a thumbs-up and the chopper lifted away. The rhythmic thwack of rotor blades receded as it disappeared over the ridgeline.

Silence engulfed them.

Each of his breaths cracked and pinged, the air as dry as a Sahara wind. But no sense of peace mixed with the tranquility.

The cabin stood fifty yards away.

What do we do now? Dorothea asked.

He started off. I say we begin with the obvious.

Chapter EIGHTY-FIVE

MALONE APPROACHED THE CABIN. TAPERELL HAD BEEN RIGHT . Seventy years old, yet its white-brown walls looked as if they'd just been delivered from the sawmill. Not a speck of rust on a single nailhead. A coil of rope hanging near the door looked new. Shutters shielded two windows. He estimated the building was maybe twenty feet square with overhanging eaves and a pitched tin roof pierced by a pipe stack chimney. A gutted seal lay against one wall, gray-black, its glassy eyes and whiskers still there, lying as if merely sleeping rather than frozen.

The door possessed no latch so he pushed it inward and raised his tinted goggles. Sides of the seal meat and sledges hung from ironbraced ceiling rafters. The same shelves from the pictures, fashioned from crates, stacked against one brown-stained wall with the same bottled and canned food, the labels still legible. Two bunks with fur sleeping bags, table, chairs, iron stove, and radio were all there. Even the magazines from the photo remained. It seemed as if the occupants had left yesterday and could return at any moment.

This is disturbing, Christl said.

He agreed.

Since no dust mites or insects existed to break down any organic debris, he realized the Germans' sweat still lay frozen on the floor, along with flakes of their skin and bodily excrescences and that Nazi presence hung heavy in the hut's silent air.

Grandfather was here, Dorothea said, approaching the table and the magazines. These are Ahnenerbe publications.

He shook away the uncomfortable feeling, stepped to where the symbol should be carved in the floor, and saw it. The same one from the book cover, along with another crude etching.

It's our family crest, Christl said.

Seems Grandfather staked his personal claim, Malone noted.

What do you mean? Werner asked.

Henn, who stood near the door, seemed to understand and grasped an iron bar by the stove. Not a speck of rust infected its surface.

I see you know the answer, too, Malone said.

Henn said nothing. He just forced the flat iron tip beneath the floorboards and pried them upward, revealing a black yawn in the ground and the top of a wooden ladder.

How did you know? Christl asked him.

This cabin sits in an odd spot. Makes no sense, unless it's protecting something. When I saw the photo in the book, I realized what the answer had to be.

We'll need flashlights, Werner said.

Two are on the sled, outside. I had Taperell pack them, along with extra batteries.

SMITH AWOKE. HE WAS BACK IN HIS APARTMENT. 8:20 AM. HE'D managed only three hours' sleep, but what an excellent day already. He was ten million dollars richer, thanks to Diane McCoy, and he'd made a point to Langford Ramsey that he wasn't someone to be taken lightly.

He switched on the television and found a Charmed rerun. He loved that show. Something about three sexy witches appealed to him. Naughty and nice. Which also seemed best how to describe Diane McCoy. She'd coolly stood by during his confrontation with Ramsey, clearly a dissatisfied woman who wanted more and apparently knew how to get it.

He watched as Paige orbed from her house. What a trick. To dematerialize from one place, then rematerialize at another. He was somewhat like that. Slipping in, doing his job, then just as deftly slipping away.

His cell phone dinged. He recognized the number.

And what may I do for you? he asked Diane McCoy as he answered.

A little more cleanup.

Seems the day for that.

The two from Asheville who almost got to Scofield. They work for me and know far too much. I wish we had time for finesse, but we don't. They have to be eliminated.

And you have a way?

I know exactly how we're going to do it.

DOROTHEA WATCHED AS COTTON MALONE DESCENDED INTO THE opening beneath the cabin. What had her grandfather found? She'd been apprehensive about coming, both for the risks and unwanted personal involvements, but she was glad now that she'd made the trip. Her pack rested a few feet away, the gun inside bringing her renewed comfort. She'd overreacted on the plane. Her sister knew how to play her, keep her off balance, rub the rawest nerve in her body, and she told herself to quit taking the bait.

Werner stood with Henn, near the hut's door. Christl sat at the radio desk.

Malone's light played across the darkness below.

It's a tunnel, he called out. Stretches toward the mountain.

How far? Christl asked.

A long-ass way.

Malone climbed back to the top. I need to see something.

He emerged and walked outside. They followed.

I wondered about the strips of snow and ice streaking the valley. Bare ground and rock everywhere, then a few rough paths crisscrossing here and there. He pointed toward the mountain and a seven-to eight-yard-wide path of snow that led from the hut to its base. That's the tunnel's path. The air beneath is much cooler than the ground so the snow stays.

How do you know that? Werner asked.

You'll see.

HENN WAS THE FINAL ONE TO CLIMB DOWN THE LADDER. MALONE watched as they all stood in amazement. The tunnel stretched ahead in a straight path, maybe twenty feet wide, its sides black volcanic rock, its ceiling a luminous blue, casting the subterranean path in a twilight-like glow.

This is incredible, Christl said.

The ice cap formed a long time ago. But it had help. He pointed with his flashlight at what appeared to be boulders littering the floor, but they reflected back in a twinkly glow. Some kind of quartz. They're everywhere. Look at their shapes. My guess is they once formed the ceiling, eventually fell away, and the ice remained in a natural arch.

Dorothea bent down and examined one of the chunks. Henn held the other flashlight and offered illumination. She joined a couple of them together: They fit like pieces in a puzzle. You're right. They connect.

Where does this lead? Christl said.

That's what we're about to find out.

The underground air was colder than outside. He checked his wrist thermometer. Minus twenty degrees Celsius. He converted the measurement. Four below Fahrenheit. Cold, but bearable.

He was right about length the tunnel was a couple of hundred feet long and littered with the quartz rubble. Before descending they'd lugged their gear into the hut, including the two radios. They'd brought down their backpacks and he toted spare batteries for the flashlights, but the phosphorescent glow filtering down from the ceiling easily showed the way.

The glowing ceiling ended ahead where, he estimated, they'd found the mountain and a towering archway black and red pillars framing its sides and supporting a tympanum filled with writing similar to the books. He shone his light and noted how the square columns tapered inward toward their base, the polished surfaces shimmering with an ethereal beauty.

Seems we're at the right place, Christl said.

Two doors, perhaps twelve feet tall, were barred shut. He stepped close and caressed their exterior. Bronze.

Bands of running spirals decorated the smooth surface. A metal bar spanned their width, held in place by thick clamps. Six heavy hinges opened toward them.

He grasped the bar and lifted it away.

Henn reached for the handle of one of the doors and swung it outward. Malone gripped the other, feeling like Dorothy entering Oz. The door's opposite side was adorned with the same decorative spirals and bronze clamps. The portal was wide enough for all of them to enter simultaneously.

What had appeared topside as a single mountain, draped in snow, was actually three peaks crowded together, the wide cleaves between them mortared with translucent blue ice old, cold, hard, and free of snow. The inside had once been bricked with more of the quartz blocks, like a towering stained-glass window, the joints thick and jagged. A good portion of the inner wall had fallen, but enough remained for him to see that the construction feat had been impressive. More iridescent showers of blue-tinted rays rained down through three rising joints, like massive light sticks, illuminating the cavernous space in an unearthly way.

Before them lay a city.

STEPHANIE HAD SPENT THE NIGHT AT EDWIN DAVIS' APARTMENT, a modest two-bedroom, two-bath affair in the Watergate towers. Canted walls, intersecting grids, varying ceiling heights, and plenty of curves and circles gave the rooms a cubist composition. The minimalist dTcor and walls the color of ripe pears created an unusual but not unpleasant feel. Davis told her the place had come furnished and he'd grown accustomed to its simplicity.

They'd returned with Daniels to Washington aboard Marine One and managed a few hours' sleep. She'd showered, and Davis had arranged for her to buy a change of clothes in one of the ground-floor boutiques. Pricey, but she'd had no choice. Her clothes had seen a lot of wear. She'd left Atlanta for Charlotte thinking the trip would take one day, at best. Now she was into day three, with no end in sight. Davis, too, had cleaned up, shaved, and dressed in navy corduroy trousers and a pale yellow oxford-cloth shirt. His face was still bruised from the fight but looked better.

We can get something to eat downstairs, he said. I can't boil water, so I eat there a lot.

The president is your friend, she felt compelled to say, knowing last night was on his mind. He's taking a big chance for you.

He cracked a brittle smile. I know. And now it's our turn.

She'd come to admire this man. He was nothing like she imagined. A bit too bold for his own good, but committed.

The house phone rang and Davis answered.

They'd been waiting.

In the apartment's hushed quiet she could hear the caller's every word.

Edwin, Daniels said. I have the location.

Tell me, Davis said.

You sure? Last chance. You might not come back from this one.

Just tell me the location.

She cringed at his impatience, but Daniels was right. They might not come back.

Davis shut his eyes. Just let us do this. He paused. Sir.

Write this down.

Davis grabbed a pen and pad from the counter and wrote quickly as Daniels provided the information.

Careful, Edwin, Daniels said. Lots of unknowns here.

And women can't be trusted?

The president chuckled. I'm glad you said it and not me.

Davis hung up and stared at her, his eyes a kaleidoscope of emotions. You need to stay here.

Like hell.

You don't have to do this.

His cool assumption made her laugh. Since when? You're the one who involved me.

I was wrong.

She stepped close and gently caressed his bruised face. You would have killed the wrong man in Asheville if I hadn't been there.

He grasped her wrist in a light embrace, his hand jittery. Daniels is right. This is wholly unpredictable.

Hell, Edwin, that's my whole life.

Chapter EIGHTY-SIX

MALONE HAD SEEN SOME IMPRESSIVE THINGS. THE TEMPLAR TREASURE. The Library of Alexandria. The tomb of Alexander the Great. But none of those compared to what he now saw.

A processional way of irregularly shaped and polished slabs, lined on both sides with close-packed buildings of varying shapes and sizes, stretched ahead. Streets crisscrossed and intersected. The cocoon of rock that encased the settlement reached hundreds of feet into the air, the farthest wall maybe two football fields away. Even more impressive were the vertical rock faces rising like monoliths, polished smooth from ground to ceiling, etched with symbols, letters, and drawings. His flashlight revealed in the wall nearest him a melding of whitish yellow sandstone, greenish red shale, and black dolerite wedges. The effect was like that of marble of standing inside a building rather than a mountain.

Pillars lined the street at defined intervals, and supported more of the quartz that gently glowed, like night-lights, investing everything with a dim mystery.

Grandfather was right, Dorothea said. It truly does exist.

Yes, he was, Christl proclaimed, her voice rising. Right about everything.

Malone heard the pride, felt her flush of excitement.

All of you thought him a dreamer, Christl continued. Mother berated him and Father. But they were visionaries. They were right about it all.

This will change everything, Dorothea said.

Of which you have no right to share, Christl said. I always believed in their theories. It's why I pursued that line of study. You laughed at them. No one will laugh at Hermann Oberhauser anymore.

How about we hold off on the accolades, Malone said, and have a look.

He led the group forward, peering down the side streets as deep as their flashlight beams would allow. A strong foreboding rocked through him, but curiosity nudged him forward. He almost expected people to drift out from the buildings and greet them, but only their footsteps could be heard.

The buildings were a mixture of squares and rectangles with walls of cut stone, laid tight, polished smooth, held together with no mortar. The two flashlights revealed fatades ablaze with color. Rust, brown, blue, yellow, white, gold. Low-pitched roofs produced pediments filled with elaborate spiral designs and more writing. Everything seemed tidy, practical, and well organized. The Antarctic freezer had preserved it all, though there was evidence of geological forces at work. Many of the quartz blocks in the towering light crevices had fallen. A few walls had collapsed, and the street contained buckles.

The thoroughfare drained into a circular plaza with more buildings lining its circumference, one a colonnaded temple-like structure with beautifully decorated square columns. In the center of the plaza stood the same unique symbol from the book cover, an enormous shiny red monument surrounded by tiers of stone benches. His eidetic memory instantly recalled what Einhard had written.

The Advisers stamped their approval to enactments with the symbol of righteousness. Its shape, carved into red stone, centers the city and watches over their annual deliberations. Atop is the sun, half ablaze in glory. Then the earth, as a simple circle, and the planets represented by a dot within the circle. The cross beneath them reminds of the land, while the sea waves below.

Square pillars dotted the plaza, maybe ten feet tall. Each crimson and topped with swirls and ornamentation. He counted eighteen. More writing had been etched onto their fatades in tight rows.

Laws are enacted by the Advisers and inscribed upon the Righteous Columns in the center of the city so that all will know the provisions.

Einhard was here, Christl said. She'd apparently realized the same thing. It's as he described.

Since you didn't share what he wrote with us, Dorothea said. It's hard to know.

He watched as Christl ignored her sister and studied one of the columns.

They were walking on a collage of mosaics. Henn examined the pavement with his light. Animals, people, scenes of daily life each alive with bright color. A few yards away stood a circular stone ledge, perhaps thirty feet in diameter and four feet tall. He walked toward it and gazed over. A black stone-lined hole opened in the earth.

The others approached.

He found a rock the size of a small melon and tossed it over the side. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. A minute. Still no sound of the bottom.

That's a deep hole, he said.

Similar to the predicament he'd dug for himself.

DOROTHEA DRIFTED AWAY FROM THE PIT . WERNER FOLLOWED AND whispered, You okay?

She nodded, again uncomfortable with his husbandly concern. We need to finish this, she whispered. Move it along.

He nodded.

Malone was studying one of the square red pillars.

Each breath she took parched her mouth.

Werner said to Malone, Would it be faster if we divide into two groups and explore, then meet back here?

Malone turned. Not a bad idea. We have another five hours before we check in, and it's a long way back down that tunnel. We need to make that trek only once.

No one argued.

So there's no fight among anyone, Malone said, I'll take Dorothea. You and Christl go with Henn.

Dorothea glanced at Ulrich. His eyes told her that would be fine.

So she said nothing.

MALONE DECIDED THAT IF ANYTHING WAS GOING TO HAPPEN, NOW was the time, so he'd quickly agreed with Werner's suggestion. He was waiting to see who'd make the first move. Keeping the sisters and the married people apart seemed smart, and he noticed that no one objected.

That meant he'd now have to play the hand he'd dealt himself.

Chapter EIGHTY-SEVEN

MALONE AND DOROTHEA LEFT THE CENTRAL PLAZA AND VENTURED deeper into the cluster, the buildings packed tight like dominoes in a box. Some of the structures were shops with one or two rooms, opening directly to the street with no other obvious function. Others were set back, accessed by walkways leading between the shops to front doors. He noticed no cornices, eaves, or guttering. The architecture seemed eager to use right angles, diagonals, and pyramidal forms curves appeared in restraint. Ceramic pipes, married with thick gray joints, ran house to house, and up and down the exterior walls each beautifully painted part of the dTcor, but also, he surmised, practical.

He and Dorothea investigated one of the dwellings, entering through a sculpted bronze door. A mosaic-paved central courtyard was surrounded by four square rooms, each carved from stone with clear depth and precision. Onyx and topaz columns seemed more for decoration than support. Stairs led to an upper story. No windows. Instead, the ceiling consisted of more quartz, the pieces arched together with mortar. The weak light from outside refracted through and was magnified, making the rooms more resplendent.

They're all empty, Dorothea said. As if they took everything and left.

Which may be exactly what happened.

Images sheathed the walls. Groups of well-dressed woman seated on either side of a table, surrounded by more people. Beyond, a killer whale a male, he knew from the tall dorsal fin swam in a blue sea. Jagged icebergs floated nearby, dotted with colonies of penguins. A boat cruised the surface long, thin, with two masts and the symbol from the plaza, emblazoned in red, on square sails. Realism seemed a concern. Everything was well proportioned. The wall reflected the flashlight beam, which drew him closer to caress the surface.

More of the ceramic pipes ran floor to ceiling in every room, their exterior painted to blend with the images.

He examined them with unconcealed wonder.

Has to be some sort of heating system. They had to have a way to keep warm.

The source? she asked.

Geothermal. These people were smart, but not mechanically sophisticated. My guess is that pit in the central plaza was a geothermal vent that would have heated the whole place. They channeled more heat into these pipes and sent it all over the city. He rubbed the shiny exterior. But once the heat source faded, they would have been in trouble. Life here would have been a daily battle.

A fissure marred one of the interior walls and he traced it with his light. This place has taken some earthquake hits over the centuries. Amazing it's still standing.

No reply had been offered to either of his observations, so he turned.

Dorothea Lindauer stood across the room, a gun pointed at him.

STEPHANIE STUDIED THE HOUSE THAT DANNY DANIELS' DIRECTIONS had led them to find. Old, dilapidated, isolated in the Maryland countryside, surrounded by dense woods and meadows. A barn stood to its rear. No other cars were in sight. They'd both come armed, so they stepped from the vehicle, weapons in hand. Neither of them said a word.

They approached the front door, which hung open. Most of the windows were shattered clear. The house was, she estimated, two to three thousand square feet, its glory having faded long ago.

They entered cautiously.

The day was clear and cold and bright sunshine flooded in through the exposed windows. They stood in a foyer, parlors opening to their left and right, another corridor ahead. The house was single-story and rambling, connected by wide hallways. Furniture filled the rooms, draped in filthy cloths, the wall coverings peeling, the wood floors buckling.

She caught a sound, like scraping. Then a soft tap, tap, tap. Something moving? Walking?

She heard a snarl and growl.

Her eyes focused down one of the halls. Davis brushed past and led the way. They came to a doorway into one of the bedrooms. Davis dropped behind her but kept his gun aimed. She knew what he wanted her to do, so she eased close to the jamb, peeked inside, and saw two dogs. One tawny and white, the other a pale gray, both busy eating something. They were each a good size and sinewy. One of them sensed her presence and raised its head. Its mouth and nose were bloodstained.

The animal growled.

His partner sensed danger and came alert, too.

Davis moved up behind her.

Do you see it? he asked.

She did.

Beneath the dogs, lying on the floor, was their meal.

A human hand, severed at the wrist, three fingers missing.

MALONE STARED AT DOROTHEA'S GUN. YOU PLAN TO SHOOT ME?

You're in league with her. I saw her go into your room.

I don't think a one-night stand qualifies as being in league with someone.

She's evil.

You're both nuts.

He stepped toward her. She jutted the weapon forward. He stopped, near a doorway that led out into the adjacent room. She stood ten feet away, before another wall of shiny mosaics.

You two are going to destroy each other, unless you stop, he made clear.

She's not going to win this.

Win what?

I'm my father's heir.

No. You're not. You both are. Trouble is, neither one of you can see that.

You heard her. She's vindicated. She was right. She'll be impossible to deal with.

True, but he'd had enough and now was not the time. Do what you have to do, but I'm walking out of here.

I'll shoot you.

Then do it.

He turned and started out the doorway.

I mean it, Malone.

You're wasting my time.

She pulled the trigger.

Click.

He kept walking. She pulled the trigger again. More clicks.

He stopped and faced her. I had your bag searched while we ate at the base. I found the gun. He caught the abashed look on her face. I thought it a prudent move, after your tantrum on the plane. I had the bullets taken from the magazine.

I was shooting at the floor, she said. I wouldn't have harmed you.

He extended a hand for the gun.

She walked over and surrendered it. I hate Christl with all my being.

We've established that, but at the moment it's counterproductive. We found what your family has been searching for what your father and grandfather worked their whole lives to find. Can't you be excited about that?

It's not what I've been searching for.

He sensed a quandary, but decided not to pry.

And what about what you've been searching for? she asked him.

She was right. No sign of NR-1A. The jury's still out on that one.

This could have been where our fathers were coming.

Before he could answer her speculation, two pops broke the silence outside, far off.

Then another.

That's gunfire, he said.

And they raced from the room.

STEPHANIE NOTICED SOMETHING ELSE. LOOK FARTHER RIGHT.

Part of the interior wall swung open, the rectangle beyond deep with shadows. She studied paw prints in the dirt and dust that led to and from the open panel. Apparently they know what's behind that wall.

The dogs' bodies tensed. Both started barking.

Her attention returned to the animals. They need to go.

Their guns remained aimed, the dogs holding their ground, guarding their meal, so Davis shifted to the other side of the doorway.

One of the dogs lunged forward, then abruptly stopped.

I'm going to fire, he said.

He leveled his gun and sent a bullet into the floor between the animals. Both shrieked, then rushed around in confusion. He fired again and they bolted through the doorway into the hall. They stopped a few feet away, realizing that they'd forgotten their food. She fired into the floorboards and they turned and ran, disappearing out the front door.

She let out a breath.

Davis entered the room and knelt beside the severed hand. We need to see what's down there.

She didn't necessarily agree what was the point? but knewDavis needed to see. She stepped to the doorway. Narrow wooden steps led below, thendog-legged right into pitchdarkness. Probably anold cellar.

She started the descent. He followed. At the landing she hesitated. Slivers of darkness evaporated as her pupils adjusted and the ambient light revealed a room about ten feet square, its curtain wall hacked from the ground rock, the floor a powdery dirt. Thick wooden beams spanned the ceiling. The frigid air was unmolested by ventilation.

At least no more dogs, Davis said.

Then she saw it.

A body, wearing an overcoat, lying prone, one arm a stump. She instantly recognized the face, though a bullet had obliterated the nose and one eye.

Langford Ramsey.

The debt is paid, she said.

Davis bypassed her and approached the corpse. I only wish I could have done it.

It's better this way.

There was a sound overhead. Footsteps. Her gaze shot to the wood floor above.

That's not a dog, Davis whispered.

Chapter EIGHTY-EIGHT

MALONE AND DOROTHEA FLED THE HOUSE AND FOUND THE EMPTY street. Another pop sounded. He determined its direction.

That way, he said.

He resisted breaking into a run, but quickened his pace toward the central plaza, their bulky clothing and backpacks slowing progress. They rounded the circular walled pit and trotted down another wide causeway. Here, deeper into the city, more evidence of geological disturbances could be seen. Several of the buildings had collapsed. Walls were cracked. Rocks littered the street. He was careful. Their legs couldn't be trusted over such unsure footing.

Something caught his eye. Lying near one of the faintly glowing elevated crystals. He stopped. Dorothea did, too.

A cap? Here? In this place of ancient and abandoned possession, it seemed a strange intrusion.

He stepped close.

Orange cloth. Recognizable.

He bent down. Above its bill was stitched: