In response to his call, the motor of the pontoon boat growled to a higher pitch. The vessel shot forward, aiming straight for her. As it neared, she counted five on board. All outfitted in dry suits. One manned the tiller in the stern. Two leaned out over the black pontoons with deadly rifles raised. Between them, in the bow, stood a mismatched pair. A wall of muscle towered over a smaller, slim figure with a bullhorn in hand.
Clearly the team leader.
As the nose of the Zodiac reached the water’s edge, the leader tossed the bullhorn aside and leaped gracefully to shore. Only now did Elena realize it was a woman. The tight-fitting black wetsuit left little doubt as to her gender. A neoprene hood covered most of her head, but from her ample cheekbones, dark eyes, and a caramel complexion, she had to be Middle Eastern.
Elena glanced back at the ancient dhow, then to the map.
Is that why this group—clearly all Middle Eastern—knew so much about this treasure?
She couldn’t help but be intrigued by the historical mystery here.
Without a word, the dark woman came forward, dropped to one knee, and opened the box. Gleaming gold greeted her. Elena studied the map once again. It seemed to have reverted to its original state. The tiny silver boat had returned to a port in what appeared to be the coastline of Turkey. Looking down from above, she suddenly guessed that city.
“Troy,” she whispered aloud.
The woman turned to her, cocking her head slightly, her dark eyes twinkling.
“It seems whoever brought you here had not been misguided.”
Elena took little solace from this assessment. She noted the scar that split the woman’s lower lip and carved a pale path down her chin, along her throat, and vanished under the edge of her wetsuit. It made her no less attractive. Still, Elena sensed a palpable danger wafting from her, like the radiation off the golden map.
Both were beautiful but deadly.
The woman’s penetrating eyes fixed on Elena. “Where is it?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?”
The team leader pointed to the hollow space in the map that once held the silver sphere of the astrolabe. In the depths of the empty cradle, bronze gears shone brightly. Elena pictured those cogs and wheels turning the astrolabe like the hands of an intricate clock.
“Where is the Daedalus Key?” the woman pressed.
The Daedalus Key?
Elena let her confusion show in her face and used it to reinforce her lie. “I don’t know what you mean. That’s all we found.”
The leader straightened and commanded in Arabic to someone behind Elena. Elena made out one phrase. Taelimuha. Which meant “teach her.”
She turned and found a hulking figure standing silently at her shoulder. She had not even heard the large bodyguard leave the Zodiac. He stood over seven feet, and surely suffered from some form of genetic gigantism. His face was all crags and scars. His brow heavy and thick. His eyes as dead and cold as those of a great white.
The man balled a fist and slammed it into Elena’s side.
She cried out and crumpled to the ground. Sharp pain radiated outward, making it hard to breathe. The tears she had been trying to hold in check burst forth hotly.
The woman stared down at her. “Do not lie again.” She then pointed to the ship and barked to her men in Arabic, loud enough for Elena to easily translate. “Secure the key. Kill them all.”
4
June 21, 11:18 A.M. WGST
Airborne over the Denmark Strait
Too wired to sit, Kowalski paced the length of the P-8 Poseidon’s cabin. It was his fourth circuit over the past twenty minutes.
He finally reached the “wine racks” at the stern of the aircraft, which held rows of cylindrical sonobuoys. He leaned on a barrel-sized rotary launcher that shot the buoys into the seas to assist the maritime patrol plane in monitoring Russian subs in the area. He tapped a finger on the launcher’s canister. His other hand—still in a pocket of his long leather duster—crinkled the cellophane around a Cuban cigar.
Maybe they won’t catch me back here if I took a couple puffs . . .
No one was around. The large jet had a crew of only nine, all of them stationed up front. With the crew busy at their monitors, it was aggravatingly quiet aboard the plane, which only got on his nerves.
Across the length of the bird, he spotted the Poseidon’s commander exit the cockpit and head toward the monitoring stations amidships. He stopped to say something to Maria, who was belted into a seat beside one of the two observer’s windows. The man laughed at something she said. His hand rested too long on the back of her seat.
Kowalski felt a bit of heat rise in his neck. The commander was young, smiled often, and looked way too much like Tom Cruise in Top Gun.
He left his cigar in his pocket and headed aft.
He marched past the sections of the plane that housed its avionic compartments and antisubmarine armaments. He ended up meeting the commander at the row of five seats lining the port side, where a team of four men and one woman were bent over various glowing screens, monitoring the aircraft’s sophisticated APY-10 multi-mode search radar and ALQ-240 Electronic Support Measures Suite.
Earlier, upon learning that he was former navy, the tactical coordinator of the group had tried to explain to Kowalski some of the equipment and its capabilities. He barely understood every third word. It reminded him how much of an old sea dog he actually was. Apparently modern warfare had outgrown him.
The commander nodded to Kowalski. “I just came back to tell you we’ll be landing in ten minutes, so it’s best if you join Dr. Crandall and get strapped in. We’re due to hit some weather along the coast.”
As if the gods had heard him, the jet bucked underfoot. Kowalski kept his feet by grabbing a seatback. The commander seemed to have managed to stay upright by merely smiling wider.
Bastard . . .
“Like I said,” the commander warned, “time to buckle up.”
Kowalski straightened and began to shoulder past the man when the tactical coordinator turned in his seat and slipped off a set of large earphones.
“Commander Pullman, I just received a report from another Poseidon heading back to Reykjavik. They picked up a possible bogie, running periscope depth along the coast ahead. But with the storm behind them and the seas full of broken ice, they lost it and never made a full ID. They’re asking us to run a search pattern before landing.”
Kowalski checked his watch. “No good. You can play cat-and-mouse with the Russkies another time. We need to be on the ground ASAP.”
The smile on the commander’s face turned into a grimace. “Let me remind you this is my aircraft. You’re only hitching a ride.”
The jet bounced again, throwing Kowalski fully off his feet. Even Pullman grabbed the seats to either side. He certainly wasn’t smiling now.
The pilot radioed back, his voice strained. “The storm ahead is ramping up into a real monster. And fast. Everybody strap down.”
Kowalski stared challengingly at the commander. “Looks like Mother Nature just demoted you.”
Pullman scowled and turned to the tactical coordinator. “Radio your contact. Tell them ‘no go’ on that search pattern.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before the officer could turn away, Pullman added, “As a precaution, run all three launchers. Drop a row of sonobuoys from here to the coast.” He glanced back to Kowalski. “We may not be able to stay airborne, but that doesn’t mean we can’t keep listening.”