The door to the trailer opened. An air force major came in leading three civilians. The men were scientists: Moore’s own chief analyst, who had fortunately or unfortunately not been on the truck; the CIA’s chosen expert, a stern-faced true believer of about forty-five who had apparently worked on some advanced projects for the military; and an older Native American man in his late fifties. He had tanned, wrinkled skin, thin white hair, and a billy goat’s tuft of scraggly whiskers on his chin. He wore a bolo tie, a plaid cowboy shirt with rhinestone buttons, and an oversized pocket protector stuffed full of pens. Moore recognized him as Nathanial Ahiga, a theoretical physicist who’d once been with the Sandia Labs in New Mexico and now worked for the National Academy of Sciences.
The name Ahiga was Navajo for “the one who fights” and Nathanial’s family had a pedigree in combat. His grandfather had been one of the famed Navajo Code Talkers during World War II, his father had earned medals in Korea, and his older brother had been one of the first Native Americans to join the Green Berets, earning a chest full of commendations during three tours in Vietnam.
Nathanial himself had gone to college instead of joining the military, but his contribution to the armed forces eclipsed them all, since he’d helped design the nuclear triggers used in the warheads on the Trident missile and had spent years after working with the missile-defense effort. If World War III ever did come, Ahiga’s work would be instrumental in both annihilating the enemy and saving what could be protected in the United States.
It was clear from Stecker’s speeches that the CIA wanted the stone destroyed, and Moore and his people already believed that such an action would be a mistake, unless there was truly no other choice.
That dynamic effectively turned Ahiga into the decision maker. When all was said and done, his opinion would be the only one that counted.
Moore shook his hand, then watched as Ahiga strolled around the makeshift lab and over to the viewing station. Leaning in and squinting slightly, he got his first look at the assignment and pursed his lips tightly. It could have been a sign of curiosity, or a simple mannerism the man often used, but to Moore it looked an awful lot like a display of disgust.
CHAPTER 37
Hawker sat on the balcony of their new hotel, a five-star resort fifty miles south of where they had been staying. Like almost everywhere else along the gulf coast of Mexico, this hotel was without electrical power. That had served them well, since the front desk manager had been unable to electronically record their arrival.
A cash bribe had convinced him not to do so even when the lights came back on. An additional payment had put them in this suite and rented the one next door as well. A thousand dollars had been promised for each of the next five days if their presence could be kept secret. That would take them up to the day of reckoning. One way or another, Hawker doubted they’d be around after that.
With no lights on and no moon to speak of, the coast looked as dark as the sea, but out over the blackness of the gulf, a pair of heavy thunderstorms was building, splitting the night with bolts of purple lightning. At times there were long delays between the flashes, but at the moment the show was intense, with flashes illuminating the clouds from inside and handfuls of forked lines spidering across their billowing faces.
Though the storm was tracking inland, the air on the balcony was utterly still. Not the slightest hint of a breeze could be felt and even the flame on the candle beside him burned without a flicker.
To Hawker there was some great truth in the scene, some lesson about life and trouble and how paying attention only to what was immediately around you did not grant a true sense of what was really going on. It was the type of folly that allowed danger to creep in. And he wondered if he was committing such an error himself.
At this moment in time he felt better than he had in years. Not physically, perhaps — the bruising events of the last several hours had left him choosing between ibuprofen and a few stiff drinks — but his mind had grown quiet for the first time in months, if not years. The gnawing sense of guilt, even the dreams of misdeeds in Africa had faded away for now.
He credited the change to being around Danielle and McCarter once again. He wasn’t sure of any greater purpose behind this stone and the prophecy that was linked to it; it all seemed like guesswork to him, but two people he truly cared about were mixed up in it and they needed his help. Whatever the outcome might be, protecting his friends brought with it a sense of purpose and peace.
And yet he guessed there were clouds on the horizon somewhere. He couldn’t see them, or feel their effect at this point, but like the storm out over the gulf, he knew they were coming.
In an effort to stave off the thought, he took another drink from the tumbler beside him. As he put the glass down, the door behind him opened and Danielle came out onto the balcony.
“How are the patients?” he asked.
“McCarter’s infection is getting better and he’s working on what we found down there. And believe it or not, Yuri is actually asleep now.”
Hawker’s eyebrows went up.
“I gave him a sedative. He seems to be doing fine.”
“That’s good,” Hawker said, stretching his leg.
Danielle sat down, then reached out and took the glass from him. After a large sip she placed it down on the table between them.
“Any guess as to how they found us?” Hawker asked, giving words to one of the thoughts that had been bothering him.
“They talked to the boat guy,” she said, sounding convinced.
“Okay, and how did they know to talk to the boat guy? How’d they know we would be out on the water?”
“They have the statue from the Island of the Shroud,” she said. “Those were the inscriptions that led McCarter to his discovery.”
“I thought you guys trashed it.” he said.
“We did what we could, but …”
He looked away. It seemed reasonable.
“You concerned?” she asked.
“Always,” he said.
She smiled. “Listen, my suspicious friend, it’s all right. We got the stone, they didn’t catch us, and Yuri’s okay. We’re all okay.”
“Are we?” he said, staring at her.
Hawker had noticed an odd pattern in Danielle, a type of behavior that had not been present in Brazil. When things went to hell, she grew concerned and introspective. And once the danger had passed, the same overly confident attitude returned. It was in her nature to be bold and aggressive, but this seemed like something else, closer to recklessness, as if she was unbalanced in some way.
She slumped back into her seat, exhaling. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened down there. I should have been more careful with the mix. Forty percent was too high, considering my situation. It was just a mistake.”
A huge bolt of lightning sliced across the sky. It lit up the horizon and the sea beneath it. Seconds later the faintest sound of thunder reached them. It made him think about the stone.
“What do you think that shock wave was?” he asked.
“The stones create energy,” she said. “Some kind of discharge.”
“Maybe because we moved it,” he said, half joking.
“Maybe,” she said. “The weird thing is, if it didn’t happen when it happened, we’d be dead. We’d have hit the beach and those guys would have shot us in the back before we reached the street.”
Hawker took the glass back. “I call that an extremely fortunate coincidence.”
He took another drink and then refilled the tumbler with two more of the little rum bottles from the minibar.