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  OSR had leased the oil rig for a song—one of four thousand in the Gulf that were soon to be decommissioned and left to rot—because this was where Candy Man wanted to be. As far away from people as possible. Once a month a helicopter would touch down on the fire-scarred helipad with supplies: frozen pizzas, pot pies, cases of Coke, and above all, candy—boxes and boxes of Milky Ways, Snickers, Hershey bars, and Dove chocolate.

  Candy Man was a computer genius.

  Now he shoved half a Milky Way into his mouth as Skarda’s message crawled across his screen: “Sending photos to ID.”

  Candy Man bolted down the rest of the Milky Way like a dog wolfing a hunk of meat. “No prob.”

  In the middle of his screen a window appeared displaying the image of the assault team Skarda had snapped at St. Mark’s.

  His fat fingers flew over the keyboard.

  ___

  Venice

  Three minutes later Skarda’s smartphone chimed: Candy Man’s response. He read the message on the screen: “checked fbi, cia, nas, la surete, others. man doesn’t exist, databases wiped clean. found piece of file they missed buried in deleted interpol files. name is zandak. all i got on him. other two are ukrainian mercs, guy with nose is pakosz, blond guy is macek. they’ve been scrubbed, too.”

  FIVE

  Nile River, Between Aswan and Luxor, Egypt

  SKARDA ditched the party as soon as he could, climbing a narrow gangway that opened onto a blue-black sky strewn with stars. Down below, at the waterline, he could hear the soft hiss of water slapping against the hull. A sullen finger of guilt poked at him. He’d left April and Flinders below to rub elbows with the guests at the party and he knew how April felt about being forced to make small talk. But tonight he just wasn’t in the mood.

  It was two years to the day that Sarah had been murdered.

  From the shadows of the far shore a white shape flapped its wings and streaked away in a blur, a ghost in the night. Leaning against the rail, he watched the dark verdant rim of the Nile slip past, thick with papyrus reeds, each snapshotted scene slide-showed by the slow progress of the boat: clumps of date palms with their fronds clacking in the cool breeze; the silhouette of the lateen sail of a felucca; the darker irregular contour of an old man in a galabaya leading a donkey laden with sheaves of grain.

  The cruise ship Queen Hatshepsut was laid out on three levels, with the party in full swing in the aft bar of the middle deck, sandwiched between the restaurant and shopping area at water level and the sky deck up top with its gently-flapping sun canopy and forest of deck chairs. From below the sound of a woman’s laughter drifted up to him, seemingly keeping time to an old-fashioned melody tinkled out on a piano. Above him, the constellations wheeled in their timeless courses, as ancient as the Nile itself. It made him wonder how many faceless millions had looked up at those same stars, immersed in their own hopes and dreams and fears, haunted by their own memories, now nothing but dust that littered the tombs and temples crumbling in the desert.

  They had sailed from Cairo, where Hassan Massri, the Undersecretary of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities, had boarded the ship, a short, round man smelling of cardamom-laced coffee. Dr. Stephen Cowell had boarded there, too, the owlish archaeologist who had discovered the ancient papyrus scroll that was on its way to its new home at the Luxor Museum. With OSR’s backing, Cowell had spent an entire frantic season excavating a limestone shaft sunk in the bedrock between the rear of the Sphinx and Campbell’s Tomb, a series of shafts that had already been cleared of sand in 1830. At the bottom of the shaft he found chambers containing empty sarcophagi and niches carved into the rock that held a number of Predynastic mummies wrapped in reed matting and surrounded by pottery jars that had contained food for the afterlife. But his major find was a red granite box with the papyrus inside, preserved through the millennia by the hot desert sands. And a portable GPR unit had picked up what looked like a false wall with another chamber beyond it. Cowell speculated that this might be a passageway connected to the Sphinx itself. Tomorrow would be the public unveiling at the museum. So far no one but Cowell had seen the papyrus unrolled, and he had hinted at a wondrous discovery.

  The sound of distant sing-song voices carried across the water and the breeze brought a scent of hibiscus and agapanthus. The smell of the flowers reinforced Skarda’s melancholy. He glanced up at the pale sliver of the crescent moon and closed his eyes, seeing for the millionth time the explosion of bubbles as Sarah’s body crashed into the water, so horribly out of place, blood gushing like black squid ink from the wound on her throat, the look of horror in her dying eyes, her hand outstretched to him for help, her fingers clutching in vain at unsubstantial water as the riptide grabbed her and dragged her out to sea.

  With a shudder he chased the image away.

  He was turning to head back to the party when he saw the first man swoop out of the sky.

  ___

  Intuition was jangling April’s nerves.

  Nursing a glass of mediocre Egyptian Blanc de Noirs, she reconnoitered the party room: aft end of the ship, tables set with steaming trays of food and dinnerware, piano player, three exits, two of them manned by an armed security guard. Capacity crowd of well-dressed, sophisticated people of far-flung nationalities. Next to her, inside a vacuum-sealed glass case, the unrolled papyrus had been laid out like a precious jewel on a swath of black velvet.

  Everything cool. But her subconscious mind had seized upon some subliminal clue missed by her visual scan of the room.

  Nothing looked wrong.

  But she knew something was.

  Tonight she was wearing a black Carolina Benaki strapless cocktail dress that showed off her long, magnificently-sculpted legs. It also showed the raised tip of an old knife scar that ran from the bottom of her left collarbone to the start of her stomach. She was half Native American—Shoshone and Crow—and half French, descended from the line of some nineteenth-century mountain man whose name had long been forgotten by history. A straight cascade of dark hair framed her face, where the high jut of her cheekbones was softened by her European genetics, and her eyes were bottomless wells of an umber so dark they looked black.

  A man wearing an impeccable tuxedo was finessing himself into her personal space. She’d been aware of him for a while now, knew he’d been checking her out from different vantage points in the crowd. His slim waist and squared shoulders made him look taller than he actually was, and his full-lipped, carnal mouth lent him an air of the piratical. Immediately she pigeonholed him as the kind of guy who would try to impress her with his abs, and mentally she wrote him off.

  He stepped in close to her, flashing brilliant white teeth. “Hello.” His breath smelled of some kind of sweet spice.

  With a calculated dip of her head, she acknowledged his presence, not returning the smile. Around her conversation and laughter swelled, and several couples had moved to the center of the room, dancing to a melody she didn’t recognize.

  He stuck out his hand. “I am Zayd,” he said in a mild Arabic accent. “And you are?”

  “April.” She allowed her hand to touch his in a brief clasp.

  Again he smiled, making a show of glancing around the room. “Where is your husband? The man you came with?”

  “He’s not my husband.”

  “I am sorry. Your boyfriend.”

  “We work together.”

  That dialed up the wattage of his smile. An expression of lusty predation flashed behind his steady gaze. He was good-looking and cocky, very sure of his ability to conquer women.

  Looking past his shoulder, she saw Flinders and Stephen Cowell locked in conversation.

  “Excuse me,” she said. Turning her back on Zayd, she weaved through the crowd and approached the pair. Reed-thin and scatter-haired, and wearing what looked like a rented suit and scuffed brown shoes with a ribbon of sand packed between the soles and uppers, Cowell looked hopelessly out of place in the swirl of tuxedos and evening gowns. At her approach he loo
ked up, owlishly blinking through fashion-challenged glasses.

  April showed him a warm smile. “Hello, Stephen.” She glanced at Flinders. “I suppose you two are talking shop?”

  He stared at her as if the words had no meaning. “Shop…? Oh…shop! Yes…we are! We are! Dr. Carlson is going to work on the translation of the papyrus for me!”

  “So I heard—“ Suddenly April whipped around. Out of the corner of her eye she’d glimpsed a flash of black. Next to an open doorway one of the security guards was sinking to his knees, his throat slashed open in a gaping wound. A tall man in black body armor stood over him, holding a red-splashed combat knife. Across the room, another man grabbed the second guard, raking his knife across his throat. Both commandos had HK G36 assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

  She turned to Flinders, jabbing her finger at the unguarded exit. “Go get Park! He’s on the sky deck!”

  Flinders took off running.

  But so did Cowell, toward the papyrus case.

  “Stephen! No!” April shouted.

  From out of nowhere Zayd stepped into view, grabbing Cowell by the shoulder and spinning him around. With his free hand he pressed a .45 ACP against the small of his back.

  Cowell’s eyes went wide with shock.

  Zayd marched the archaeologist to April’s position.

  “What’s going on?” Cowell blurted out.

  “Just keep your cool,” April told him a bit harshly. She knew that at this range the Colt’s 220 grain hollow-point bullets would mushroom on impact, shredding his internal organs to confetti.

  Zayd flashed his brilliant smile, but his bedroom eyes were as cold as the black gulfs of space.

  Then he lifted the Colt and Stephen Cowell’s head exploded in a spray of blood and bone.

  ___

  When he saw the man soar overhead, Skarda ducked into a doorway, gluing his spine against the bulkhead of a gangway landing. The man had looked like a giant bat. But bats didn’t have assault rifles strapped to their backs.

  Boots thudded on the deck. At least five different sets, as far as he could tell. Maybe more. A sound came to his ears: the stealthy slap of footsteps moving toward his position. Skarda held himself perfectly still, not daring to breathe. If the man stepped into the doorway, he was toast—he had no chance against a rifle in the confined gangway. He glanced around. Nothing he could use as a weapon, and he didn’t have a fraction of the combat skills April had. A surge of panic engulfed him, constricting his chest. With sweaty hands he shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket.

  The footsteps padded closer. Skarda strained to listen. Through the open doorway he could see an almost imperceptible shadow gliding toward him. Then the shadow solidified into the man himself: about 5’ 10”, muscular build, Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifle.

  The commando darted a quick glance into the doorway, then moved on, disappearing into the darkness. Skarda knew his best weapon was surprise. For a few quick heartbeats he stood in place, emptying his mind of doubt and indecision, the way she had taught him to do.

  Then with a deep breath he launched himself forward, holding the jacket with both hands in front of him, pumping his legs in long, abrupt strides toward the commando’s retreating back. His shoe scraped the metal walkway. It sounded like a cannon shot in his ears.

  In what seemed like a millisecond the man was swinging around in a lethal arc, snapping his rifle up into firing position.

  But Skarda had already reached him—

  With a lunge, he flung the jacket around the commando’s head like a matador’s cape and yanked hard, dragging him over the rail in one fluid motion as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger and a burst of high-velocity bullets tore a line of holes in the bulkhead above his head. The man cried out, his body somersaulting over the rail. There was a dull, flat sound as his skull smacked against the hull, followed by the clatter of the rifle. Then two splashes erupted in the dark water.

  Craning his neck, Skarda watched the wake boil from the Queen Hatshepsut’s stern. No sign of a head bobbing above the surface.

  Then from the deck below came the stutter of automatic weapons fire.

  ___

  When the Colt went off, April stepped in close to Zayd to block his aim for a second shot. The blast rang in her ears, echoing inside her skull. Even so, she was aware of a sudden hush in the background as party-goers stood stock-still, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

  Then a woman screamed.

  In a single instant the urbane crowd became a clawing, shrieking mob, stampeding blindly toward the exits. A fat man bellyflopped to the floor, crying out as feet trampled him.

  Not looking at the bloody mess that had been Dr. Stephen Cowell, April gazed steadily at Zayd, her eyes as black as open graves.

  He ignored the pandemonium. Flashing an arrogant smile, he took a step back, leveling the gun at her chest, then half-turned to gesture to the commandos. Immediately they opened fire on the crowd. Yells and screams erupted as bullets ripped through flesh and bone. A blonde-haired woman shrieked, the howl cut short by the burst of a rifle, her body dancing with the impacts. In streaming slicks of blood bodies slammed into walls, into each other, torn apart by the fusillade of 5.56mm cartridges.

  Holding the pistol steady, Zayd stepped backward to the glass case, smashing it with the butt. With a satisfied smirk he picked away the shards of glass and extracted the scroll. Then he bent low and rolled it to April’s position. From his jacket pocket he unfolded a thick silicone sleeve and tossed it at her.

  “Put it inside.”

  She stooped, sliding the scroll inside the sleeve and sealing it. In the background the shooting had stopped, the abrupt silence eerie after the explosion of gunfire. Corpses lay scattered in heaps. A wounded man groaned and the tall commando shot him in the head.

  “Now kick it over to me.”

  April dropped the scroll, then nudged it with the tip of her high heel.

  Zayd bent down to pick it up, still keeping her in the Colt’s sights. As he rose, he made a point of slithering his gaze over her body. “You’re just too good to waste. But there’s still work to do, so I’m going to have to save you for later.” He jerked his chin at a chair. “Get over there and sit down with your hands in your lap. We’ll be leaving in a couple of minutes.”

  Painting a look of terror on her face, April shuffled forward, forcing her rib cage up and down. Zayd’s eyes flicked to her heaving breasts, lingering there.

  Too long.

  She struck with no more warning than a striking cobra, lashing out her right foot in a vicious chasse kick. The toe of her high heel crushed his testicles and he screamed, dropping the Colt, his knees buckling as he toppled toward her. Ramming her hand upward in an Iron Palm strike, she smashed the bones of his nose, hammering the jagged splinters into his brain. The sudden reversal in pressure popped his eyeballs out of their sockets, frozen in their expression of incredulity.

  Zayd died instantly. He flopped to the floor.

  A burst of bullets crackled and a hot spike of pain seared through her right shoulder. Blood welled from her collarbone, gushing over her breast. Ignoring it, she dropped to her knees, snatching up the Colt and ramming her shoulder into Zayd’s midsection, jerking him to his feet and using her free hand to propel him forward like a shield as a barrage of bullets thunked into his corpse. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a stocky commando leap over a heap of bodies to get a clear shot at her. She lifted the Colt and fired, blowing a red-rimmed hole in his forehead.

  Firing blindly, she pumped her legs forward, squeezing off four more shots. Her reward was a grunt and the slap of a body slamming against the wall. The Colt’s magazine held seven rounds.

  One left—

  And one more man.

  More slugs pounded into Zayd’s body with the sound of hammer strokes, shredding muscle and bone. The human shield wouldn’t last much longer. Seconds away from the last gunman she shoved the corpse hard and dived to the left, l
anding on her back and snapping up the Colt to fire as she crashed against a serving table. A tray of bubbling hot kushari tipped over, spraying her left flank with scalding tomato sauce. Silverware and dinner plates flew and smashed.

  Aiming for the man’s head, she pulled the trigger just as he was swinging the barrel of his G36 into firing position.

  The hammer clicked on an empty chamber—

  Zayd must have fired an extra shot!

  The commando’s lips spread in a cocky grin. His index finger tightened on the trigger.

  For April, thought and action were instantaneous. Spreading her legs wide, she reached down and raked her dress up to the top of her bare thighs.

  The man’s finger froze. His cocky eyes bulged.

  That was all the edge she needed. Snapping her knees together, she balled her body into a mae ukemi combat roll and somersaulted forward like a spring uncoiling, grabbing the barrel of the G36 and using her momentum to lever the gunman into the air head over heels. Letting go of the rifle, she reached out, slapping his ears with both hands as he passed overhead, snapping his neck with a loud crack. With a sharp expulsion of breath he collapsed in a heap.