Part 5 (1/2)

Tomilin closed his eyes in irritation. ”Volcanoes, h.e.l.l. They're looking for oil. They already planted two t.i.tanium flags on the Lomonosov Ridge, even though they can't legally stake a claim. Now Denmark is p.i.s.sed off. So is Canada and Norway. Not to mention us. And why not? h.e.l.l, there's at least ninety billion barrels down there.”

Charbonnet thought about it. ”They're up to something. But why the icebreakers?” He looked at Rachel. ”That's no accident.”

She shook her head. ”I wouldn't think so.”

”Are we sure it's the Russians?”

”Has to be.”

Tomilin scowled. ”The problem is, our hands are tied. We can't send our subs in there, or even fly over. The situation is too touchy. They'd blow it out of proportion, claiming it's an act of war. The 1982 United Nations Law of the Sea Treaty automatically ent.i.tles the countries whose coastlines surround the Arctic Ocean-the United States, Russia, Canada, Denmark, and Russia-to sovereign rights to oil, gas, and minerals for two hundred miles off their continental shelves. Russia claims that its shelf, the Lomonosov Ridge, actually extends another twelve hundred or so miles from Siberia to the North Pole, almost to Ellesmere Island, which belongs to Canada. And, as I said, they're sending ROV's down there to plant territorial flags, like it's some kind of land rush. And they've stepped up their military presence with Typhoon-cla.s.s subs. Naturally, the Canadians are up in arms and the rest of the powers are nervous as h.e.l.l-and the U.S. hasn't even signed the Treaty. Russia supplies most of the EU with oil, and the Chinese buy from them, so if they get control of the Arctic oil, they could easily become the world's biggest energy supplier. We could be looking at another cold war shaping up here.” He permitted himself a thin smile. ”A really cold war.”

Rachel nodded, not reacting to his joke. There was something about the man that gave her the creeps, and she didn't want to encourage any warmth between them. ”I flagged it as VRK, azure level.” VRK was ”Very Restricted Knowledge”. ”It's already been wiped from Intelink.”

”Okay, good. Keep it b.u.t.toned up, at all costs.” For a moment he sat in silence, staring at the opposite wall. Then he shook his head angrily. ”If the Russians get their hands on that oil, they'll be the ones controlling oil prices, instead of us. They could just sit on it and create another artificial shortage.”

Charbonnet showed him a huge grin. ”That's our job.”

Tomilin glared at him with eyes that were chips of iron. ”You're G.o.ddam right it is.” He flicked his gaze to Rachel. ”Keep on it. And keep me informed. All intel comes to this office and nowhere else. I mean nowhere. And nothing leaves this room. Do I make myself clear?”

Getting to her feet, Rachel gave him a solemn nod and headed for the door.

ELEVEN.

Alexandria WHEN Flinders had finished packing they returned to the Bibliotheca Alexandrina so she could finish photographing the papyrus in the Digital Ma.n.u.scripts Library. Then she deposited the scroll in a temperature-and-humidity-controlled vault. Their plan was to drive to Cairo, where they could check into a hotel to give Flinders time to work on the translation, away from prying eyes in Alexandria. Skarda had considered changing cars, but the three kidnappers hadn't seen April or himself and so had no reason to a.s.sociate Flinders with the BMW.

But now in the thick snarl of traffic on the Corniche, April kept flicking her eyes to the rear-view mirror. She'd glimpsed a battered Peugeot behind them a few too many times, weaving between close-packed cars and buses.

Then there it was again, ducking into an opening behind an olive green vegetable truck.

”We've got company,” she announced.

In the rear seat, Flinders twisted her neck to look behind them, her face going pale.

Stomping on on the accelerator, April shot past a packed red-and-white commuter bus, then slotted the X5 behind an empty Army personnel carrier, igniting an explosion of honking horns and flas.h.i.+ng headlights. She mashed the brakes, grinning at the immediate blare of more irate horns as the tires squealed in protest. Then, seesawing across the road, she plunged into a side street narrowed to a barely-navigable aisle by a clot of Peugeots, Fiats, and Lanas double-parked on both sides of the roadway.

Twisting around, Flinders glanced out the rear window. She let out as little scream. The black Peugeot was fishtailing onto the street behind them, boomeranging off a parked Fiat with a loud crunch of metal against metal.

”Any idea where this street goes?” April yelled out.

Flinders whipped around, sizing up the territory ahead. She jabbed a finger past April's shoulder. ”Turn there! Left, left, left!”

With screeching tires, April swerved, the wheel vibrating in her hand as the BMW jumped the curb and carved a furrow in the gra.s.s of the parkway. On the sidewalk, a startled group of women in hajibs and abayas turned their faces in shock, then broke and ran. Groceries scattered. When the Peugeot screamed around the corner, one of the women lobbed an orange at its rear window. It splattered in an explosion of pulp.

Grinning, April watched the Peugeot carom off another parked car. She glanced over at Skarda. ”These guys are idiots. I think we should stop and have some fun with them.”

He shook his head. ”What if they've got guns?”

That earned him an indifferent shrug. ”Maybe it would even the odds.” Spinning the wheel into a hard right, she ducked into a one-way street, heading north toward Safia Zaghloul Street. In the mirror she could see the driver shouting into his cell phone.

Still looking behind her, Flinders was squirming left and right. ”Guns...? Did you say 'guns'?”

Then suddenly the car was gone.

Glancing from the mirror to Skarda, April scowled. ”I think these Bozos have something up their sleeve.”

Punching the gas, she rocketed onto Safia Zaghloul. They were speeding past the Kom el-Dikka, the archaeological park where the ruins of a second-century Roman amphitheater had been excavated. From here they could head north to hook up with the Cairo-Alexandria Desert Road.

On the left an alley connected to the main street.

From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a blur of motion- A heartbeat later she was punching the accelerator to the floor. The X5 surged ahead.

But it was too late- From the mouth of the alley a dented panel truck cannonballed toward them, smas.h.i.+ng the BMW broadside with a sickening crunch of sheet metal, pile-driving it past a stand of sycamore and cypress trees toward a low stone wall, trapping the pa.s.senger-side wheels while the panel truck maintained its inexorable push forward. Metal screeched, buckling like tin foil as the X5 toppled over the wall, rolling top over bottom down the steep embankment toward the marble terraces of the amphitheater.

At the top of the hill the panel truck teetered on the wall, its rear wheels locking it in place. The driver, an Arabic teenager, kicked open his door and took off running as the Peugeot roared up, slamming to a stop.

Jumping out, the muscular Egyptian popped the trunk, hauling out two unwieldy plastic bags, bulging with some kind of liquid. He hopped over the wall, then half-slid down the embankment, dragging the bags. At the foot of the terrace the BMW lay toppled on its side, leaking gas, its tires spinning uselessly. April lay sprawled half on the marble, half on the gra.s.s, unconscious, her right foot hooked inside the open driver's-side door. Yanking open the rear door, the man stooped and pulled Flinders out by her armpits. She was unconscious, too, a bruise already purpling the skin above her right eye. The Egyptian dragged her a few feet away and dumped her on the gra.s.s, then walked back to the X5 to grab her laptop, sparing a brief glance at Skarda, who sat slumped against the door. Blood trickled down the side of his face.

Flinders groaned. Paying no attention to her, the man heaved the bags on top of the X5, then slashed them open with a knife. Gas gushed out in torrents. Then he returned to Flinders, bending over her and slapping her cheeks with his open palm.

Again she groaned. Her eyelids quivered, then opened. Her nose wrinkled with the stink of the raw gas. For a moment she didn't focus, but then she saw the man and froze. Her mouth opened in a scream.

”Quiet,” he warned. He showed her his knife. ”Or I'll slash your throat right here.”

Her feet kicked against the gra.s.s as she tried to wriggle away. ”Leave me alone!”

The man snarled and backhanded her, connecting with a solid slap. She yelped in pain. Then he grabbed her bicep and hauled her up the hill, struggling and kicking, hanging onto the laptop with his free hand. At the top he manhandled her behind the low wall, then turned, pulling a road flare from his pocket. Behind him the two men in the Peugeot watched from the side of the road.

From her position Flinders couldn't see the BMW, but in a flash of horror she realized what he was going to do.

”No!” She squirmed, bucking to wriggle out of his grasp. She had to stop him. The man backhanded her again, knocking her to the ground. She tasted blood.

He spat out a string of harsh words in Arabic.

Then he twisted the cap off the flare, slas.h.i.+ng the ignition b.u.t.ton against the striker. It flashed into flame.

With a triumphant smirk, he stepped back and lobbed the flare into empty s.p.a.ce.

TWELVE.