She recognized the voices right away. They were speaking English.

“They won’t get far, Sama Lev. There are only three ways out, of course, and we have them all monitored.” Varden. Marina mouthed his name silently for Gabe’s benefit. The sound of his voice, smooth and cool, slid over Marina’s taut nerves like the bow on a violin; much too soothing and calm.

“Yes. They won’t harm her, will they?” Lev. Sounding more than a bit concerned for his granddaughter. Marina felt Gabe turn to look at her in the dim light, but she did not move. She wanted to hear more.

“I do not believe Roman would do such a thing; however, that is not to say that there might be a skirmish of some sort and she could be injured. She was carrying a firearm.”

“Where in Gaia’s world did she get one of those? Roman has banned all forms of firearm here.”

Marina imagined Varden’s shrug, and had to keep herself from sliding to one side and try to watch them. She must be content with listening to the conversation, all the while knowing she was only inches away from priceless history. She wasn’t sure which called to her more: the hidden secrets of this incredible treasure, or the need to stop Roman from carrying out his plan.

As if her thoughts had telegraphed themselves to the men in the room, Lev spoke. “How long until Roman’s next phase is executed?”

“Two hours. Two hours and thirteen minutes,” Varden replied after a short pause. “The detonators are in place. Fridkov is there, and has the controllers and is to set the timers at 11:30 am Detroit time. Then it will be inevitable.”

Two hours and thirteen minutes.

Marina looked at Gabe, but he was already moving.

“Freeze.” His voice cut through the room. “Raise your hands slowly. Both of you.”

Marina didn’t move for a moment. Then she pulled to her feet and faced the others.

Varden stood, managing to hold his surrender stance in such a manner that bellowed disinterest and unconcern, despite the fact that his position was one of vulnerability. Marina could feel the weight of his sharp stare spearing her from across the room, and she returned it with one of her own.

Lev’s arms trembled with the effort of holding them upright; and when Marina transferred her attention to him, she saw worry and apprehension lining his face. It wasn’t for their plans; it was for the contents of this room. She caught his eye and gave him a spare, meaningful look that she hoped conveyed … .something. Her understanding, her empathy.

But Gabe was either unaware of the undercurrent, or didn’t care. He’d started toward the two men, keeping the gun focused on them as he moved. “Thank you for your cooperation. It’s not my intent to hurt anyone; but there will be consequences if you don’t continue to cooperate. You may start by taking us to a room which will allow us to communicate with the colleague that you mentioned was in Detroit.”

He brandished the gun, and Varden, with one cool look at Marina, turned slowly, hands raised but cocked arrogantly to the sides of his body, and started toward the door. With a jerk of his head, Gabe indicated that Lev was to follow.

Marina fell into step, taking her time, desperate to have a moment … just a moment alone with the documents in the room. She paused, running her splayed hands over the glass casing of a brown, cracked parchment.

This one was Sumerian. An unrolled scroll with some ancient secret that was only centimeters away.

Her fingers itched. Literally itched: to touch it. To study it.

But no. She couldn’t.

She swallowed the lust and followed the three men out of the library, taking care to secure the door closed behind them.

She would find a way to come back.

Lev and Varden walked down the hall, further into the private area. Marina wondered where Roman was. And what Gabe’s plan was for when they arrived in the control room.

As they walked along the hall, Marina marked the number of doors; there weren’t any hallway offshoots. She began to notice different patterns on the walls—some décor, some small shelving or hangings; as if it really were living quarters.

They rounded a corner, and everything happened very quickly: Varden ducked to one side, slamming into something on the wall that caused a shrill shrieking to blast her ears; then rolling into Gabe’s feet. The force and his weakened leg caught him off-guard, and Gabe was thrown off-balance. He tumbled into the wall, and then onto the floor. The gun reported sharply in the small space, then skittered across and down the hall. And before Marina could react, a strong arm snaked out and yanked her back into a solid body.

Varden. Dammit, Varden.

He wasn’t even breathing hard, and he held her easily, one arm around her neck and another looped through both of her arms, forced behind her back. “Leave it there,” he commanded as Gabe started to reach for the weapon he’d dropped. “Lev. Please hand me the firearm.”

Gabe pulled himself up, unable to stifle a groan as he slid up from the floor along the wall. The look he sent Marina was one of frustration and fury.

She could barely catch his eye, she was so completely aware of the man holding her. When Lev handed him the gun, she tensed, expecting to have the barrel jammed into her back and forced to walk along the hallway; but instead, Varden turned the gun toward Gabe and pulled the trigger.

-41-

July 14, 2007

Chicago, Illinois

“It’s got to be something related to oil,” Helen growled, pacing again. Her feet hurt from being in heels since five a.m., but it didn’t slow her down. The only way to keep her brain working was to keep her feet moving. “That’s the biggest pollutant and the greatest harvester of natural resources. It makes sense.”

Colin Bergstrom, loose-tied and weary-faced, sat slumped at the desk in her office in Chicago. His sparse hair tufted in awkward waves on the top of his head. “We’ve got Homeland Security and local authorities on alert all over Texas, Nevada, and Oklahoma. The plane’s waiting—we should get down there ourselves. We’ve got less than twelve hours, and no real clue where it’s going to hit.”

“And where’s the plane going to take us? There’s a lot of oil rigs down there. I haven’t gone tearing down there because it doesn’t feel right. Oil rigs? They aren’t a powerful enough target. Big enough. They don’t make a strong enough statement; and if they were targeting oil, they’d be in Saudia Arabia or Iran. I’m thinking it’s got to be plants or factories—they targeted the chemical plants last time. Or planes. Or cars. You haven’t heard anything from MacNeil?” Frustration burned through her. And worry, though she tried to ignore it. Dammit, she knew the guy on the other side.

Knew him in every way.

Bergstrom shook his head. “No. I’ve called his sat phone several times, and it’s not turned on. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“You should have let me send my team up after them, Colin. One officer and a civilian’s all we got, and right now, it’s nothing!” Her biggest, most volatile assignment yet, and she’d bowed to the Good Old Boys Network and let a senior CIA director tell her how to run her operation.

Four older brothers and ten years in the Bureau and she’d learned diddly.

Damn her for a fool.

“You sent a team up there anyway.”

“I did, but we couldn’t find anything but their SUV. They’re gone, and there’s no trace of them.” Her heels were clacking like her grandma’s knitting needles working on a heavy woolen sweater. “If we could figure out what he’s holding … .let’s watch that clip again.”

She stalked over to her laptop, clicked the mouse buttons a few times, and stared at the screen. Waited for her fingers to begin their tell-tale tingling.

Roman’s face filled the screen, and she watched, her eyes narrowing, staring, hoping for something to click.

“ … Please be advised that Phase Two will be much more convincing and will have three big targets with more extensive damage—”

“Look! Did you see that?” Helen snatched up her wireless mouse—her one techie gadget because she hated cords—and clicked. The picture froze, and she backed it up slowly. “‘ … will have three big targets’—did you see how he looked down? He’s looking down at whatever he’s holding … .”

Colin had pulled himself out of her chair and crowded next to her. He smelled like too much Old Spice and cigars. “Didn’t your Tech people ever get this clip enlarged? They couldn’t figure out what it was?”

Helen grunted, impatient with herself for missing this important clue and focusing on oilrigs for too long. A few more clicks and she had another file open. “This is what Tech found for me—let’s take a look.”

She rolled the enlarged clip, which was fuzzy and dark, but the wrap of Roman’s fingers around the object was clear. Peering closer to the screen, she tilted her head, trying various angles, repeating the message over and over. “Three big targets with more extensive damage. That’s all he says. Three big targets with more—”

She slammed her hands down on the table so hard the laptop jolted. “Oh my God, that’s it! Look, Colin, look—do you see? The edge of that metal thing? It looks like a bumper. And a red taillight. He’s holding a frigging Matchbox car. Three big targets. The Big Three…now known as the Detroit Three. The auto companies. Good Lord, how could we have missed it?”

He looked at her, amazement dawning. Then it fell. “Sure. And how many auto factories are there in this country? We’ll have to get every Fed and cop in the country on call!”

“No, no, it’s the Big Three. The Detroit Three. It’s got to be—didn’t Gabe and Marina disappear from Michigan? Isn’t Alexander from Michigan? Detroit, Motown—Colin, the home of what used to be the Big Three auto company headquarters. He told us right out where and when!”

Bergstrom looked at her, nodding slowly. “Yes, that could be. That could be it.”