Sandstorm (11 page)
Authors: James Rollins
Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense, #Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Adventure, #Historical
“It’s a letter,” Kara said.
“Epigraphic South Arabian,” Safia agreed, naming the ancient script from the region, a script that predated Hebrew and Aramaic. “It’s the letter
B.
”
“And look at what we can see of the upper heart chamber.”
“The right atrium,” Clay said behind them.
They both glanced at him.
“I was premed before I realized the sight of blood had such a…well, negative effect on what I had for lunch.”
Kara returned to the sculpture and pointed her caliper again. “A good portion of the upper atrium is still obscured by the sandstone encasement, but I think that’s another letter hidden under there.”
Safia leaned closer. She felt with her fingers. The tail end of exposed vessels ended abruptly as they did on the first one. “I’ll have to work carefully.”
She reached for the array of picks, chisels, and tiny hammers. With the proper tools in hand, she set about with the precision of a surgeon. Hammer and chisel to break away the larger chunks of brittle sandstone, then pick and brush to clear away. In a matter of minutes, the right atrium was cleared.
Safia stared down at the crisscrossing of what appeared to be coronary vessels. But they mapped out a perfect letter.
It was too complex for mere chance.
“What letter is that?” Clay asked.
“There’s not a direct corresponding letter in English,” Safia answered. “The letter is pronounced somewhat like the sound
wa
…so in translations it’s often listed
W-A
or even
U,
as that’s what it sounds like orally. Though in truth, there are no vowels in Epigraphic South Arabian script.”
Kara met her eyes. “We have to remove the heart,” she repeated. “If there are more letters, they’d be on the opposite side.”
Safia nodded. The left side still remained locked in the stone chest. She hated to disturb the statue any further, but curiosity drove her to pick up her tools without argument. She set to work. It took her a full half hour to remove the sandstone clamped around the heart. Finally, she attached the suction clamp and gripped the handle with both hands. With a prayer to the old gods of Arabia, she pulled evenly up, using all the muscles in her shoulders.
At first, it appeared to be stuck, but it was merely heavier than she had anticipated. With a determined grimace of effort, she lifted the heart free of the chest. Bits of sandstone and loose grains showered down. At arm’s length, she swung the prize around to the library table.
Kara hurried over to join them. Safia placed the heart on a square of soft leather chamois to protect it, then unfastened the suction clamp. The heart rolled slightly, once released. A small sloshing sound accompanied it.
Safia glanced at the others. Had they heard it, too?
“I told you I thought the thing was hollow,” Clay whispered.
Safia reached and rocked the heart on the chamois. The center of gravity rolled with the rocking. It reminded her oddly of one of those old Magic 8 Balls. “There’s some type of fluid in the center.”
Clay backed up a step. “Great, it had better not be blood. I prefer my cadavers desiccated and wrapped like mummies.”
“It’s sealed tight,” Safia assured him, examining the heart. “I can’t even spot a way to open it. It’s almost like the bronze heart was forged around it.”
“Riddles wrapped inside riddles,” Kara said, and took her turn rolling and checking the heart. “What about more lettering?”
Safia joined her. It took them half a moment to orient themselves and find the two remaining chambers. She ran her finger over the largest, the left ventricle. It was smooth and bare.
“Nothing,” Kara said, surprised and baffled. “Maybe it wore away.”
Safia checked more thoroughly, painting it with a bit of isopropyl alcohol to clean its surface. “I see no scoring or trace. It’s too smooth.”
“What about the left atrium?” Clay asked.
She nodded, turning the heart. She quickly spotted a line arcing cleanly over the face of the atrium.
“It’s the letter
R,
” Kara whispered, sounding slightly frightened. She collapsed down on a chair. “It can’t be.”
Clay frowned. “I don’t understand. The letters
B, WA
or
U,
and
R.
What does it spell?”
“Those three ESA letters should be known to you, Mr. Bishop,” Safia said. “Maybe not in that order.” She picked up a pencil and drew them out as they should be spelled.
Clay scrunched his face. “ESA is read like Hebrew and Arabic, from right to left, opposite of English.
WABR
…
UBR.
But the vowels are excluded between consonants.” The young man’s eyes widened. “
U-B-A-R.
The goddamn lost city of Arabia, the Atlantis of the sands.”
Kara shook her head. “First a meteorite fragment that was supposed to guard Ubar explodes…and now we find the name written on a bronze heart.”
“If it is
bronze,
” Safia said, still bent over the heart.
Kara was shaken out of her shock. “What do you mean?”
Safia lifted the heart in her hands. “When I pulled the heart out of the statue, it seemed way too heavy, especially if it’s hollowed out and full of liquid. See where I cleaned the left ventricle with the alcohol? The base metal is much too red.”
Kara stood, understanding dawning in her eyes. “You think it’s
iron.
Like the meteorite fragment.”
Safia nodded. “Possibly even the
same
meteoric iron. I’ll have to test it, but either way it makes no sense. At the time of the sculpture’s carving, the peoples of Arabia didn’t know how to smelt and work iron of this quality, especially a masterful piece of art like this. There are so many mysteries here, I don’t even know where to begin.”
“If you’re right,” Kara said fiercely, “then that drab trading post unearthed in the desert back in 1992 is a far cry from the whole story.
Something is yet undiscovered.” She pointed to the artifact. “Like the true heart of Ubar.”
“But what do we do now? What’s the next step? We’re no closer to knowing anything about Ubar.”
Clay was examining the heart. “It’s sort of strange that the left ventricle has no letters.”
“ ‘Ubar’ is only spelled with three letters,” Safia explained.
“Then why use a four-chambered heart and spell the letters in the direction of blood flow?”
Safia swung around. “Explain yourself?”
“Blood enters the heart from the body through the vena cava into the right atrium. The letter
U.
” He poked a finger at the stumped large vessel that led to the right upper chamber and continued his anatomy lesson, tracing his way. “It then passes through the atrioventricular valve to the right ventricle. The letter
B.
From there, the blood leaves for the lungs via the pulmonary artery, then returns oxygen-rich through the pulmonary vein to the left atrium. The letter
R.
Spelling out ‘Ubar.’ So why does it stop there?”
“Why indeed?” Safia mumbled, brow furrowed.
She pondered the mystery. The name Ubar was spelled in the path that blood traveled. It seemed to imply a direction, a flow toward something. A glimmer of an idea formed. “Where does the blood go after it leaves the heart?”
Clay pointed to a thick arched vessel at the very top. “Through the aorta to the brain and the rest of the body.”
Safia rolled the heavy heart, followed the aorta to where it ended, and stared inside the stump. A plug of sandstone was jammed in there. She had not bothered to clean it out, too busy concentrating on the surface of the chambers.
“What are you thinking?” Kara asked.
“It’s like the writing is pointing somewhere.” She returned the heart to the table and began to clean away the sandstone from the end of the aorta. It crumbled away easily. She sat back at what she found beyond the sand.
“What is that?” Clay asked, staring over her shoulder.
“Something prized more than blood itself by the ancient peoples of Arabia.” She used a pick to pry a few crystalline chunks of the dried resin onto the table. She could smell the sweet aroma given off by the crystals, preserved throughout the long centuries. It was a scent from a time before Christ.
“Frankincense,” Kara said, awe in her voice. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a signpost,” Safia answered. “As the blood flows, so do the riches of Ubar.” She turned to her friend. “The clue must point toward Ubar, to the next step on the road to its doorway.”
“But where does it point?” Kara asked.
Safia shook her head. “I’m not sure, but the town of Salalah is the beginning of the famous Incense Road.” She nudged the bits of crystalline frankincense. “And the tomb of Nabi Imran lies within that city.”
Kara straightened. “Then that’s where we must begin the search.”
“Search?”
“We must put an expedition together immediately.” Kara spoke rapidly, eyes wide. But it was not the amphetamines fueling her excitement. It was hope. “In a week’s time, no later. My contacts in Oman will make all the necessary arrangements. And we’ll need the best people. You, of course, and whomever you see fit.”
“Me?” Safia asked, her heart skipping a beat. “I…I’m not…I haven’t done fieldwork in years.”
“You’re going,” Kara said firmly. “It’s time for you to quit hiding in these dusty halls. Get back out in the world.”
“I can coordinate data from here. I’m not needed in the field.”
Kara stared at her, looking as if she was going to relent as she had in the past. Then her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Saff,
I
need you. If something’s truly out there…an answer…” She shook her head, close to tears. “I need you with me. I can’t do it by myself.”
Safia swallowed, struggling with herself. How could she refuse her friend? She stared at the fear and hope in Kara’s eyes. But in her head, old screams still echoed. She could not silence them. Blood of children still stained her hands. “I…I can’t…”
Something must have broken in her face because Kara finally shook her head. “I understand.” But from her clipped tone, she didn’t. No one did.
Kara continued, “But you were right about one thing. We’ll need an experienced
field
archaeologist on board. And if you’re not going, I know the perfect person.”
Safia realized whom she meant.
Oh, no…
Kara seemed to sense her distress. “You know he’s had the most field experience in the region.” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out her cellular phone. “If we’re going to succeed, we’re going to need Indiana Jones.”
NOVEMBER 15, 07:02 A.M.
YANGTZE RIVER, CHINA
I
’M NOT
Indiana Jones!” he yelled into the satellite phone’s headset to be heard over the jet boat’s motor. “Name’s Omaha…Dr. Omaha Dunn! Kara, you know that!”
An exasperated sigh answered him.
“Omaha? Indiana? What bloody difference does it make? All your American names sound the same.”
He crouched over the wheel, racing down the crooked river gorge. Cliffs flanked both sides of the muddy Yangtze as it twisted and turned through a section aptly named the Narrows. In a few years, Three Gorges Dam would flood this entire region to the tranquil depth of two hundred feet, but for now, submerged rocks and wicked rapids remained a constant danger as the fierce river choked through the squeeze.
But rocks and rapids weren’t the
only
danger.
A bullet pinged off the boat’s hull. A warning shot. The pursuers rapidly closed the distance in a pair of black Scimitar 170 bow riders. Damn fast boats.
“Listen, Kara, what do you want?” His jet boat hit a swell and bumped airborne for a breath. He lifted from his seat, gripping tighter on the boat’s steering wheel with his one hand.
A yelp of surprise sounded behind him.
Omaha yelled over a shoulder. “Hang on!”
The boat struck the water with a jolt.
A moan followed. “Now you tell me.”
A glance behind confirmed that his younger brother, Danny, was all
right. He was sprawled in the stern, his head buried in a supply cabinet under the rear seat. Beyond the stern, the twin black speedboats continued their pursuit.
Omaha muffled the phone’s receiver with his hand. “Get the shotgun.”
His brother fell out of the supply chest, dragging the weapon clear. He pushed up his glasses with the back of his wrist. “Got it!”
“And the shells?”
“Oh, yeah.” Danny dove back in.
Omaha shook his head. His brother was a renowned paleontologist, having earned his Ph.D. at twenty-four, but oftentimes he put the scatter in scatterbrained. Omaha lifted the phone. “Kara, what’s this all about?”
“What’s going on?”
she asked instead.
“Nothing, but we’re sort of in the middle of something here. Why did you call?” There was a long pause. He didn’t know if it was due to the time lag in the satellite communication between London and China or merely thoughtful silence on Kara’s part. Either way, it gave him too much time to think. He hadn’t seen Kara Kensington in four years. Not since he had broken off his engagement with Safia al-Maaz. He knew this wasn’t a casual call. Kara sounded serious and clipped, flaring worry for Safia in him. He couldn’t end the call until he knew she was okay.
Kara spoke.
“I’m putting together an expedition into Oman. I’d like you to lead the field team. Are you interested?”
He almost hung up again. It was a stupid business call. “No thanks.”
“This is important…”
He heard the strain in her voice.
He groaned. “What’s the time frame?”
“We gather in Muscat in one week. I can’t give you the details over the phone, but it’s a major discovery. It may rewrite the history of the entire Arabian Peninsula.”
Before he could answer, Danny pushed up next to him. “I loaded both barrels.” He held the gun out to Omaha. “But I don’t know how you’re going to hold them off with nothing more than salt shot.”
“I’m not. You are.” He pointed the phone behind him. “Aim for their hull. Just rattle ’em enough to buy me some time. I’ve got my hands full here.”
Danny nodded, swinging around.
He pulled the phone back to his face and heard Kara in midrant.
“…wrong? What is all this about shooting?”
“Calm down. Just chasing off some big river rats—”
The shotgun blast cut him off.
“Missed,” Danny swore behind him.
Kara spoke.
“What about the expedition?”
Danny cranked the next shell. “Should I shoot again?”
“Yes, goddamnit!”
“Brilliant,”
Kara said, misinterpreting his outburst.
“We’ll see you in Muscat in a week. You know the place.”
“Wait! I didn’t—”
But the connection was severed. He threw the phone headset down. Kara damn well knew he hadn’t been agreeing to the expedition. As usual, she had taken advantage of the situation.
“I hit one of the boat’s drivers in the face!” Danny yelled, his voice surprised. “It’s heading for shore. But watch out! The other’s flanking starboard!”
Omaha glanced to the right. The sleek black Scimitar raced up alongside them. Four men in worn gray uniforms, former soldiers, crouched low. A bullhorn lifted. Mandarin spilled out in commanding tones that basically meant “Throttle down…or die!” To punctuate this demand a rocket launcher appeared and was pointed at their boat.
“I don’t think throwing salt at them is going to help this time,” Danny said, sinking into the other seat.
With no choice, Omaha pulled back on the throttle and slowed the boat. He waved an arm in admitted defeat.
Danny opened the glove compartment. Inside was a perfectly preserved trio of fossilized tyrannosaurus eggs, worth their weight in gold. Discovered in the Gobi Desert, they had been destined for a museum in Beijing. Unfortunately, such a treasure was not without its admirers. Many collectors bought and sold such items on the black market—for princely sums.
“Hang on,” Omaha whispered to his brother.
Danny closed the glove compartment. “Please don’t do what I think you’re going to do…”
“No one steals from me. I’m the only grave robber around these parts.”
He flipped open the thumb switch that protected the nitrous feed to the pulse jets incorporated into the Hamilton 212 turbo impeller. He had salvaged the boat from an outfitter out of New Zealand. It had raced tourists through Black Rock River outside of Auckland.
He eyed the next twist of the crooked river.
Thirty yards. With a little luck…
He punched the button. Nitrous gas poured into the impeller, igniting the pulse jets. Licks of flame spat from the twin exhausts, accompanied by a throaty scream of the jets. The boat’s bow shot up; the stern dug deep.
Shouts erupted from the other boat. Caught off guard, they were too slow bringing the rocket launcher to bear.
Omaha shoved the throttle wide open. The boat rocketed across the water, a torpedo of aluminum and chrome.
Danny scrambled to belt himself in his seat. “Ohmygod…!”
Omaha simply kept his stance in front of the wheel, knees half bent. He needed to feel the balance of the boat under him. They reached the jag in the river. He risked a glance over his shoulder.
The other boat sped toward them, struggling to keep up. But their pursuers had one distinct advantage. A flash of fire marked the launch of a rocket-propelled grenade, a black-market Chinese RPG Type 69, with a lethal radius of twenty meters. They didn’t have to be close.
Omaha tore the wheel to the right, canting the boat high up on the port side. They skimmed the water, plowing around the corner.
The grenade rocketed past, just missing the stern.
Clearing the bend, Omaha straightened the boat and shot it down the center of the river. The explosion ripped into the opposite cliff face. Boulders and rocks rained down amid a cloud of smoke and dust.
He eked more speed out of the jets, barely touching the water now. The boat handled as if it were on ice.
Behind him, the other boat appeared around the smoky bend, racing after them. They were loading another grenade into the launcher.
He couldn’t give them another chance to get a clear shot at him. Luckily the Narrows were in a cooperative mood. The twists and crooked bends kept them out of sight for a fair stretch, but it also forced Omaha to cut the nitrous feed and slow their own boat.
“Can we outrun them?” Danny asked.
“I don’t think we have a choice.”
“Why not turn over the eggs? It’s not worth our lives.”
Omaha shook his head at his brother’s naïveté. It was hard to believe they were brothers. They were both the same six-foot-two, the same sandy blond hair, but Danny looked as if he had been put together with wire and bone. Omaha was built broader and rougher around the edges, hardened by the world, his skin burned by suns from six out of the seven continents. And the ten years that separated younger brother from older had marked his face with lines, like the rings of a tree: sun crinkles at the corners of his eyes, deep furrows across his brow from too much frowning and not enough smiling.
His brother remained unmarked, smooth, a blank slate waiting to be written upon. He had finished his doctoral program only last year, speeding
through Columbia as if it were a footrace. He suspected that a part of Danny’s rush through school had been the desire to join his older brother in the wider world.
Well, this was it: long days, few showers, stinking tents, dirt and sweat in every crack. And for what? To have some thieves pilfer their find?
“If we gave them the eggs—”
“They’d kill us anyway,” Omaha finished, tweaking the boat around another sharp turn in the river. “These folks don’t leave trails behind them.”
Danny searched behind the stern. “So we run.”
“As fast as we can.”
The whine of the Scimitar’s motor ratcheted up as the other boat cleared the bend behind them. They were closing the distance. He needed more speed, hoping for a short stretch of open water, one long enough that he could open the nitrous wide and put some distance between them again, but not
too
long a stretch that their pursuers could take another potshot.
He wrangled the boat back and forth through a narrow switchback. Worry made him miss spotting a hidden rock. The boat jarred into it, hung up for a breath, then with a screech of aluminum dragged free again.
“That couldn’t have been good,” Danny commented.
No, it wasn’t. His brows furrowed deeper. Through his feet, he felt a persistent tremble in the boat. Even on flat water. Something had torn.
Again the sound of the Scimitar’s engine whined louder.
As Omaha rounded another bend, he caught a glimpse of their pursuers. Seventy yards behind. He faced around and heard Danny groan. The river ahead boiled and frothed with white water. This section of the river pinched between high walls. A long straight stretch of river—
too
long,
too
straight.
If there had been a place to run the boat aground and take their chances overland, he would’ve done it. But they had no choice. He continued down the gorge, studying the flows and alert for rocks. He mapped the plan in his head.
“Danny, you’re not going to like this.”
“What?”
A quarter of the way down the rapids, he spun the boat into an eddy and skipped it around in a tight circle, pointing the bow back upriver.
“What are you doing?”
“The boat’s corked,” he said. “There’s no way we can outrun them. We’re going to have to take the fight to them.”
Danny nudged the shotgun. “Salt shot against a rocket launcher?”
“All it takes is the element of surprise.” That and perfect timing.
Pushing the throttle forward, he edged back into the current, this time working upriver. He followed the map in his head: skirt around that drop, around that deep boil, edge clear of the rock splitting the current, take the calmer side. He aimed for a standing, refractory wave as it humped over a boulder, worn smooth by the constant churn of water.
The whine of the other boat grew as it approached.
“Here they come…” Danny pushed up his glasses.
Over the lip of the wave, Omaha spotted the bow end of the Scimitar clear the corner. He shifted his thumb and flipped the cover over the nitrous feed. He twisted the nozzle to full feed. It was all or nothing.
The Scimitar rounded the bend and spotted them. It must appear that they were floundering, turned ass backward by some mean boil or whirlpool.
The other boat slowed, but momentum and the current brought the Scimitar into the rapids. Their pursuers were only ten yards away now. Too close to use the grenade launcher. Shrapnel from the explosion would risk their own boat and lives.
It was a momentary standoff.
Or so it seemed.
“Grab tight!” Omaha warned as he punched the nitrous injector.
It was like someone had ignited a case of TNT under their stern. The boat bolted forward, slamming into the standing wave, striking the boulder hidden beneath. The bow climbed the flat rock, driving the stern down. The twin pulse jets shot the aluminum frame straight up. They went airborne over the wave, flying high, trailing fire.
Danny hollered—then again, so did Omaha.
Their boat sailed over the Scimitar, but it was not meant for true flight. The nitrous cut out, the flames died, and their boat came crashing down atop the fiberglass Scimitar.
The jolt knocked Omaha on his ass. Water flooded over the gunwales, swamping him. Then the boat bobbed back up. “Danny!”
“I’m fine.” He was still strapped to his seat, looking dazed.
Crawling forward, Omaha searched beyond the rail.
The Scimitar lay shattered in pieces, floating in different directions. A body, facedown, bobbled among the debris. Blood trailed through the muddy waters, forming its own river. The smell of fuel fogged the air. But at least the current was dragging them safely away from the wreckage in case it exploded.
Omaha spotted two men clinging to flotsam, heading down into the raging rapids with their makeshift floaters. They seemed to have lost interest in dinosaur eggs.
Climbing back into the seat, he checked the engine. It coughed and died. No hope there. The aluminum frame was bent, the keel pocked, but at least they were seaworthy. He broke out the paddles.
Danny unbuckled and accepted one of the paddles. “What now?”
“Call for help before that other boat comes to investigate.”
“Who’re you going to call?”
12:05 A.M. GMT
S
AFIA WAS
carefully wrapping up the iron heart in acid-free specimen paper when the phone on the bench rang. It was Kara’s mobile phone. She had left it behind as she retreated to the lavatory again. To freshen up, she had told Safia and Clay. But Safia knew better. More pills.
