Sandstorm by James Rollins Page B

Safia said. “It’s a fortunate discovery.”
    “Indeed.”
    The inspector leaned over the statue. Kara was certain more than plain curiosity had drawn him here. Coincidences were causes for investigation.
    Edgar stood at the inspector’s shoulder. “Simply brilliant, isn’t it? This discovery will draw attention from all around the world.”
    Samuelson straightened. “Where did this statue come from?”
    “It was discovered by my father,” Kara said.
    Samuelson glanced to her, one eyebrow cocked.
    Kara noted how Edgar stepped back, eyes on his toes. It was a tender subject to broach.
    Safia pushed up her safety goggles and continued the explanation, relieving Kara of the need. “Reginald Kensington had financed an archaeological team to oversee the excavation for the construction of a new mausoleum at a tomb in the town of Salalah on the Omani coast. He discovered the statue buried beside the older tomb. It was a rare discovery: to find a pre-Islamic statue, one dating to 200 B.C . in such pristine shape. But the tomb had been revered for two millennia. Thus the site was not overly trampled or desecrated. It’s a true tragedy to have such a perfectly preserved artifact destroyed.”
    Samuelson was not stirred. “But its destruction also allowed this new discovery. There’s a balance in that. The same can’t be said for poor Harry Masterson.”
    “Of course,” Safia said quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply that…his death was not the true tragedy. You’re most correct.”
    Samuelson glanced around at those gathered. His eyes lingered a bit longer on the grad student, Clay Bishop. Whatever he saw there, he found wanting. His eyes drifted back to the statue. “You mentioned a tomb, near where this statue was found.”
    “Yes. The tomb of Nabi Imran.”
    “A pharaoh or something?”
    Safia smiled. “This wasn’t an Egyptian tomb.” Like Kara, she knew the inspector was playing dumb. “In Arabia, the most famous tombs are those that mark the graves of people from the Bible or the Koran. In this case, a figure from both. ”
    “Nabi Imran? I don’t recall that name from any Bible class.”
    “Actually he was quite significant. You have heard of the Virgin Mary?”
    “Vaguely.” He said this so sincerely he drew another smile from Safia.
    She had been teasing out the revelation, but she finally relented. “Nabi Imran was Mary’s father.”
    01:54 P.M. EST
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
    P AINTER C ROWE sat in the backseat of the silver Mercedes S500 sedan. It glided smoothly down Interstate 66 from Dulles International, heading east toward Washington, but they weren’t going that far. The driver, a taciturn fellow built like a linebacker, signaled and took the Glebe exit in Arlington. They were almost to DARPA headquarters, less than half a mile away.
    He checked his watch. Only a couple hours ago he had been in Connecticut, confronting a partner he had trusted for the past five years. His thoughts shied away from Cassandra, but still circled around the sore subject.
    They had been recruited out of Special Forces at the same time: he from the Navy SEALS, she from the Army Rangers. DARPA had chosen them for a new, highly secretive team within the organization, code-named Sigma Force. Most in DARPA were unaware of its existence. Sigma’s objective was search and seizure, a covert militarized team of technically trained agents who were sent into high-risk situations to obtain or protect new research and technologies. Where the Delta Force had been established as an antiterrorist squad, Sigma was started to protect and maintain the technological superiority of the United States.
    No matter the cost.
    And now this call back to headquarters.
    It had to be a new mission. But why the urgency?
    The sedan traveled down North Fairfax Drive and pulled into the parking lot. They ran a gauntlet of security measures and were soon sliding into an empty spot. Another man, barrel-chested and expressionless, stepped forward