chill, born of certainty and trepidation.
A wide waterway cut to the northeast. That has to be the Dardanelles Strait. In classical antiquity, it was named the Hellespont, or the Sea of Helle. The strait cut through northwestern Turkey and connected to the Sea of Marmara.
It seems I truly have traveled full circle . . . from Helheim to the Sea of Helle.
She returned her attention to the approaching coastline. She recognized that deep carve of a bay, the towering cliffs sweeping to either side. She had recently seen a depiction of this port. She pictured the golden map’s tiny silver ship resting along this very stretch of coast. Back at the dhow, she remembered naming this place and getting confirmation from the woman seated across from her.
The plane reached the coast and dropped lower.
Acres of ancient walls and foundations came into view below, further solidifying her conviction.
She knew this place.
It’s the ruins of Troy.
She glanced back to the woman, to Bint Mūsā, this Daughter of Moses. Dark eyes studied Elena in turn.
What the hell is going on?
10
June 22, 11:08 A.M. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Gray dropped back into the leather chair in front of the director’s desk. “We’d better find his daughter.”
Senator Kent Cargill had just left, escorted by Kat.
Painter remained standing, his expression pained. “Agreed. We don’t need to make an enemy of this man, especially if he ends up in the White House.”
The director had spent the past forty minutes updating the senator on their search efforts and the plans going forward, involving intelligence and policing agencies around the world. Cargill took in these details, asked pertinent questions, and offered his resources as head of the Committee on Foreign Relations in the Senate.
Gray had simply listened, letting these two men discuss everything. He had expected the panicked father—a senator surely used to getting his way—to throw his weight around, to butt heads with the director, to make demands. And certainly, Cargill’s eyes were haunted, his lips drawn and pale with worry, but the man stayed on task, perhaps knowing that the best chance to recover his daughter would not be served by bluster and threats.
Gray tried to imagine how he’d act if someone kidnapped Jack. I’d be knocking walls down. Considering the senator’s judicious calm in the face of such a crisis, he would make a great president. There was steel in his spine, and he had a mind as sharp as a bear trap.
As to Sigma’s culpability in involving his daughter, he readily acknowledged his daughter was headstrong and as passionate about her work as he was. There was even a glimmer of interest when Painter told him about the ancient dhow discovered buried in the ice of Greenland, a discovery that could prove Arab explorers reached the New World centuries before the Vikings.
Cargill had shaken his head upon hearing all of this and admitted with a sniff of amusement: Once Elena caught wind of this, you couldn’t have kept my daughter away.
Now that matters had been resolved with mutual respect, Painter rounded his desk and returned to his chair. He sank down and stared pointedly at Gray. “As you can see, we definitely need our best people on this case.”
Gray understood the implied request and hoped that description still applied to him.
“But I’m not the only one who would like to enlist your help,” Painter said, reminding Gray about their earlier discussion.
“Who are you talking about?”
“I told you before that the photos taken by the geologist were distributed to his employers and likely spread far and wide.”
“Reaching the wrong eyes. Got it. But what did you mean by these images reaching the right ones? You mentioned another agency getting wind of all of this. Who?”
Before Painter could answer, Kat knocked on the door frame behind him and entered. “Now that our esteemed guest is gone,” she said, “I’ve reestablished the videoconference call.”
She crossed around to Painter’s computer and raised a questioning eyebrow at the director, who nodded permission for her to use his desktop. She typed rapidly, and the flat-screen behind him flickered, an image juddered, then firmed into the features of a man. The figure appeared to be leaning on a desk, his face near the webcam on his end.
His green eyes twinkled with amusement. He wiped a fall of black hair aside, a match to his priestly frock. The white of his Roman collar flashed on the screen.
It was Finn Bailey—Father Finn Bailey.
Gray immediately understood who had requested his involvement.
“I see our prodigal son has returned,” the