blackness, less diffuse now. Someone was, indeed, coming down this part of the catacombs.
Slowly, she began to back up, edging away from her pursuer, moving cautiously toward the Y juncture, never taking her eyes from the bobbing stab of light. She kept moving, trying to decide what to do. Then it was too late.
Her back foot broke the soft surface of the catacomb floor. She tried to shift her weight forward, but the suck of the disintegrated floor pulled her backward, and down. She flung out her arms for balance, but it wasn't enough. She had already sunk into the ooze to the level of her thighs. She began to struggle.
A sharp brightening brought the passageway into sudden focus. A black blob resolved itself into a familiar shape: a Ukrainian policeman, massive looking in the confided space.
He saw her, his eyes widened, and he drew his gun.
At precisely 10:45 PM Karim al-Jamil's computer terminal chimed softly, reminding him that the second of his twice-daily briefings with the DCI was fifteen minutes away. This concerned him less than the mysterious disappearance of Matthew Lerner. He'd asked the Old Man, but the bastard had only said that Lerner was "on assignment." That could mean anything. Like all the best schemers, Karim al-Jamil hated loose ends, which was precisely what Matthew Lerner had become. Even Anne didn't know where the man was, an oddity in itself. Normally, she would have booked Lerner's itinerary personally. The DCI was up to something. Karim al-Jamil could not discount the possibility that Lerner's sudden disappearance had something to do with Anne. He'd have to find out, as quickly as possible. That meant dealing directly with the DCI.
The monitor chimed again: time to go. He scooped up the translations of the latest Dujja chatter the Typhon team had compiled, picking up a couple more as he stepped out of his office. He read them on his way up to the DCI's suite.
Anne was waiting for him, sitting behind her desk in her usual formal pose. Her eyes lit up for a tenth of a second when he appeared. Then she said, "He's ready for you."
Karim al-Jamil nodded, strode past her. She buzzed him into the enormous office. The DCI was on the phone, but he waved Karim al-Jamil in.
"That's right. All stations to remain on highest alert."
It seemed clear he was talking to the chief of Operations Directorate.
"The director of the IAEA was briefed yesterday morning," the DCI continued, after listening for a moment to the voice on the other end. "Their personnel have been mobilized and are temporarily under our aegis. Yes. The chief problem now is keeping Homeland Security from screwing up the works. No, as of now we're maintaining a strict news blackout on all of this. The last thing we need is the media instigating a panic among the civilian population." He nodded. "All right. Keep me informed, night or day."
He put down the receiver, motioned for Karim al-Jamil to take a seat. "What d'you have for me?"
"A break, finally." Karim al-Jamil handed over one of the sheets he'd been given on exiting his office. "There's unusual activity with Dujja's signature coming out of Yemen."
The DCI nodded as he studied the intel. "Specifically Shabwah, in the south, I see."
"Shabwah is mountainous, sparsely populated," Karim al-Jamil said. "Perfect for building an underground nuclear facility."
"I agree," the Old Man said. "Let's get Skorpion units there ASAP. But this time I want ground assist." He grabbed the phone. "There are two battalions of Marine Rangers stationed in Djibouti. I'll get them to send in a full company to coordinate with our personnel." His eyes were alight. "Good work, Martin. Your people may have provided us with the means to nip this nightmare in the bud."
"Thank you, sir."
Karim al-Jamil smiled. The Old Man would have been right, had the intel not been disinformation his people at Dujja had put out into the airwaves. Though the wilds of Shabwah did indeed make an excellent hiding place-one that he and his brother had once considered-the actual location of Dujja's underground nuclear facility was, in fact, nowhere near South Yemen.
Soraya was lucky in one sense, though at first blush it failed to impress her: Veins of metal in the walls of the catacombs made it impossible for the policeman to contact the rest of his contingent. He was on his own.
Regaining her composure, she ceased to move. Her struggling had only served to work her body deeper into the slurry pit