"Actually, there's only one reason there are any scholars at all." Giles walked back to his computer keyboard. "There is a small group that believes Ugaritic has, uh, shall we say magic powers."
"What," Bourne said, "like black magic?"
Giles laughed. "Oh my, no, Mr. Stone, nothing so fantastic. No, these people believe that Ugaritic is a key part to the workings of alchemy, that Ugaritic was created for priests, chants to make manifest the divine. They believe, further, that alchemy itself is a blending of Ugaritic - articulating the right sounds in the proper order - and the specific scientific protocols."
"Lead into gold," Chrissie said.
The professor nodded. "Among others things, that's right."
"Once again, the blending of East and West," Bourne said, "like Severus and Domna, like Old Persian and Latin."
"Intriguing. I hadn't thought of it in that light, but yes. It sounds far-fetched, I know, and you have to take an enormous leap of faith, but, well, now that you've brought up Julia Domna and her origins, look here." Giles worked the keyboard. The screen changed to a map of the Middle East that quickly zoomed in on modern-day Syria, and then, zooming in farther, a specific section of the country. "The epicenter of the Ugaritic language was the part of Syria that includes the Great Temple of Baal, considered by some to be the most powerful of the old pagan gods."
"Do you know any of these Ugaritic experts, Professor?" Bourne asked.
"One," Giles said. "He's, how shall I say, eccentric, as they all are in this arcane and rather outre field. As it happens, he and I play chess online. Well, it's a form of proto-chess, actually, enjoyed by the ancient Egyptians." He chuckled. "With your permission, Mr. Stone, I'll e-mail him the inscription right now."
"You have my blessing," Bourne said.
Giles composed the e-mail, attached a copy of the inscription, and sent it off. "He loves puzzles, the more obscure the better, as you can imagine. If he can't translate it, no one can."
* * *
Soraya, propped up on the bed in the guest room at Delia's apartment, was dreaming of Amun Chalthoum, the lover she had left behind in Cairo, when her cell phone began to throb on her lap. Hours ago she had switched it to vibrate mode so as not to disturb her friend, fast asleep in her bedroom.
Her eyes snapped open, the veils of her dream parted, and, putting the cell to her ear, she said, "Yes," very softly.
"We've got a hit," the voice said in her ear. It was Safa, one of the women in Typhon's network, whose family had been killed by terrorists in Lebanon. "At least it's a possible. I'm uploading several images to your laptop now."
"Hold on," she said.
Soraya had a phone company Internet card plugged into her laptop, and she switched it on. A moment later she was connected. She saw that the file was delivered and opened it. There were three photos. The first was a file shot, head and shoulders, of Arkadin, the same one Peter had showed her, so it must be the only decent shot they had of him. This version was larger and clearer, however. Marks was right, he was a handsome specimen: hooded eyes, aggressive features. And blond. Positive or negative? She wasn't sure. The other two were obvious CCTV photos, the images flat, the colors poorly rendered, of a man, large and muscular, wearing one of those inexpensive sports hats with a Dallas Cowboys logo, which he probably bought at the airport. She couldn't see enough of his face to make a positive ID. But in the second CCTV image, he'd tipped his hat back on his head to scratch his scalp. His hair was very black, very shiny, as if it had just been dyed. He must have thought he was out of camera range, she thought as she studied the face. She compared it with the file shot.
"I think it's him," she said.
"So do I. The images are from the Immigration cameras at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport eight days ago."
Why would he fly into Texas, Soraya wondered, rather than New York or LA?
"He came in on a flight from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris under the name Stanley Kowalski."
"You're joking," Soraya said.
"I kid you not."
The man definitely had a sense of humor.
Chapter Nine
LEONID ARKADIN WATCHED with slitted eyes as the battered dirt-brown convertible came bouncing along the road that led to the wharf. The sun was