of her scientific background to dismiss them all as religion-addled halfwits, especially Bostitch with his slathered-on hick accent and goofy good-old-boy manner. But Bostitch was an extremely successful businessman.
And although she had known some Navy SEALs who, while good-natured and in certain ways frighteningly competent, were not too bright, she didn’t have Baron sized up that way, either. While a lot of fairly random and even wacky types had prospered in the general rain of soup that had fallen on the defense and security industries after 9/11, she knew the mercenary business, whatever euphemism it operated under, was literally a cutthroat business. She’d heard of China Grove, as it happened; their reputation wasn’t too savory. If anything, they tended to be a bit too good at what they did. Leif Baron was not a man to be taken lightly.
“I guess you don’t worry about your weight much, Ms. Creed,” Baron said as the waiter left, having taken all the food orders.
“Constantly,” she said. “I really have to work to keep it up enough that I don’t start burning muscle mass.”
He sat back. She got a flat shark stare from those gray eyes. Then Charlie Bostitch guffawed and slapped his thigh with a beefy hand. “Good one!” he said. “Our Ms. Creed’s a woman with spirit.”
She wondered if there was more to this group than she was being told. Despite Charlie’s boisterous good nature Annja was starting to fear working with them would be a mistake. The way Baron joined in the laughter a beat late didn’t greatly reassure her.
Their food arrived. It was excellent and excellently prepared; Bostitch had decent taste in restaurants. Annja’s prime rib was rare, as advertised, which made her happy. It could be hard getting a really rare piece of meat these days.
As they ate Bostitch gave her his pitch, with occasional comments from Baron. They were brief and to the point, Annja had to admit. The former SEAL might not be likable and might be a touch too tightly wired. But he seemed to know his stuff.
“The Ararat Anomaly,” Bostitch said, “was first spotted by an American recon flight along the Turkish-Soviet border in 1949. Since then it’s been photographed on several occasions both by surveillance aircraft and satellites.”
“Most recently by the space shuttle, in 1994,” Taitt said.
“But no one’s been allowed to examine it firsthand,” Annja said.
Bostitch looked to Baron. “Not allowed to, no,” the shaven-headed man said. “But last year an expedition did manage to reach the Anomaly. Briefly.”
“And you had something to do with this?” Annja asked.
Again the unpleasant smile. “Not directly. At the time I was deployed to Kirkuk with my boys.” Annja knew he was referring to northern Iraq—the part claimed by the Kurds, as it happened.
“Let’s just say I had a hand in expediting the process,” he said.
“So what did they find?”
Under the table Charlie evidently had his hand in his coat pocket. “This,” he said, producing a plastic bag with a showman’s flourish. It contained an irregular dark brown object about five inches long and maybe an inch wide.
“What’s this?” Annja asked. He passed the bag to her. She turned it over in her hands. “It looks like a piece of old wood.”
“Very old wood,” Bostitch said. “It’s been carbon dated as just under 3,500 years old.”
“We believe the Flood happened in 1447 BC,” Taitt said.
“Interesting,” she said in a neutral tone. She passed the bag back to Bostitch. Taitt handed her several sealed plastic bags containing shards of pottery he’d taken from an attaché case.
“And here,” Bostitch said, shoving a thick manila folder toward her, “we’ve got the documentation on the artifacts. All done up proper.”
Except for the little detail about lack of official permission, she thought. Ah, well, stones and glass houses, as it would gratify Roux way too much to remind her.
She flipped through the papers inside the folder. “All right,” she admitted. “Whoever did this appropriately documented the discovery and extraction of the artifacts, and didn’t record the use of any kind of destructive practices. But these artifacts were basically found lying around in the snow. There’s nothing about the structure itself. If any.”
“Oh, it’s there, all right,” Bostitch said. His eyes shone with fervor. “The expedition members saw it plain as day, rising before them—a great ship shape, dark, covered with snow and ice.”
“And they didn’t document that?” Annja said.
“They had some…equipment malfunctions,” Baron said. “Only a few shots one of them took on his cell phone actually came out.”
Annja raised an eyebrow at him. Taitt pushed a sheet of paper at her. On it were printed several blurry photographs.
Her frown deepened as she studied them. “This could be anything.” It looked big. It even looked vaguely ship-shaped.
She shoved the printout back at Taitt. “Then again, so do a lot of things. If I understand correctly the usual scientific explanation for the Anomaly is either a basalt extrusion or some kind of naturally occurring structure in the glacier itself. I don’t see anything here to make me think differently.”
“Ah, but the men who were there, Ms. Creed,” Bostitch said, “they saw. And they know.”
“None of you was on this expedition?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” Bostitch said.
“And can I talk with anybody who was?”
“Unfortunately,” Taitt said, the young lawyer coming out, “it would be inadvisable at this time.”
Meaning, somewhere along the way they had stepped on serious toes, she figured. And they were hiding out. Or…worse? They played for keeps in that part of the world. They always had. It was something she suspected U.S. policymakers, even many of their grunts on the ground, failed to really appreciate.
It was a game Annja was far too familiar with. She’d played for such stakes before. She didn’t doubt she would again.
But not for a wild-goose chase like this.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “thank you for a wonderful dinner. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get home. I got an early start this morning.”
That was true. And while the flight from Montreal to New York had been anything but lengthy the attendant hassles and stresses of air travel constituted a sort of irreducible minimum. She always thought so-called “security” measures—which would make any serious-minded terrorist bust out laughing—couldn’t get more intrusive or obnoxious. Any kind of air travel these days was exhausting.
She rose. Larry Taitt stood up hastily, knocking his chair over. “You mean you won’t do it?” he said in alarm, turning and fumbling to set the chair back up.
“That’s exactly what she means,” Baron said evenly.
“Are you sure you won’t consider it, Ms. Creed?” Bostitch said, also standing up politely, if with less attendant melodrama. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.
3
Annja’s cell phone started ringing as she closed the door to her loft apartment behind her. As she fastened the various bolts, safety bars and locks with one hand she took the phone out with the other and checked who was calling.
“Doug Morrell,” she said aloud. “That can’t be good.” Morrell was the boy wonder producer of the television show she worked for. Although she genuinely liked Doug, he could be trying at the best of times.