“I have no intention of leaving, my dear. We are close, so very close to the ark.”

  Faye’s jaw dropped. I looked at Harim. He was watching with wide eyes and a grin on his face. I was pretty sure he didn’t understand a single word. The older one shuffled his feet impatiently, keeping his hands high in the air like a good little soldier.

  I spoke up, as this was getting out of hand. “Your daughter speaks the truth, Professor Roberts. Emir Omar Ali is a killer. When he’s done using you, I predict you will meet an unfortunate end on the wrong side of a cliff.”

  Caesar was shaking his head. “But he and the little Arabic professor have been so kind to let us—”

  Wally cut him off. Although the kid’s voice was soft, it was full of emotion. As he spoke, Wally avoided his professor’s eyes. It was obvious Wally was unaccustomed to speaking out against the older man. “You’re wrong, professor. He has not been kind, and he forces us to work like slaves. And he is going to kill us. I’ve heard the soldiers speaking among themselves.”

  “Then why haven’t you said something,” said Caesar.

  “I have professor, but you choose not to listen. And what good was it, anyway? There was no hope for escape. Until now. The ark is your dream, professor, not mine. I only came for extra credit.” Wally stood. The kid was tall. I almost asked him how the weather was up there. “Please take me with you,” he said to me. “I miss my family.”

  I nodded, and looked at Caesar. His confused face was an intricate display of light and shadow.

  Suddenly, from behind us, came a tired but familiar voice: “Your student speaks the truth, professor. You would have done well to listen to him. You’re old and foolish, and now useless. And Mr. Ward, will you please toss aside the weapon and raise both your hands over your head.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  In a small tent back in Omar’s camp, Faye and I sat opposite each other with our hands cuffed behind our backs.

  A young Kurdish soldier sat near the tent’s opening, glowering, armed to the teeth. He was doing a helluva good job at looking mean and inhospitable. Just a kid with an automatic rifle and a bad case of acne. The weapon was tucked under his armpit, his index finger resting on the trigger guard. In that position, he could fire almost instantly. I advised Faye not to make any sudden movements.

  “So what do you think Omar will do to us?” Faye asked.

  “Do you want the sugar-coated version?” I said.

  “You mean the one where you blow sunshine up my ass?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  She said, “Give it to me straight, Sam.”

  “He’s going to kill us.”

  She inhaled deeply, chest moving forward and upward, pushing out on her jacket. I tried not to be obvious in my observational skills. She was silent, biting her lower lip. Her cheeks were sunburned to a rosy hue. A single dusty lantern hung from a hook between us, casting the shadow of her nose sharply across her face. She sighed and sat back, closing her eyes. “I think I would have preferred a little sunshine up my ass.” She nodded toward the guard. “Can he understand us?”

  I shrugged. “Say nothing incriminating, and try not to comment on his acne.”

  “I’ll try to refrain from the obvious,” she said. “Sam, what is Omar doing here?”

  “It’s difficult to say offhand. A year ago, I led him and his team onto Mount Ararat. In the evenings, after a full day of searching for the ark, we would drink together in his massive tent, which he made clear was my privilege. One evening, he confided in me that he had an overwhelming desire to make his mark in the world and to distinguish himself from his royal family.”

  “What do you mean?” Faye asked.

  “A hereditary title proves little of a man’s accomplishments,” I said.

  “But there are other ways to prove your worth to mankind,” said Faye, perplexed. “He could have been a doctor or work with the homeless—”

  “Hardly an avocation of a crown prince, don’t you think? No, he chose to follow in the footsteps of the great explorers and adventures. For instance, three years ago, he attempted to circumnavigate the globe in a hot air balloon, but failed miserably when he crashed into the Pacific Ocean.”

  “But that’s been done,” said Faye.

  “Exactly. So two years ago, he sought to find Noah’s ark. But that expedition proved fruitless. Last year he hired me, which proved equally fruitless. But now, he is here, a third time, and apparently he means business, arranging for the entire mountain to be closed exclusively for him. Wealth has its privileges.”

  Voices came from outside, speaking rapidly in Arabic. Farid Bastian stepped inside the tent, which didn’t leave much room for anything else. Farid dismissed the guard, who left with nary a glance back, taking with him his bad attitude and acne.

  “Farid, my friend,” I said. “You’ve come to see us off.”

  Snow had settled on his wide shoulders like dandruff. The man hadn’t bothered to wear gloves. He reached out and touched my arm in a surprisingly gentle way. “The emir wishes to speak with you and the lady.” He paused and looked at his hands. “It does not look good for you, my friend. The emir is not himself. He is irrational, and quick to make bad decisions.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked. This was the most talkative I had ever heard Farid, who normally stood quietly off to the side, looking big and forbidding, which he did quite well.

  “You are a threat to his operation.”

  “Then we do not wish to stand in his way,” I said. “We came for the professor and student. Give them to us and we will be gone, and Omar can play his games.”

  “It is not that simple,” said Farid quietly, shaking his massive head. He always spoke quietly, but carried a big stick. Hell, he was the big stick. “The game is more complicated than you think, my friend.”

  “Who’s the big guy with the emir?” I asked.

  Farid’s lips curled in distaste. “He is the Emir Kazeem Ali of Riyadh.”

  “Omar’s brother?” I asked.

  Farid shrugged. “Kazeem was sired from one of the king’s many wives. I have lost track which. But, yes, his half brother.”

  “You don’t seem particularly fond of him,” I said.

  Farid shrugged, and that was all I would get out of him. “We’ve had our differences in the past.”

  I changed the subject. “Why are we being held as prisoners?”

  Farid shook his head. He looked like a big sad elephant. “I’m just the hired help, remember? Come, the emir will show you himself.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Emir Omar Ali sat behind a long oak desk. The desk, bare, save for a laptop computer and a battery-powered desklamp with a pliable neck, seemed entirely out of place on the glaciers of Ararat. Faye and I stood before the emir, Farid guarding the exit, a pistol jutting from the bodyguard’s hip. I was confident Farid could draw and shoot before I took two steps. An Arab gunslinger.

  The emir was typing slowly on the laptop, hunting and pecking. The monitor glowed in eyes that seemed listless and dull. Omar wore a plain white robe, open at the neck, revealing a dark nest of curling chest hair. His mustache, as always, was immaculate. Omar had not yet bothered to acknowledge us.

  Leaning casually against the tent’s center pole was a larger version of Omar, and dressed similarly. Emir Kazeem Ali. The young prince watched us contemptuously, lips turned down. His dark eyes flashed from under an equally thick brow. His eyes moved casually over me, lingering longer on Faye. His lips curled up, and he inhaled deeply, massive chest filling out like a dirigible. Obviously, he had seen something he liked.

  Kazeem pushed himself away from the pole, and stepped lightly before us, casting me the merest of glances. I could have been nothing more than a road sign to nowhere. He eyed Faye slowly, molesting her with his eyes. Then he admired the view from behind.

  The big son-of-a-bitch reached out and stroked Faye’s auburn hair, and she cringed and leaned into me. I sensed a tiger stalking his prey, and I moved to knock his goddamn block off when one of the guards shoved the barrel of his weapon into my neck.

  Suddenly a large hand fell across Kazeem’s bare forearm, followed by Farid’s deep voice: “You will not touch her, emir Kazeem.”

  Slowly, deliberately, Kazeem allowed Faye’s hair to slip between his fingers. He turned calmly and faced Farid. The two massive men could have been professional wrestlers. “You dare threaten me, nomad?”

  “You will not touch her,” repeated Farid, “by orders of Emir Omar Ali, your brother.”

  Kazeem’s chest rose and fell rapidly, perhaps as adrenaline filled his bloodstream. “You were plucked from the desert, where you washed your hair with camel urine, to do our bidding, which does not include carrying out orders against me.”

  Farid, to his credit, did not let go of the arm.

  Omar snapped shut his laptop and leaned back in his swivel chair, crossing his arms over his shrunken chest—a chest that had once been strapped with muscle. “Enough you two. Farid, unhand my brother. You know better than that.”

  Farid did as he was told.

  “And, Sam, you would do well to remember that Kazeem is hot-tempered and prone to violence, and I can control him only so far.” Omar chuckled. “Kazeem is threatened by Farid. You see, Farid may be the only man in my country who does not fear Kazeem. Someday, I will let them go at it, and see who’s left standing.”

  Kazeem grunted and stepped away, knocking Farid with his shoulder. The young prince disappeared through the tent opening. Omar turned his attention to me. “You’re supposed to be dead, Sam Ward,” he said evenly. “Or so I was told. Killed in an avalanche.”

  “Courtesy of your men, I presume.”

  “You presume correctly. The avalanche was not an accident or coincidence, and would have been a fitting end for a man such as yourself.” He shook his head sadly with great regret.

  “It’s the thought that counts,” I said. “We were followed?”

  “We knew you were coming the moment Miss Roberts arrived in town. It was just a matter of time.”

  I leveled my stare at the Arab prince. “You have no reason to imprison us, emir.”

  “Regrettably, I cannot permit you to leave, Sam.”

  Faye stepped forward, balling her fists, but Farid calmly reached out and restrained her. She tried to shrug loose from his grip, failed. She had guts. “Not only have you kidnapped us, but you’ve murdered a defenseless shepherd. Are the Turkish authorities aware of the atrocities being committed on their mountain?”

  Omar’s lips tightened. I think most of us were holding our collective breaths, except Faye, who was breathing through her nose like a raging bull through the streets of Pamplona. “I am the authority on this mountain, Miss Roberts. When you speak to me, you speak to judge, jury and executioner. You would do well to remember that. And the shepherd was not meant to die. He was to serve as a lesson for the others to keep away.” Omar suddenly stood. “Come. You will follow me.”

  ***

  The eastern sky was brightening from a midnight black to a midnight purple.Snow continued to drift across camp in a satiny veil with irregularity and little enthusiasm. We were led from Omar’s private tent to the massive tent that dominated the center of camp, rising before us like a skyscraper of white nylon. The whole thing was anchored in place by stakes so massive that the Titanic would have been kept at bay. The flapping of hundreds of square yards of white nylon fabric was thunderous—the sound of ocean waves crashing against a rocky shore.

  At the entrance stood a handful of soldiers, submachine guns strapped to their backs like arrows in a quiver. Omar and his Merry Men.

  The wind pressed the emir’s robe against his frail body, revealing his narrow, emaciated frame, as his headcloth flapped behind him like a cape. Omar was inconspicuously hanging on to the arm of his bodyguard, should the emir be blown away on the wind. Farid was carrying an odd sort of metal suitcase that appeared quite heavy, even for him. There was another man I noticed for the first time. He was small, with round features. His glasses had ice on them, which he rubbed with a gloved finger. He looked nervous and anxious.

  Faye’s hand found mine, and squeezed. I squeezed back. Her fingers were frighteningly cold. I lifted her hand up to my mouth and let out a steady stream of hot air from deep within my lungs to warm her fingers.

  As Omar spoke, there was a brief flicker of his old self: slick, cool, and ready to conquer the world. He grinned wickedly, looking remarkably like a ringmaster at a circus, about to introduce the next freakish display of human deformity. All he needed was a top hat and a whip. Omar motioned with his hand and Farid pushed aside the tent opening.

  Omar said, “This way, if you please.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Powered by humming generators, a dozen or so spotlights dazzled my eyes upon entering the massive tent.

  I blinked back the tiny black spots that swirled across my vision, like flies over a picnic lunch. In the center of the tent there appeared to be a tangle of black metal. At first, it was impossible to discern what the hell it could be, especially with the shadows created by the powerful floodlights. But then recognition set in. Faye must have come to the same conclusion at roughly the same time because she squeezed the hell out of my hand. A knuckle or two popped, both mine.

  Before us was a blast from the past. It was a reusable mobile MAZ-543 transporter-erector-launcher, or TEL. I knew it well. Straight from the Persian Gulf War. In the war, I had flown my share of sorties: the endless search for Iraq’s ballistic missiles. The infamous Scuds. Nowadays, Scuds fly further and more accurately. And can carry increasingly more dangerous payloads.

  The black metal of the static launcher gleamed dully as workers swarmed over the aperture, like termites over a mound. Although such launchers were mobile, and could often be pulled behind a truck, it took a lot of planning to haul one up twelve thousand feet, while not alerting the Turks themselves.

  “I assume the launcher was assembled piece by piece over a matter of months,” I said.

  “You assume correctly, Mr. Ward. Let me assure you, the Turks are unaware that a launcher has been erected in their backyard. Ironic that their soldiers protect my privacy, even as I plan their destruction”

  “But why here on Ararat?” I asked.

  “The perfect cover. The local Kurdish freedom fighters have a huge base here on Ararat, even within Ararat in some locations, well hidden from the Turks. These rebels provided the launcher and missile—and I provided the final ingredient.”

  I looked again at the gleaming metal case in Farid’s hand. The case was heavy, even for him. I nodded as realization dawned on me. “You’re not planning to launch a conventional warhead.”

  Omar’s eyes blazed. He looked truly insane. “No, Sam.”

  Faye turned to me. “What do you mean?”

  “The emir’s gotten his hands on a weapon of mass destruction. Possibly nuclear. Russian-built, no doubt. Auctioned to the highest bidder and all that. Nothing that a lot of money can’t buy.”

  Faye stared at the metal. “Can it be that small?” she asked. “My God, it’s no bigger than a school backpack.”

  Omar grinned. “To create the high temperature required to start the fusion reaction within a thermonuclear bomb, my dear, one needs a space no larger than a coffee thermos.” Omar turned to me. “However, Mr. Ward, this is not a nuclear warhead.”

  “What is it then? Chemical? Biological?”

  “The scientific term for it is bacillus anthracis.”

  “Anthrax,” I breathed.

  “Yes, Sam. Anthrax. Only the United States and Russia have successfully converted this biological toxin into a weapon of mass destruction. Others have tried. Iraq has made a laughable attempt at it, but they have failed to succeed in distilling the anthrax into powder form. Russia, in particular, has perfected the process of converting the toxin into powder form, which makes it easily inhaled. On a good day, with the wind in my favor, the toxin spores could kill hundreds of thousands of people.” Omar paused. His face was flushed, burning with intensity. “And shortly, once my ballistics technician arrives, the anthrax warhead will be fitted and armed.” He grinned. “The final piece of the puzzle.”

  “For a night launch, I assume,” I said. A night launch could go undetected, with little chance of noticeable emissions.

  “In fact, I’d hoped for tonight, but I’ve been informed that my ballistics expert is late. I’d do the job myself if I could. Unfortunately, I’m no expert in biological warfare.”

  “Unfortunately,” I said.

  At the rear of the tent, a sort of golf cart wobbled in, driven by a shivering Kurdistan worker. He was pulling a rattling flatbed. On the platform, covered in a blue plastic tarp, was a cylindrical object four feet in length and as wide as a man’s body. It was the Scud missile. Although not the most flattering name it is the missile of choice in the Middle East. North Korea and Russia make them dirt cheap, cranking them out the way Nike cranks out Air Jordans.

  “So who’s getting the bomb?” I asked.

  Omar was silent. Behind me, the cart containing the Scud missile came to a screeching halt. Sub-zero temperatures are also hell on brake pads.

  “Istanbul.”

  ***

  “I assume you have good reason for obliterating one of the world’s oldest and most significant cities,” I said.

  Omar shook his head, staring off into the middle distance. “I do not need to justify myself to a prisoner.” He paused. “But I will tell you a little story. Forty-five years ago, the Turks, in their vehemence to eradicate the troublesome Kurds, destroyed a simple village in Eastern Turkey. There were few survivors. One was a small boy who found his home in burning ruins. There he saw the burned corpses of his brothers and sisters. His mother, still alive, writhed as the skin peeled from her face. She died in agony.