Tokyo, Japan
Riku Tanaka sat in front of the computer deep within the labyrinthine structure of the euphemistically named Public Security Intelligence Agency, Japan's premiere espionage organization. Riku could not even say what floor he was on- likely underground, from the annoying hum of the air-conditioning -or even what building.
He did not care.
His hand rested in the palm of Janice Cooper.
Since their rescue out of the frigid depths of the Super-Kamiokande detector's tank, he'd seldom been out of physical contact with her. Her presence helped him maintain his balance in the world, like an anchor securing a ship in questionable seas, while his psyche rebuilt itself.
They waited for the latest data from the various subatomic particle labs to collate through his refined software program. With the point of critical mass approaching, unknown variables were falling away, allowing a more exact estimate of the time when the explosion would occur.
Finally, the calculations were complete.
The answer glowed on the screen.
Riku's hand flexed, squeezing hard.
Janice returned his hold, needing an anchor now as much as he did.
"We're doomed."
Yellowstone National Park
Painter crouched beside the body on the ground.
The man lay on his back atop a bison hide, hands folded to his chest.
The Native American garb on the man's mummified remains was brighter than the bodies outside. A pearlescent ring of white eagle feathers circled his bare, thin neck. A long braid of gray hair still had bits of dried flowers, where someone had placed them with great and loving care. A richly beaded cape-acting as a burial shawl-wrapped his bony shoulders.
This man had not committed suicide. Someone had interred him here in the Holy of Holies, a great honor.
Painter could guess why.
Two objects were placed under his shrunken, pale hands.
Under one, a white wooden cane, topped with a silver knob imprinted with a French fleur-de-lis symbol.
Under the other, a birch-paper journal bound in hide.
It was the body of Archard Fortescue.
Painter didn't need to read the journal to know that the man must have stayed here after the Lewis and Clark party left, intending to be the guardian and protector of this great secret. He must have gone native while he lived with the Indians, been accepted by them-and from the care with which his body had been laid, well loved.
Painter turned away. "Rest well, my friend. Your long vigil is over."
Chin stood by an open door at the back of the room. His words were awash with terror. "Director, you need to see this."
Painter crossed to Chin, who pointed his flashlight out the back door of the Holy of Holies. Hank and Kowalski joined them.
Beyond the threshold, steps led down to an expansive room that stretched far back and wrapped to either side of the inner sanctum.
"This is the temple's treasure room," Hank said.
Painter gaped, unable to speak.
Instead, it was Kowalski who summarized their situation the most succinctly.
"We're fucked."