JAMES ROLLINS - SANDSTORM

“Physicists out of M.I.T.,” Fleming said. “They flew in this evening and came directly here from the airport. They must have some pull. Tyson insisted I accommodate them. ‘Post haste,’ to quote our esteemed director. I should introduce you.”

Still edgy, Safia tried to bow out. “I really must be getting home.”

Fleming had already stepped into the gallery. One of the investigators, a tall man with ruddy features, noted him, then her.

He lowered his wand and strode rapidly forward. “Dr. al-Maaz, what good fortune.” He held out a hand. “I had hoped to speak to you.”

She accepted his hand.

“I’m Dr. Crowe,” he said. “Painter Crowe.”

His eyes, piercing and attentive, were the color of lapis, his hair long to the shoulder, ebony black. She noted his tanned complexion. Native American, she guessed, but the blue eyes were throwing her off. Maybe it was just the name. Crowe. He could easily be Spanish, too. He had a generous smile that was also reserved.

“This is my colleague Dr. Coral Novak.”

The woman shook Safia’s hand perfunctorily with only the tiniest nod. She seemed anxious to return to her survey.

The two scientists could not be more different. Compared to her darkly handsome companion, the woman seemed devoid of pigment, a pale shadow. Her skin glowed like freshly scrubbed snow, her lips thin, her eyes icy gray. Her naturally white-blond hair was cropped short. She stood as tall as Safia, lithe of limb, but still carried a certain sturdiness to her frame. It could be felt in her firm handshake.

“What are you searching for?” Safia asked, taking a step back.

Painter lifted his wand. “We’re checking for radiation signatures.”

“Radiation?” She could not hide her shock.

He laughed-not condescendingly, only warmly. “Don’t worry. It’s a specific signature we’re looking for, something following lightning strikes.”

She nodded. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. It was nice meeting you both, and if there’s anything I can do to facilitate your investigation, please let me know.” She began to turn away.

Painter stepped after her. “Dr. al-Maaz, I had meant to hunt you down. I have a few questions that I would like to discuss with you. Maybe over lunch.”

“I’m afraid I’m very busy.” Those eyes caught hers. She was trapped, unable to look away. She read the disappointment in his pinched brow. “May-maybe something could be arranged. Try me in my office in the morning, Dr. Crowe.”

He nodded. “Very good.”

She tore her gaze away and was saved further humiliation by Ryan Fleming. “I’ll escort you out,” he said.

She followed him into the hall, refusing to glance back. It had been a long time since she had felt so foolish, so flustered…by a man. It must be an aftershock of her unexpected conversation with Omaha.

“We’ll have to take the stairs. The lifts are still out.”

She kept in step with Fleming.

“Odd bunch, them Americans,” he continued as they descended the flights to the first floor. “Always in such a hurry. Had to come this very night. Insisted that the readings they sought would deteriorate. It had to be now.”

Safia shrugged as they reached the bottom and passed the short way to the employee-side exit. “I don’t think that’s so much an idiosyncrasy of Americans as it is of scientists in general. We’re a surly and determined lot.”

He nodded with a smile. “I’ve noticed.” He used his passkey to unlock the door to keep the alarm from sounding. He pushed the door wide with his shoulder, stepping out to hold it open for her.

His eyes were on her, oddly shy. “I was wondering, Safia. If you had the time…maybe…”

The gunshot sounded like no more than a cracking walnut. The right side of Ryan’s head exploded against the door, splattering blood and brain matter. Bits of skull ricocheted off the metal door and into the hallway.

Three masked gunmen crowded through the open door before Ryan’s body hit the ground. They rammed Safia into the far wall, pinning her, choking her, one hand over her mouth.

A gun appeared, pressed against the center of her forehead. “Where’s the heart?”

Painter studied the red needle on his scanner. It jittered up into the scale’s orange range as he passed the detection rod over a blasted display cabinet. A significant reading.

The device had been designed by the nuclear labs at White Sands. Rad-X scanners were capable of detecting low-level radiation. Their particular devices had been specially calibrated to detect the unique decay signature of antimatter annihilation. When an atom of matter and antimatter collided and obliterated, the reaction liberated pure energy. That was what their detectors had been calibrated to sniff out.

“I’m picking up a particularly strong reading over here,” his partner called to him. Her voice was matter-of-fact, all business.

Painter crossed to her. Coral Novak was new to Sigma, recruited from the CIA only three years ago. Still, in the short time since her hiring, she had earned a Ph.D. in nuclear physics and was already a black belt in six disciplines of martial arts. Her IQ was off the charts, and she had almost an encyclopedic knowledge on a wide range of subjects.

He had heard of Novak, of course, even met her once at a district meeting, but they had only the short hop from Washington to London to better acquaint themselves. Not nearly enough time for two reserved people to form any relationship, beyond a stiffly professional one. He couldn’t help comparing her to Cassandra, which only exacerbated his reticence. Similar traits between the women tweaked his suspicion, while discordantly, the few differences made him wonder about his new partner’s competence. It made no sense. He knew this.

Only time would sort it out.

As he stepped beside her, she pointed her detection rod at the melted ruin of a bronze urn. “Commander, you’d better double-check my findings. I’m reading a signature all the way into the red range.”

Painter confirmed it with his own scanner. “Definitely hot.”

Coral dropped to a knee. Wearing thin lead gloves, she examined the urn, rolling it carefully. A rattle sounded inside. She glanced up at him.

He nodded for her to investigate. She reached through the mouth of the urn, searched a moment, then pulled free a thimble-size chunk of rock. She rolled it in her gloved palm. One side was blast-blackened. The other was red, metallic. Not rock… iron.

“A piece of the meteor,” Coral said. She held it out for Painter to scan. The readings indicated the item was the source of the strong reading. “And look at my ancillary readings. Besides Z-bosons and gluons against the background gamma, as expected with antimatter annihilation, this sample is emitting very low levels of alpha and beta radiation.”

Painter frowned. He had little background in physics.

Coral shifted the sample into a lead specimen jar. “The same radiation pattern found from decaying uranium.”

“Uranium? Like used in nuclear facilities.”

She nodded. “Nonpurified. Perhaps a few atoms trapped in the meteoric iron.” She continued to study her readings. Her brow creased with a single line, a dramatic response in the stoic woman.

“What is it?” he asked.

She continued to fiddle with her scanner. “On the flight over here, I reviewed the results from DARPA’s researchers. Something troubled me about their theories of a stabilized form of antimatter trapped in the meteor.”

“You don’t think such a thing is possible?” It was certainly a stretch of plausibility. Antimatter always and instantly annihilated itself when in contact with any form of matter, even oxygen in the air. How could it exist here in some natural state?