Sandstorm Read Free Page B

first. When it came to technological advances, the United States could not come in second place.
    Ever.
    A tingling sense of dread grew. “How may I help you, Admiral?”
    “There’s been an explosion at the British Museum in London.” He went on to explain the situation in great detail. Thomas checked his watch. Less than forty-five minutes had passed since the blast. He was impressed by the ability of Rector’s organization to gather so much intelligence in such a short time.
    Once the admiral finished, Thomas asked the most obvious question. “And DARPA’s interest in this blast?”
    Rector answered him.
    Thomas felt the room go ten degrees cooler. “Are you sure?”
    “I already have a team in place to pursue that very question. But I’m going to need the cooperation of British MI5…or better yet…”
    The alternative hung in the air, unspoken even over a scrambled line.
    Thomas now understood the clandestine call. MI5 was Britain’s equivalent of his own organization. Rector wanted him to throw up a smoke screen so a DARPA team could whisk in and out before anyone else suspected the discovery. And that included the British intelligence agency.
    “I understand,” Thomas finally answered. Be there first. He prayed they could live up to this mission. “Do you have a team ready?”
    “They’ll be ready by morning.”
    From the lack of further elaboration, Thomas knew who would be handling this. He drew a Greek symbol on the margin of his newspaper.

    “I’ll clear the way for them,” he said to the phone.
    “Very good.” The line went dead.
    Thomas settled the phone to the cradle, already planning what must be done. He would have to work quickly. He stared down at the unfinished crossword puzzle: 19 down.
    A five-letter word for the sum of all men.
    How appropriate.
    He picked up a pen and filled in the answer in block letters.
    SIGMA .
    02:22 A.M. GMT
LONDON, ENGLAND
    S AFIA STOOD before the barricade, a yellow-and-black A-frame. She kept her arms folded, anxious, cold. Smoke filled the air. What had happened? Behind the barricade, a policeman held her wallet in his hand and compared her photo to the woman who stood before him.
    She knew he was having a hard time matching the two. In hand, her museum identification card portrayed a studious thirty-year-old woman of coffee-and-cream complexion, ebony hair tied back in an efficient braid, green eyes hidden behind black reading glasses. In contrast, before the young guard stood a soaking, bedraggled woman, hair loosely plastered in long swaths to her face. Her eyes felt lost and confused, focused beyond the barriers, beyond the frenzy of emergency personnel and equipment.
    News crews dotted the landscape, haloed by the spots from their cameras. A few television trucks stood parked half up on the sidewalks. Shealso spotted two British military vehicles among the emergency crews, along with personnel bearing rifles.
    The possibility of a terrorist attack could not be dismissed. She had heard such rumblings among the crowd and from a reporter she had to sidestep to reach the barricade. And not a few cast suspicious glances in her direction, the lone Arab on the street. She’d had firsthand experience with terrorism, but not in the manner these folks suspected. And maybe she was even misinterpreting the reactions around her. A form of paranoia, what was termed hyperanxiety, was a common sequela to a panic attack.
    Safia continued through the crowd, breathing deeply, focusing on her purpose here. She regretted forgetting her umbrella. She had left her flat immediately after getting the call, delaying only long enough to pull on a pair of khaki slacks and a white floral blouse. She had donned a knee-length Burberry coat, but in her hurry, the matching umbrella had been left in its stand by the door. Only when she reached the first floor of her building and rushed into the rain did she realize her mistake. Anxiety kept her from climbing back up to the fourth