.

weird and possibly, well, doomed as it seemed. There was his enthusiasm. And his innocence. And, oh, yes—the lure of uncovering ancient mysteries. And maybe a hint of adrenaline rush. Just a teensy, tiny bit.

      “General Orga,” Larry Taitt said with horrible playful-puppy brightness, “the key point here is that we’re relying on you to smooth our way east to Mount Ararat. And I’m sure our fate, and the fate of our expedition, couldn’t be in more capable hands.”

      Annja looked at the floppy kid—she couldn’t help thinking of him that way—with a certain expanded understanding. He may be a happy-go-lucky goof who’d had the bad judgment to lock himself into weird religion and weirder associates. But he clearly had something on the ball.

      Orga was frowning still, but now it was with a sort of generalized concern. “I will certainly do what I can for this expedition,” he intoned. “It is, after all, for science.”

      “Science,” Wilfork said. He raised his glass of beer. “I’ll drink to that.”

      Leif Baron, who had apparently decided to reclaim the “good cop” role, slapped his hands noisily on his thighs and stood. “We know you will, General Orga. Thanks for coming out.”

      Everybody else stood, so Annja did likewise. She wasn’t sure what had actually been accomplished here. If anything. But now Baron and Bostitch were showing all hail-fellow camaraderie to the general, who himself was looking as jovial as he could with those bloodhound eyes. She was not a woman who yielded to gender stereotypes, for either sex, and if anything tended to consider herself, and be accepted as, one of the boys. But this scene baffled her. Maybe it was some male-bonding ritual she hadn’t encountered yet.

      She found herself out in the curving hallway walking away. Aside from the smoking thing the Ankara Sheraton was a fabulous hotel. She felt a strong yearning to return to the extravagant comfort of a room she never could have afforded on her own. Then maybe a few laps in the huge indoor swimming pool would get her tuned up again.

      “Ms. Creed,” an Australian-accented voice called from behind her. “Wait one, if you’d be so kind.”

      She stopped and turned. Robyn Wilfork lumbered after her. His gait resembled that of a none-too-well-trained dancing bear. She couldn’t attribute it to alcohol: he had a long torso and short, bowed legs for his height.

      Well, maybe some of it was alcohol, considering how hard he’d been hitting the beer back in the room.

      “Might I offer you a drink?” he asked. “The hotel sports an altogether splendid bar.”

      She was on the cusp of answering that she thought maybe he’d had enough in that department when she saw a knowing look come into his blue eyes.

      “Nothing improper, I assure you,” he said hastily. “It just strikes me that, since we appear to be the odd ones out—quite a striking fact itself, in this company—we might profitably get to know one another.”

      “Ah,” she said, “sure. Why not?”

      THE COPPER BAR OF ANKARA’S Sheraton Hotel and Convention Center was a splendid bar, Annja had to admit. The bar proper was a highly polished teak arc beneath outward-expanding concentric rings of copper hung from the ceiling. It was such a striking effect that she actually permitted, not altogether in accordance with her better judgment, the journalist to buy her a glass of wine. Having placed her order with the bartender, who appeared to be French, she followed Wilfork as he rolled like a sailor in a high sea to one of the blue-gray chairs. These proved to be quite comfortable.

      The bar was almost empty. Soft chamber music played in the background. While the afternoon view outside the tall windows was pleasant, prominently featuring an outdoor pool and the tall tower in which the rooms were located, she chose to sit with her back to them. She always liked to be able to see the entrance of the place she was in. The more so since there seemed to be some possible controversy concerning their expedition.

      Which wasn’t totally surprising, inasmuch as the whole enterprise was flamboyantly illegal.

      “So, Mr. Wilfork,” she said, “what brings you all the way from Australia?”

      “Australia?” He laughed heartily. “Oh, no, no. My dear, you’re grievously wrong. I am a Kiwi, born and bred.”

      Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’m sorry. I guess I don’t know enough to tell a New Zealand accent from Australian one.”

      “You are quite forgiven. But I must say, the question you want to ask is, what is a confirmed atheist and semi-lapsed communist doing wrapped up in all of this religious mummery?”

      That made her pull her head back and blink. “You’re right. I guess that is a better question.”

      “Perhaps the answer is the same as what might bring a respected American archaeologist of decidedly skeptical bent into such an operation,” he said. “Simply, money.”

      She frowned slightly. “It’s not so simple,” she said. “Not in my case. And anyway, what use does a communist have for money?”

      “Why, all the use in the world. That turns out, perhaps, to sum up the history of world communism in a nutshell. Besides, I told you I’ve become apostate.”

      “And there you have it,” she said, laughing. “I guess that’s fair enough. And I have to admit that in my case the answer is partially money. But I’m legitimately interested in learning what really lies on top of that mountain.”

      The waitress, a trim diminutive woman with a tight bun of gray hair who appeared to be local, brought their drinks. “Gin and tonic with a wedge of lime?” Annja asked. “Isn’t that rather…colonialist of you?”

      “Well, I could remind you again I’m a lapsed communist.” He shrugged. “Then again, I drank the same when I was fully communicant in the faith.”

      He held up the highball glass in salute. “Here’s to Thomas Friedman’s flat earth,” he said. “Also to his flat head. What on earth ever possessed you Americans to give that self-inflated buffoon a Pulitzer Prize?”

      “I’m not the one to ask. They didn’t.”

      He sipped, smacked his lips and sighed. “Splendid. And splendidly retorted. You display a quickness of wit that they seem to be able to conceal quite well on that television program of yours.”

      “They don’t exactly encourage spontaneity. At least, not from their resident skeptic.”

      “But they do in the case of the show’s lead. At least if by spontaneity one means ‘a remarkable gift for losing one’s top in the most unlikely of circumstances.’”

      She laughed. She was finding Wilfork and his self-satirizing bluster not just amusing but likable. Actually she so far found everybody on this trip, bizarre as it was, basically likable. Except maybe Baron, with his shark eyes.

      And maybe the other Rehoboam Academy types, although they were polite and seemed a little less manically cheerful than Larry. Even if when she had been around them so far they had mostly been subdued out of due Christian deference to their elders. She still couldn’t quite shake a distressing mental image of them as a pack of young wolves.

      “So have you decided to throw over the whole voice-of-reason thing, then?” Wilfork asked.

      She tasted the wine. It was sweet enough that she found it palatable. As far as wine-drinking went she was fated forever to provide a handy butt for jokes by wine snobs. She was resigned to that fate. Uncharacteristic, perhaps; but then, it didn’t matter to her much one way or another. There were lots of other, more pressing fates to rebel against.

      “Not at all, Mr. Wilfork. If you’ll think back, you’ll recall I said, whatever’s really up there. Or words to that effect.”

      He nodded. “So you did. So you did. What do you think’s up there?”

      “If I knew, would I have to go?” She shrugged.