Painter headed inside. He approached the counterperson, a blond-haired Englishman by the name of Axe who wore a T-shirt that read FREE WINONA, and gave him his credit card number and expiration date.
“You have that memorized,” Omaha asked.
“You never know when you’re going to be attacked by pirates at sea.”
As the man ran the number, Omaha asked, “I thought you wanted to keep a low profile. Won’t using your credit card give away that you’re still alive?”
“I don’t think it really matters anymore.”
The electronic credit card machine chimed. The man gave him a thumbs-up. “How much time do you want?”
“Is it a highspeed connection?”
“DSL, mate. No other way to surf.”
“Thirty minutes should be enough.”
“Brilliant. Machine in the corner is free.”
Painter led Omaha over to the computer, a Gateway Pentium 4. Painter sat down, accessed the Internet connection, and typed in a long IP address.
“I’m accessing a Department of Defense’s server,” he explained.
“How is that going to help find Safia?”
He continued typing, fingers flying, screens flashed, refreshed, disappeared, changed. “Through the DOD, I can gain access to most proprietary systems under the National Security Act. Here we go.”
On the screen appeared a page with the Mitsubishi logo.
Omaha read over his shoulder. “Shopping for a new car?”
Painter used the mouse to maneuver through the site. He seemed to have full access, flashing past password-encrypted screens. “Cassandra’s group was traveling in SUVs. Mitsubishis. They did not make much effort to hide their backup vehicles. It didn’t take much to get close enough to read the VIN number off one in the alley.”
“VIN? The Vehicle Identification Number?”
Painter nodded. “All cars or trucks with GPS navigation systems are in constant contact with the orbiting satellites, keeping track of their location, allowing the driver to know where he is at all times.”
Omaha began to understand. “And if you have the VIN number, you can access the vehicle’s data remotely. Find out where they are.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
A screen appeared, asking for the VIN number. Painter typed it in, not looking at his fingers. He pressed the enter button, then leaned back. His hand had a slight shake in it. He clenched a fist in an attempt to hide it.
Omaha could read his mind. Had he remembered the number correctly? What if the kidnappers had disabled the GPS? So many things could go wrong.
But after a long moment, a digital map of Oman appeared, fed from a pair of geosynchronous satellites orbiting far above. A small box scrolled a series of longitude and latitude designation. The moving location of the SUV.
Painter sighed with relief. Omaha echoed it.
“If we could find where they were holding Safia…”
Painter clicked the zoom feature and zeroed in on the map. The city of Salalah appeared. But the tiny blue arrow marking the truck’s location was beyond its borders, heading deeper inland.
Painter leaned closer. “No…”
“Goddamnit. They’re leaving the city!”
“They must’ve found something at that tomb.”
Omaha swung away. “Then we have to go. Now!”
“We don’t know where they’re going,” Painter said, remaining at the computer. “I have to track them. Until they stop.”
“There is only one highway. The one they’re on. We can catch up.”
“We don’t know if they’ll go overland. They were in four-wheel-drives.”
Omaha felt pulled in two different directions: to listen to Painter’s practical advice, or to steal the first vehicle he could find and race after Safia. But what would he do if he reached her? How could he help her?
Painter grabbed his arm. Omaha balled a fist with the other.
Painter stared hard at him. “I need you to think, Dr. Dunn. Why would they be leaving the city? Where could they be going?”
“How the hell should—”
Painter squeezed his arm. “You’re as much an expert in this region as Safia. You know what road they’re taking, what lies along the way. Is there anything out there that the tomb here in Salalah might point toward?”
He shook his head, refusing to answer. They were wasting time.
“Goddamnit, Omaha! For once in your life, stop reacting and think!”
Omaha yanked his arm away. “Fuck you!” But he didn’t leave. He remained trembling in place.
“What is out there? Where are they going?”
Omaha glanced over to the screen, unable to face Painter, afraid he’d blacken the man’s other eye. He considered the question, the puzzle. He stared at the blue arrow as it wound away from town, up into the foothills.
What had Safia discovered? Where were they headed?
He ran through all the archaeological possibilities, all the sites peppered across the ancient land: shrines, cemeteries, ruins, caves, sinkholes. There were too many. Turn over any stone here and you discover a piece of history.
But then he had an idea. There was a major tomb near that highway, just a few miles off the road.
Omaha moved back to the computer. He watched the blue arrow coursing along the road. “There’s a turnoff about fifteen miles up the highway. If they take that turn, I know where they’re headed.”
“That’ll mean waiting a bit more,” Painter said.
Omaha crouched by the computer. “It seems we have no choice.”
5:32 P.M.
P AINTER BOUGHT time on another computer. He left Omaha to monitor the SUV’s progress. If they could get a lead on where Cassandra was headed with Safia, they could get a head start. It was a slim hope.
Alone with his computer, Painter again accessed the DOD server. There was no reason to feign death any longer. He’d left enough of an electronic trail. Besides, considering the elaborate trap at the safe house, Cassandra knew he was alive…or at least, she was acting that way.
That was one of the reasons he needed to log back onto the DOD site.
He entered his private pass code and accessed his mail system. He typed in the address for his superior, Dr. Sean McKnight, head of Sigma. If there was anyone he trusted, it was Sean. He needed to apprise his commander of the events, let him know the status of the operation.
An e-mail window opened, and he typed rapidly, relating a thumbnail sketch of events. He stressed the role of Cassandra, the possibility of a mole in the organization. There was no way Cassandra could have known about the safe house, the electronic code for the equipment locker, without some inside information.