Henry nodded to the two men. “Sirs, I’ve rung for a maid to help Mistress al-Maaz dress and gather her things. If you would be so kind…” He nodded toward the door, dismissing them.
Painter stepped closer to Safia. “Are you sure you’re okay to travel?”
She nodded, an effort. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”
“Just the same. I’ll wait outside in the hall for you.”
This earned him the smallest smile. He found himself matching it.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
He turned. “I know, but I’ll be there anyway.”
Painter found Omaha studying him, his eyes slightly more narrowed than a moment before. The man’s expression was tight. He was clearly suspicious, but also a trace of anger lay under the surface.
As Painter crossed toward the door, Omaha made no room to allow him to pass. He had to turn sideways to get by.
As he did so, Omaha addressed Safia. “You did good in there, babe.”
“It was just a snake,” she answered, standing to accept the clothes from the butler. “And I have a lot to do before we leave.”
Omaha sighed. “All right. I hear you.” He followed Painter out the door.
The others had all cleared, leaving the hallway empty.
Painter moved to take a post beside the door. Omaha started to march past him, but Painter cleared his throat. “Dr. Dunn…”
The archaeologist stopped, glancing sidelong at him.
“That snake,” Painter said, following a thread left untied earlier. “You said you thought it came from outside. Why?”
Omaha shrugged, stepping back a bit. “Can’t say for sure. But carpet vipers like the afternoon sun, especially when shedding. So I can’t imagine it was holed up in there all day.”
Painter stared over at the closed door. Safia’s room had an eastern exposure. Morning sunlight only. If the archaeologist was correct, the snake would’ve had to travel a long way from a sunny roost to the tub.
Omaha read his thoughts. “You don’t think someone put it there?”
“Maybe I’m just being too paranoid. But didn’t some militant group once try to kill Safia?”
The man scowled, an expression worn into the lines of his face. “That was five years ago. Way up in Tel Aviv. Besides, if someone planted that snake, it couldn’t have been those bastards.”
“Why’s that?”
Omaha shook his head. “The extremist group was rooted out by Israeli commandos a year later. Wiped out, actually.”
Painter knew the details. It was Dr. Dunn who had helped the Israelis hunt the extremists down, using his contacts in the area.
Omaha mumbled, more to himself than Painter, a bitter tone. “Afterward, I thought Safia would be relieved…would return here…”
It’s not that easy, guy. Painter already had a good fix on Omaha. The man tackled problems head-on, bulled through them without looking back. It wasn’t what Safia needed. He doubted Omaha would ever understand. Still, Painter sensed a well of loss in the man, one that had been filled by the sand of passing years. So he tried to help. “Trauma like that is not overcome by—”
Omaha cut him off sharply. “Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Thanks, but you’re not my goddamn therapist. Or hers.” He stalked off down the hall, calling back derisively, “And sometimes, doc, a snake is just a snake.”
Painter sighed.
A figure moved from the shadows of a neighboring archway. It was Coral Novak. “That man has issues.”
“Don’t we all.”
“I overheard your conversation,” she said. “Were you just chatting with him, or do you really think another party is involved?”
“There’s definitely someone stirring the pot.”
“Cassandra?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, some unknown variable.”
Coral scowled, which consisted of the barest downturn of the corner of her lips. “That’s not good.”
“No…no, it’s not.”
“And this curator,” Coral persisted, nodding to the door. “You’ve really got the role of the attentive civilian scientist down pat.”
Painter sensed a subtle warning in her voice, a cloaked concern that he might be crossing the line between professionalism and something more personal.
Coral continued, “If there’s another party sniffing around, shouldn’t we be searching the grounds for evidence?”
“Definitely. That’s why you’re going out there now.”
Coral raised an eyebrow.
“I have a door to guard,” he said, answering her unspoken question.
“I understand.” Coral began to turn away. “But are you staying here to safeguard the woman or the mission?”
Painter let command harden his voice. “In this particular case, they’re one and the same.”
11:35 P.M.
S AFIA STARED out at the passing scenery. The two tablets of diazepam kept her head muzzy. Lights from passing streetlamps were phosphorous blurs, smudges of light across the midnight landscape. The buildings were all dark. But ahead, a blaze of light marked the port of Muscat. The commercial harbor was active twenty-four hours a day, kept bright with floodlights and sodium-lit warehouses.
As they rounded a tight turn, the harbor came into view. The bay was mostly empty, most of the oil barges and container ships having docked before sunset. During the night, their cargo would be off-loaded and reloaded. Even now, H-cranes and trundling train-car-size containers swung through the air, like giant toy blocks. Farther out, near the horizon, a behemoth of a cruise liner floated on the dark waters like some candlelit birthday cake, backdropped against a spray of stars.
The limo aimed away from the commotion toward the far side of the harbor, where the more traditional dhow sailing vessels of Arabia stood docked. For thousands of years, Omanis had plied the seas, from Africa to India. The dhows were simple wooden-planked shells with a distinctive triangular sail. They varied in size from the shallow draft of the badan form to the deep-sea baghlah. The proud array of old ships lined the far harbor, stacked close together, sails furled, masts poking high amid tangles of ropes.
“We’re almost there,” Kara mumbled to Safia from the other side of the limo. The only other occupant, besides the driver and a bodyguard, was Safia’s student, Clay Bishop. He snorted a bit when Kara spoke, half drowsing.
Behind them trailed the other limo with all the Americans: Painter and his partner, Omaha and his brother.