wasn’t about to get crosswise of Egypt’s stringent antiquities laws. Their tour group leader had cautioned them repeatedly about picking anything up at the pyramids or purchasing “stolen treasures” from supposed grave robbers.
And she was in the City of the Dead, with Saladin’s massive fortress and the great mosque of Mohammed Ali looming above the jumble of tombs. The scarab Jaci had dug out of the dirt looked and felt like a modern-day, mass-produced version, but it wouldn’t hurt to get the opinion of someone more knowledgeable about these things.
The tour leader had moved ahead, guiding her flock to the next intricately carved tomb, but the Uzi-toting guard who’d accompanied the group from the moment they’d boarded their bus was only a few paces behind.
“Hanif?”
“Yes, miss?”
“I found this buried in the dirt.” Jaci uncurled her palm to reveal the little green beetle. “Do you think it’s of any value?”
The curly haired Egyptian gave it a casual glance. Then he frowned and looked more closely.
“You found this?” he said slowly. “Here?”
“Yes.”
When he took the scarab and turned it over, the crease between his dark brows deepened. The guard studied the markings for so long that Jaci was convinced she would have to forfeit her find.
“This is …”
He stopped, shook his head and dropped the beetle into her palm.
“This is nothing to worry you, miss. You may keep it.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to get thrown in jail for pilfering an antiquity.”
“No, no. Trust me, miss. You found it. It is yours. You must keep it with you.”
“Well …”
“Jaci!”
Susan Grimes beckoned urgently from the entrance to a narrow alley lined with tilting monuments.
“Stay with the group, dear, or you’ll get lost among all these tombs.”
Chapter 1
A frigid November breeze rattled the branches of the chestnut trees lining a quiet street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of D.C.’s embassy district. It was late, well past midnight. The windows of the brick, Federal-style town house halfway down the street was shuttered and dark.
As far as most of the world knew, the elegant town house served as home to the offices of the president’s special envoy. Only a handful of insiders were aware that the person appointed to the job of special envoy also served as director of OMEGA, an agency so secret that its operatives were activated only at the direction of the president.
One of those agents had just reported to the high-tech Control Center, which was tucked behind impenetrable walls on the third floor of the town house. An urgent phone call from OMEGA’s director had yanked him out of the arms of the very accommodating flight attendant he’d bumped into at D.C.’s Reagan National Airport earlier that evening.
Deke Griffin, code name Ace, was no stranger to airports. Or flight attendants. A former air force fighter pilot, he’d ruptured a blood vessel in his eye when he’d had to eject during the first Gulf War. The injury meant he couldn’t pull G’s or fly high-performance jets any longer. But he could still fly the big heavies, which he did until he left the military to head his own aeronautical consulting service. Ace now jetted all over the world to advise developing countries on air safety.
The nomadic lifestyle suited him. As an added benefit, it provided a perfect cover for his covert OMEGA missions. He’d performed a good number of them over the years, but this one looked to be a real bitch. The political ramifications alone had Ace staring at his boss.
“Did I hear right?” he drawled in the West Texas twang that slipped into his voice at unguarded moments. “You’re tellin’ me we have an American tourist on the loose in Cairo.”
“Supposed American tourist.”
“… Who may be the focus of a small but fanatic religious sect determined to oust the current Egyptian president by any means possible?”
“You heard right.”
Nick Jensen, code name Lightning, shoved a hand through his sun-streaked hair. Usually so urbane in Brioni suits and Italian silk ties, he’d pulled on well-worn jeans and a warm turtleneck for this hurried trip to the Control Center. Like Ace, he’d been yanked out of bed by a phone call, this one from the president himself.
Ace knew Lightning had been thinking about turning over the reins of OMEGA so he could devote more time to his wife and young twins. Everyone at the agency hoped that day wouldn’t come soon. Lightning didn’t look anywhere close to retirement tonight, however. His jaw tight, he’d focused his formidable energy on the American tourist at the center of what could be a diplomatic nightmare for the United States. A quick click of a mouse brought up her passport photo on the Control Center’s wall-size screen.
“Her name’s Jacqueline Marie Thornton,” Lightning related tersely. “Goes by Jaci. Age, twenty-nine. Marital status, single. Residence, Gainesville, Florida. Occupation, assistant research librarian at the University of Florida.”
Ace leaned forward, his gaze intent. The woman in the photo hardly looked like a radical subversive out to overthrow a government. Her soft brown hair just brushed her shoulders. Her green eyes stared straight at the camera. A tentative half smile curved her full lips.
But Ace knew all too well that appearances could be very deceptive. He’d been burned once by a sweet young thing who promised more than she’d ever intended to give. He’d ended up having to face down two very angry fathers—hers and his own. He’d only been eighteen at the time, but the lesson he’d learned from that fiasco had seriously impacted his outlook on relationships with the opposite sex.
As a result, Ace now confined his extracurricular activities to females who played the game by the same rules he did. No starry-eyed romantics for him. No nesters itching for hearth and home. Just savvy, fun-loving women looking for nothing more than a few hours of companionship. Ace couldn’t help wonder what category Jacqueline Thornton fell into.
“She arrived in Cairo yesterday morning and joined a group of fellow travelers at the airport, all part of a tour organized by the University of Florida for alums and employees,” Lightning continued. “Eight days and nights exploring the mysteries of Egypt’s past.”
“How many of those days will the group be in Cairo?”
“Four more, including today. That should be enough time for you to get close to her and find out what she’s up to. I’m thinking it won’t hurt for you to tap into the resources of your friend, Colonel El Hassan.”
Ace nodded. He’d known from the moment his boss mentioned Egypt why he’d been tagged for this op. He and Kahil El Hassan had gone through undergraduate pilot training together at Vance Air Force Base in Oklahoma. With little else to do in their off-duty hours, the two bachelors had cut a wide swath through the adjacent town’s
