Austin sat behind the pilot in the seat normally occupied by the supersonic plane’s weapons system operator. The plane made a circle over the British Air Force base near the old Roman city of Curium before it dropped out of the sky in a quick descent. As the jet’s landing gear thumped on the tarmac, Austin gazed out at the runway lights after the ninety-minute flight from England and wondered at how small the planet had become.
Hours earlier he had hitched a ride on a CIA helicopter to Albany. From there, an executive jet transported him to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, where the Blackbird was housed in a special hangar, and flown only at night.
The SR-71 had been developed as a long-range strategic reconnaissance aircraft that could fly at speeds of more than Mach 3.2 and reach an altitude of eighty-five thousand feet. The flattened fuselage, bluer than black, was more than one hundred feet long, excluding the five-foot-long nose probe. Two vertical stabilizers rose from the rear of the plane like twin shark fins. One of the 32,500-pound thrust engines could power an ocean liner.
Austin was given a high-protein meal of steak and eggs, a medical exam, and fitted out for a special suit similar to those used on the space shuttle. As he suited up, he breathed in pure oxygen to filter gases out of his body. A van took him to the barn where the plane was kept and he was buckled into a specially built passenger seat. The plane rendezvoused with a tanker seven minutes after taking off. Less than two hours later, it landed at a British RAF base in England.
Flagg had arranged for the fighter to transport Austin on the last leg of the trip because it would be less obvious than a U.S. Air Force plane in Cyprus, where the British had long maintained a military foothold.
A car drove out onto the tarmac and paced the fighter jet until it stopped. Three men dressed in black slacks, turtlenecks, and berets got out of the car to greet Austin as he climbed from the plane.
“Good evening, Mr. Austin,” said the group’s leader, a swarthy Greek American who identified himself as George. He said he had been brought in from Athens to rendezvous with agents from Cairo and Istanbul. A fourth man, who was attached to the American embassy in Nicosia, and was familiar with the island, had gone ahead to scout out the situation.
“Are you armed?” George said.
Austin patted a bulge in the front of his jacket. While Austin was flying to Maryland, Flagg had had someone from Langley pick up a change of clothes and the Bowen revolver from Austin’s boathouse and deliver it to Andrews.
George smiled. “I should have known better than to ask an ex–company man. But these might come in handy.” He handed Austin a pair of night vision goggles and a beret.
Austin was bundled into the Land Rover. An air force car escorted them to the exit, and a guard waved them through the gate. They traveled along a darkened highway at speeds of nearly a hundred miles an hour for a time before the driver braked and turned off onto a road that ascended into the mountains.
George handed Austin a satellite photo and a flashlight. The photo showed a perfectly square building whose remote mountain-top location was accessed by a single road.
George’s phone chirped. He listened for a few moments and clicked off. He turned to Austin. “A car and an ambulance just arrived at the castle.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” Austin said.
“Less than an hour. It’s slow going on these mountain roads.”
“This is a matter of life or death,” Austin said.
George nodded, and told the driver to pick up the pace. The car accelerated, and went through a series of g-force turns around the hairpin switchbacks.
As they neared their destination, George got a second call from his advance man. He had seen the car ascending the hill below and asked the driver to blink his headlights to identify himself. The driver hit the dimmer switch a couple of times. Seconds later, someone signaled with a flashlight from the side of the road.
The car pulled over and George rolled his window down. A man’s face was framed in the other car’s window.
“The road is about fifty yards ahead,” the man said.
“We’ll go on foot from here,” George said to the advance man. “You lead the way.”
Austin got out of the Land Rover and slipped his night vision goggles over his eyes. He and the others followed the advance man along the edge of the road in a distance-eating trot.
BALTAZAR CARRIED Carina up the stairs and lowered her onto the statue’s upraised arms.
The drugs that had kept her unconscious for hours were wearing off. She awakened with an oily smell in her nostrils. As her vision cleared, she saw the hideous bronze face of Ba’al. Her arms and legs were bound in bandages, but she was able to move her head. She craned her neck and saw Baltazar standing at the base of the statue.
“I’d advise you not to struggle, Sheba. You’re on a precarious perch.”
“I’m not Sheba, you demented fool. And I want you to let me go.”
“Your queenly haughtiness betrays you,” Baltazar said. “You are Sheba’s descendant. You have Sheba’s blood in your veins. You tempted me as your ancestor tempted Solomon. But Ba’al sent Austin to remind me of my family duty.”
“And you are a madman as well as a fool.”
“Perhaps,” Baltazar said.
He studied the elements of the scene like an artist contemplating a potential subject. He was reaching for a wall torch when he heard what sounded like gunfire.