LITMIR.BIZ

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standing were the computers she’d seen when she’d first entered the facility. She squinted at the equipment. The design was sleek and streamlined, obviously highly advanced models, but she’d used a variety of computers—both at the State Department and at the travel agency. Perhaps she could boot one of these. If it was connected to a modem, escape from this place could be as simple as a phone call.

      Sitting down in a gray contour chair, she stared at the machine. There was a flat, glassy-looking screen embedded in a raised panel, but no keyboard. Was the system voice activated?

      “Computer,” she called out the way the crew did on the starship Enterprise.

      Nothing happened, and she felt ridiculous. Maybe the keyboard would light up if she touched the desk.

      The moment her hand connected with the machine, a bolt of electricity shot from the surface. It crackled over her skin and zinged like a burst of lightning through her whole body, making her gasp in pain.

      Slumping in the chair, she cradled her hand against her chest. After several moments, she was left feeling weak and shaky. Holding out her hand, she stared from her reddened flesh to the desk and back again. So much for communicating with the outside world. She wasn’t going to risk a shock like that again.

      The hair on the top of her head prickled as if a secret door had opened to the underworld, and a cold breeze was blowing toward her. Until now, she’d thought of this installation as odd. Strange. A mystery as intriguing as its naked occupant. But the situation had taken another twist. She’d just learned that this hidden place was dangerous as well as strange. And perhaps deadly.

      * * *

      HALFWAY AROUND the world, Zeke Chambers leaned back in his rickety chair and finished the last of the strong, sweet coffee. His gray eyes scanned the view of unspoiled mountains against a crystal blue sky. The peaceful scene was deceiving. Yesterday at sunset, a small homemade bomb had ripped through the entrance to the cave his international team was excavating, turning the orderly dig site into chaos. Luckily, no one had died, and the structural damage was minimal. But two workers had been sent to the local physician, and the team’s schedule was set back several days until the debris could be cleared.

      Like the rest of his colleagues, Zeke had a tent at the site. But last night he’d slept in a real—if somewhat lumpy—bed in the village inn and treated himself to a hot shower. From his table at an outdoor café, he could see men and women making their way with carts and baskets to the market down the street where horse-drawn wagons full of vegetables and wares competed with small European cars for the parking spots along the main street. Had one of the innocent-looking villagers been responsible for the bombing? And why?

      Zeke sighed. When Victor Kirkland at the State Department had helped him get this “plum assignment,” the man had neglected to mention it might also be dangerous.

      “Zesto café?” a young waitress interrupted his thoughts.

      “No, I’m fine,” he answered in her language.

      Zeke popped a last bite of nut-and-cinnamon pastry into his mouth and wiped his sticky fingers on a cloth napkin before turning back to his laptop computer.

      He could afford his own top-of-the-line equipment. In fact, the trust fund he’d come into three years ago when he’d turned thirty provided enough income for him to take any job he wanted—or not work at all if he chose. After an extended sabbatical last year, he’d found he was as happy backpacking through Europe as teaching anthropological linguistics at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore.

      With the hunt-and-peck style he’d developed to accommodate the dozens of foreign-language keyboards and word-processing programs he had to use, Zeke keyed in a few more lines to his log entry from the day before.

      “Explosion at cave site under investigation. Could be local protestors who think we’re going to cart off their national treasures. Or grave robbers trying to beat us to the punch. Should resume work by tomorrow afternoon.”

      “Good morning, Professor Chambers. May I join you?” a deferential voice inquired.

      Zeke glanced up to see Dr. Feydor Lenov standing beside the table. The bearded Russian archeologist, a late addition to the team, had flown in several days before.

      “Have a seat.” Zeke saved his file, then popped the black disk from the laptop onto the tablecloth.

      The Russian heaved his considerable bulk into a chair, and Zeke waited to see if it would take his weight. It did. He’d heard the man had been a competitive weight lifter in his youth.

      After ordering coffee, Lenov leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Heard anything more about the bombing?”

      “Not much, except we can get back to work tomorrow.”

      “Well, I should hope so. I didn’t come here to twiddle my thumbs. Montague will be hopping mad about the delay.”

      Zeke raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met our sponsor?”

      “Once, several years ago at an exhibit in Paris, we exchanged a few words. He likes antiquities better than people.” Lenov’s accent sounded midwestern.

      Zeke wondered if he’d learned his English in the States or in a KGB training class. “Looking for something particular at the site?”

      The Russian’s answer was drowned out by the sound of an altercation at a neighboring table. Scraping his chair on the stone floor, he moved closer to Zeke and away from the ruckus.

      The men who’d been arguing suddenly began trading punches. A table overturned, and customers scattered like frightened mice. Zeke grabbed his computer and jumped out of the way. For a large man, Lenov moved just as fast, dodging as one of the combatants fell across their table. With an angry look, the fighter pulled himself up. But his assailant had hightailed it down the street. Shouting insults, the injured party followed.

      Zeke shook his head. His wonder at the volatile local temperament turned to paranoia as he righted the table and searched the floor. His disk had vanished.

      * * *

      AS CASSIE CRADLED her injured hand in her lap, she swiveled her chair toward the door where she’d entered. It was still wide open. For a wild moment she pictured herself dashing down the tunnel and into the cave of snow. She wanted to get away from this place. More than that, she wanted to get away from the man sleeping on the floor before he woke up and something else happened.

      What?

      She’d never felt so off balance. Or so open to possibilities. The combination left her feeling breathless. Yet escape was not an option. She’d simply be right back where she’d started a few hours ago. Trapped under an avalanche.

      So whether she liked it or not, she was going to have to stay here and cope. With the mysterious environment. With its even more mysterious occupant. Thorn.

      Cassie licked her dry lips. Was he the enemy?

      All at once she remembered a weird situation she’d walked into back in college. She’d been in the almost-empty library during Christmas vacation because she was trying to get an extra-credit paper finished. Two male students had come up to the soda machine while she was taking a break. One was wearing scruffy jeans and a T-shirt with holes. The other sported an expensive sweater and stone-washed Calvins.

      After they left, a guy who’d been watching from the corner sidled up and started asking a bunch of questions about which of the previous pair she thought was more likely to succeed in college.

      She’d thought the questions odd and started to leave. He’d begged her to help him out because he was doing an experiment for a psychology class on women’s expectations of men based on their clothing. Cassie had gotten away as quickly as she could.

      In a lot of ways, this setup felt similar. She could almost imagine a team of scientists watching the action on television and scoring her responses on a scale from one to ten. How would she react to the naked man? What would she do when she discovered they

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