“There is much that we still don’t know about our own people,” he said, and glanced back. “Are you familiar with the prehistoric Indian mounds found throughout the Midwest — stretching from sites around the Great Lakes to the swamps of Louisiana?”
She shrugged.
“Some mounds date back six thousand years. Even tribes living in the area when Europeans arrived had no memories of those ancient mound builders. That is our heritage. One big mystery.”
He reached the far wall, where some prehistoric artist had painted a trio of tall, skeletal figures in crimson pigments against the yellow sandstone. He lifted a hand over the ancient artwork.
“You’ll find petroglyphs like this throughout the area. Some archaeologists have dated the oldest images here at eight thousand years old. And those are relatively new compared to the Coso Petroglyphs above China Lake’s salt beds. Those go back sixteen thousand years, to the end of the last Ice Age, when the continent was still roamed by mammoths, saber-toothed cats, and monstrous Pleistocene bison.” He turned to Kai. “That is how far back our history goes, with so little known.”
He allowed the weight of ages to press down on her young shoulders before continuing. “Even the number of people who lived here has been vastly underestimated. Newest studies from the chemical composition of stalagmites, and the depth and breadth of charcoal deposits found throughout North America, put modern estimates of Native American populations at well over a hundred million. That’s more people than were living in Europe when Christopher Columbus set foot in this New World.”
Her eyes shone large in the shadowy space. “Then what happened to them all?”
He waved to encompass the ruins as he led the way back out. “After the Europeans arrived, infectious diseases like smallpox spread faster across the continent than the colonists, leading to the impression of a sparsely populated American wilderness. But that is a false history, much like the rest of it.”
Kai joined him back on the rocky outcropping, along with Kawtch, who had his nose in the air. She wore a thoughtful expression as she stared out. The skies had shed the rose of dawn for the deeper blue of morning.
“So I get your point,” she said. “We can’t truly know ourselves until we know our own history.”
He looked to her, sizing her up anew. She was far sharper than she let on — proving it again when she turned to him to ask, “But you never did say how the Book of Mormon offered insight into our history.”
Before Hank could answer, Kawtch let out a low growl of warning. His nose was still in the air, sniffing. They both turned to the northeast, to where Kawtch’s nose was pointing. The skies, lighter now, revealed a churning black smudge at the horizon, like thunderclouds stacking up toward a gully-washing storm.
“Smoke,” he mumbled.
And a lot of it.
“A forest fire?” Kai asked.
“I don’t think so.” His heart thudded with a growing sense of dread. “We should head back down.”
Rafael Saint Germaine sat enjoying a tiny porcelain cup of espresso in the mansion’s massive and extravagant kitchen. The absurdity of the room amused him. What the Americans considered to be the epitome of class struck him as ridiculous, living in homes of cheap modern construction, decorated to evoke faux — Old World charm. His family’s château in Carcassonne dated back to the sixteenth century, surrounded by fortified walls atop which battles had been fought that changed the course of Western civilization.
That was the true mark of aristocracy.
He stared out the kitchen windows and across the sprawling lawns to the helicopter as a crew prepped it for departure. Across the table were reams of biographical data. He’d read them with his breakfast and saw no need to peruse them again. He could recite most of the details by rote.
On the top of the stack rested the photograph of the man who had thwarted his actions at the university last night. It had taken only a short time to put a name to the face. It ended up being someone well known to his organization. If the photo hadn’t been so grainy and shadowy, he wouldn’t have needed the facial-recognition software to identify him.
He whispered the name of his adversary, “Painter Crowe.” The director of Sigma. He shook his head — both dismayed and amused — and stared down at the photo. “What are you doing out of your hole in D.C.?”
Rafe had not anticipated that Sigma would be so quick to respond to the events that had occurred here. It was an underestimation he intended not to repeat. But such a miscalculation was not entirely his fault. It had taken much longer to connect the pieces together. Their target — the lithe thief with such sticky fingers — was indirectly related to Crowe, sharing the same tribal clan. She must have called upon family ties to enlist his aid.
It was an interesting development. He spent the rest of the night, except for a short nap, incorporating this new variable into his equations and running various permutations through his head. How best to play this out? How to turn this to his advantage?
It had taken until this morning to tease out a solution.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway, passing through the butler’s pantry to reach him. “Sir. We’re ready to depart.”
“Merci, Bern.” Rafe tapped his Patek Philippe wristwatch. The timepiece included a tourbillon movement, the French word for “whirlwind.” That’s what they needed to be this morning. “We’re running late.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll make up time in the air.”
“Very well.”
Rafe took one last sip of his espresso. He pursed his lips at the taste. It had gone lukewarm, bringing out a sharp bitterness. It was a shame, as the discovery of the coffee beans here, an expensive import from Panama, had been a pleasant surprise. He had to give the owners of this monstrosity some points for taste, if only for their beans.
He stood up, feeling generous.
“Is Ashanda still with the boy?” he asked Bern.
“They’re in the library.”
This elicited a smile. Without a tongue, she certainly wasn’t reading the child a story.
“What do you want me to do with the boy after you leave?” Bern’s manner stiffened, perhaps knowing what the answer must be.
Rafe waved an arm dismissively. “Leave him here. Unharmed.”
Bern’s brows lifted ever so slightly. For the stoic man, it was the equivalent of a gasp of surprise.
Rafe turned away. Sometimes it was good to act unpredictably, to keep your subordinates on their toes. Using his cane, he crossed through the house to collect Ashanda. The library was a two-story affair, filled with leather-bound books that were likely never read, only showcased as ostentatiously as everything else in the home.
He found Ashanda seated in a plush wingback chair. The child was asleep in her arms as she gently brushed her long, impossibly strong fingers through his blond curls. She hummed tunelessly deep in her chest. It was a comforting sound to Rafe, as familiar as his mother’s voice. He smiled, drawn momentarily into the past, to happy summer nights, sleeping on the balcony under the stars, warmed by the presence of Ashanda next to him in a nest of blankets. He’d often heard her hum like that, holding him as he recovered from some break in his brittle bones. It was a balm that soothed most aches, even the grief of a child.
He hated to disturb her, but they had a schedule. “Ashanda, ma grande, we must depart.”
She bowed her head, acknowledging the command. She rose smoothly, turned, and gently placed the boy onto the warm cushion, curling him into place. Only then did Rafe notice the bruising around the boy’s thin throat, the odd canting of his neck. He had not been asleep after all.