Excavation by James Rollins Page A

least get started—then when help arrives you can move quickly. I don’t know how long the air will hold out down here.”
    Philip nodded, even though Sam could not see. His mind dwelt on other concerns—like his own safety. “But whatabout Gil?” he asked.
    â€œWhat about him?” Sam’s voice had a trace of irritation.
    â€œHe’s surely long gone.”
    â€œBut what if he comes back?”
    Again a long pause. “You’re right. If he blew the place and sabotaged the communications, he must be planning to return. You’d better post guards, too.”
    Philip swallowed hard as the growing danger he faced dawned on him. What if Gil returned with more bandits? They had only a few hunting rifles and a handful of machetes. They would be sitting ducks for any marauders. Philip glanced to the single Quechan Indian who still held the flashlight at the tent’s entrance. And who among these swarthy-skinned foreigners could he trust?
    A squelch of static drew Philip’s attention back to the radio. “I’m gonna sign off now, Philip. I have to conserve this walkie-talkie’s battery. I’ll check back with you after sunrise to get an update on how things look from above. Okay?”
    Philip held the receiver with a hand that now shook slightly. “Okay. I’ll try to reach you at six.”
    â€œWe’ll be here. Over and out.”
    Philip settled the receiver back to the radio unit and stood up. From outside the tent, the worst of the commotion from the riled camp seemed to have died down. Philip crossed to the tent’s flap and stood beside the small Quechan Indian.
    Barefoot, wearing only his robe, Philip stared out at the black jungle and the smoking ruins. The chill of the night had settled deep into his bones. He hugged the robe tight to his frame. Deep in his heart, a part of him wished he had been trapped down in the temple with the others.
    At least he wouldn’t be so alone.

Day Two
Janan Pacha
    Â 
Tuesday, August 21, 7:12 A.M.
Regency Hotel
Baltimore, Maryland
    As early-morning sunlight pierced the gaps in the heavy hotel curtains, Henry sat at the small walnut desk and stared at the row of artifacts he had recovered from the mummy: A silver ring, a scrap of faded illegible parchment, two Spanish coins, a ceremonial silver dagger, and the heavy Dominican cross. Henry sensed that clues to the priest’s fate were locked in these few items, like a stubborn jigsaw puzzle. If only he could put it all together…
    Shaking his head, Henry stretched a crick from his back and rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. He must look a mess. He still wore his wrinkled grey suit, though he had tossed the jacket on the rumpled bed. He had been up all night studying the items, managing only a short catnap around midnight. The artifacts kept drawing him back to the hotel-room desk and the array of books and periodicals he had borrowed from the library at Johns Hopkins. Henry simply could not quit working at the puzzle, especially after his first discovery.
    He picked up the friar’s silver ring for the thousandth time. Earlier, he had gently rubbed the tarnish from its surfaceand uncovered faint lettering around a central heraldic icon. Henry raised his magnifying lens and read the name on the ring: “ de Almagro .” The surname of the Dominican friar. Just this one piece to the puzzle brought the man to life in Henry’s mind. He was no longer just a mummy . With a name, he had become flesh and blood again. Someone with a history, a past, even a family. So much power in just a name.
    Laying the magnifier down, Henry retrieved his pen and began adding final details to his sketch of the ring’s symbol. A part of it was clearly a family crest—surely the de Almagro coat of arms—but a second image was incorporated around the family heraldry: a crucifix with a set of crossed sabers above it. The symbol was vaguely familiar,