The Devil Colony by James Rollins Page B

immediately after you landed.”
    “Give me the number.”
    She did, but she had more news. “Commander Pierce also reported in.” From the grimness of her tone, it didn’t sound like good news. “He’s with Seichan.”
    Painter’s fingers tightened on the phone. “She’s back in the U.S.?”
    “Seems so.”
    Painter closed his eyes for a breath. He’d had no inkling that Seichan was back on American soil. But with her training and connections, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, her sudden resurfacing suggested something major was afoot. “What’s wrong?”
    “She claims to have a lead on Echelon.”
    “What sort of lead?” He sat straighter in his seat as Kowalski kept the SUV idling. Echelon was the code name for the leaders of the shadowy terrorist organization called the Guild. He began to regret leaving D.C.
    “Gray didn’t elaborate. Only said that she needed his help to gain access to the National Archives. They’re meeting with a museum curator this evening.”
    Painter scrunched his brow. Why was Seichan sniffing around the National Archives? The museum was a storehouse of America’s historical manuscripts and documents. What could any of its contents have to do with the Guild? He checked his watch. It was half past nine, which meant it was after midnight in D.C. Late to be meeting with museum personnel.
    “Gray said he’d call back if there was any breakthrough. I’ll keep you informed.”
    “Do that. I’ll see if I can’t clear up this matter with my niece, then return to D.C. in the morning. Till then, keep holding down the fort.”
    Kat signed off, and Painter tapped in the phone number he’d memorized. It was answered on the first ring by a rushed voice.
    “Uncle Crowe?”
    “Kai, where are you?”
    A silent moment stretched. He heard a gruff voice in the background, urging her to answer.
    Still, her words came haltingly, balanced between tears and terror. “I’m . . . we’re in Provo. On the campus of Brigham Young University. At the offices of Professor Henry Kanosh.”
    Painter squinted his eyes. Why did that name sound familiar? Then he remembered a report he’d read while en route from D.C. to Salt Lake City, a preliminary debriefing of the events up in the mountains. The professor had been a close associate of the anthropologist killed by the blast.
    She gave him an office address, still sounding terrified.
    He did his best to reassure her. “I can be in Provo in an hour.” Painter waved for Kowalski to head out of the airport. “Stay put until I get there.”
    A new speaker replaced Kai on the phone. “Mr. Crowe, this is Hank Kanosh. You don’t know me.”
    “You were a colleague of Margaret Grantham. You were at the site during the explosion.” Painter shifted his briefcase up from the floorboard to his lap. He had a preliminary file on the man, along with files on many others who had witnessed the blast.
    A pause indicated the professor’s surprise at his knowledge, but the hitch in his voice suggested the hesitation was more than just surprise. “Maggie . . . she preferred to be called Maggie.”
    Painter softened his voice. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    “I appreciate that, but you should know that your niece and I were attacked while escaping from the mountains. A helicopter bearing National Guard markings fired upon us.”
    “What?” He had heard no report from Kat about a sighting of the supposed terrorist, let alone someone shooting at her.
    “But I don’t think they were actually with the National Guard. They seemed more like a mercenary group, maybe bounty hunters who had access to a Guard chopper.”
    Painter wasn’t buying that explanation, especially since the sighting and shooting hadn’t been called in through proper channels. Someone else had tried to apprehend or eliminate the supposed terrorist. This raised a new fear. “Professor Kanosh, could you have been recognized by those hunters?”
    Uncertainty wavered in his voice.