Tele-freaking-ported, geezus. What in the hell was this man’s army coming to, Buck wondered, when teleportation became an officially acceptable designation for theft? The quacks over at the DIA must have pulled strings from here to Langley and back to get this landed on his desk, because if there was one thing he’d learned in his fifty-four years, it was that things didn’t simply disappear-not without somebody’s hot little hands on them. If Suzi could find the object, Dylan and Hawkins would damn well find those hands. Then, whoever had screwed up over at the DIA would find themselves “teleported” into the psychic unemployment line.

“I’ll do my best, Buck,” the beauty across from him said, turning her attention to the folder and opening it.

One perfect auburn eyebrow arched again, and yeah, he understood. The DIA’s hootchie-kootchie was a weird-looking thing, spooky, and that from a guy who didn’t spook, easily or otherwise.

“It’s called-” he started to say.

“The Memphis Sphinx,” she finished for him, her voice slightly confused, her gaze fixed on the first-page photo. “What the hell, Buck. This is the Maned Sphinx of Sesostris III, Twelfth Dynasty, Middle Kingdom, supposedly found by Carter in the Valley of the Kings during the excavation of King Tutankhamen’s tomb, though some accounts have it recovered much earlier and from either Memphis or Tanis.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “This is a photograph.”

Obviously, he thought, and a damn fine one, full color, with good lighting to reveal every detail of the thing.

“So you’re familiar with the object,” he said.

“No,” she corrected him, shaking her head, her attention shifting back to the open folder, her brow furrowed. “I’m familiar with the rumor of the object, the myth of the object, and the stories, most notably of the Theban dynasty using it to expel the Hyksos from Egypt at the beginning of the New Kingdom, and the twelfth-century slave kings of Delhi subjugating the people of northwest India with its powers. In this century, it was supposedly in the hands of the Nazis, who apparently had quite a bit of trouble controlling the forces they unleashed, but this…this is a photograph of an actual statue, a sphinx of about the right size, five by five by seven inches, sculpted out of black granite with a gold death mask, a gold and lapis lazuli lion’s mane in place of a royal headdress, and clear crystalline quartz eyes, which fits every description I’ve ever come across of the Memphis Sphinx, and in my business, a person comes across quite a few. There are people who would kill for this thing, Buck.”

There usually were in their business, but that was no reason to back off, ever. Suzi had been playing with the big boys since he’d first sent her into Eastern Europe.

“So you’ve never actually seen it?” he asked.

She gave him a brief glance before rising to her feet and moving a step closer to his desk.

“No one has,” she said, leaning forward and holding the photograph under the desk lamp, letting the light fall on it. “Not ever, not publicly. It’s a legend, four thousand years’ worth of hearsay, a rumor, but a damned persistent rumor. No one has ever published a paper on it. It’s never been exhibited, or documented, or authenticated, or anything. The only proof of its existence was a drawing reportedly from Howard Carter’s notebook, along with a few notes on its supposed powers.” She turned the photograph this way and that under the light.

“So maybe this one is a fake?” he suggested. And that would certainly solve his problem of finding it. He could just have the whole mess couriered back to the DIA. Except, of course, however unorthodox the mission felt to him, the DIA was a damned serious piece of business. If they wanted him to find the thing, it didn’t matter if the Sphinx was a fake or not. And honestly, if anyone could have come up with a four-thousand-year-old Egyptian statue with magical powers, it would have been the Defense Intelligence Agency of the United States of America.

“I doubt if the folks over at the DIA would get this excited about a fake,” she said, echoing his sentiments. “But I’d have to see it to know. Check with some people, have them run some tests.” She bent further over the photograph, and Buck just completely ignored what that did to his view of her cleavage.

Just completely ignored it.

Completely.

“Good Lord, Buck,” she murmured, her gaze going over the picture. “The Memphis Sphinx, the Maned Sphinx of Sesostris III.” She gave her head another small, disbelieving shake. “How long has our government had it?”

“I don’t know, but they lost it four months ago, and they’re damned serious about getting it back.”

She nodded. “I would be, too. This looks good. Real good. But I’d have to get my hands on it to know for sure.”

“Your job isn’t to get your hands on it. If you can confirm the object’s location, your government will be grateful.”

“To the tune of?” She glanced up from the photograph.

“An all-expense-paid vacation to Paraguay.”

“And?” she prompted.

“You don’t do this work for the money any more than I do, Suzi.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I still like to get paid, in cash, and the next time I need help with one of my Czech couriers, I’d like to know I can continue to count on you.”

Her “couriers,” right. The girl was single-handedly moving art and women out of Eastern Europe at the rate of twelve paintings and six “couriers” in the last two years. The paintings were legitimate purchases and went on to galleries or private collections. The women were pure contraband, trafficked from the United States into prostitution, virtual slaves who’d been lucky enough to show up on Suzi’s radar. He never asked about her couriers, but he knew of at least one occasion where a girl had been returned to her family in South Carolina. Another girl, he knew, was working at the Toussi Gallery in Denver as an assistant, and he knew about Lily Anne Thompson, the girl who had not made it out of Ukraine three months ago.

Papers were what Suzi usually wanted from him, and transportation, if something was available, along with the necessary documents to get her courier on whatever secure plane or truck he knew was moving through the right area at the right time.

Fair enough.

She needed to save somebody, to make up for someone she’d lost a long time ago, and she’d found a bottomless pit of girls in Eastern Europe who needed to be rescued. He wasn’t going to begrudge her, not when she did good work for him.

“Ten thousand.”

“Twenty,” she countered. “The Sphinx is worth millions, if it’s authentic. Twenty is a tenth of what I’d charge a private collector.”

“Twelve. You don’t have to recover it, just find it.”

“Fifteen. Paraguay, Buck. It’s dangerous down there.”

“Fifteen,” he conceded.

“Deal,” she said and smiled. “So, where exactly are you sending me? Asunción?”

Asunción was the capital, a logical supposition, but no such luck.

“Ciudad del Este.” City of the East-to the best of his ability, he said it without any inflection. Truth was, though, that particular name didn’t need any inflection.

Her smile faded, and for a long moment, she just looked at him.

He understood, and for a moment of his own, he wondered if he was expecting too much this time.

Drugs, guns, money laundering, rampant smuggling, and every form of vice and corruption in between-the City of the East seethed with them all. No street was safe. Millions of dollars of illegal trade took place in its markets and warehouses every day, billions of dollars a year. It was a haven for criminals, from street hustlers to cartel heavyweights. After World War II, Paraguay had granted sanctuary to the worst of the Nazi war criminals. These days, terrorists from Hezbollah to al-Qaeda had cells of true believers in the city.