“And if I run into trouble?” she asked.

“You’re not to contact the Brazilian authorities under any circumstances,” he said bluntly. “In the case of abduction, coercion or other scenarios which might force your hand, the loss of the entire team is considered preferable to any disclosure.” That was the order in writing. Moore added his own clarification: “If something happens, do what you can. But if there’s no other choice, then you get the hell out of there and leave them behind.”

She listened to the directive, one she’d known was coming ever since Gibbs started jamming the civilians down their throats. She had little doubt that Moore shared her revulsion at the order, but they had a job to do.

As if sensing her hesitation, he said,“I don’t have to remind you how important this thing is.”

“How important Gibbs thinks it is,” she corrected. “If he’s right.”

“He is,” Moore said, bluntly. “One way or another, he’s right about this. You’ve been asked to take it on faith so far, but since you’re now in charge … The test results on the Martin crystals were unequivocal. They confirmed the presence of tritium gas sequestered in the quartz lattice.”

Tritium was a radioactive by-product, one that could only form during a nuclear reaction of some kind. Its presence could mean only one thing.

Moore explained. “Somewhere along the line, those crystals were involved in a low-level nuclear reaction. Cold fusion, almost certainly.”

“And the source of that reaction?” she asked. “Do we have any new thoughts on that?”

Moore squinted into the distance, his blue eyes lit up by the setting sun. “I’ve come to believe that what we’re looking for is out there,” he said finally. “I couldn’t explain how or why, but I believe it exists. And if we can find it—if you can find it—then we have a chance to literally change the world.”

CHAPTER 2

The rusting aircraft hangar stood at the end of a seldom-used airfield just outside the small mountain town of Marejo. Weeds grew unchecked around its edges and pigeons nested in the roof, giving it the appearance of an abandoned hulk, but the structure, and the concrete airstrip it served, still had a few sporadic users.

One of those was a dark-haired, forty-year-old American, owner and operator of a weather-beaten, olive-drab helicopter—a Bell UH-1, commonly called a Huey, a craft that currently absorbed both his admiration and scorn.

Three hours of work in the sweltering hangar had left him concerned about the Huey’s state of airworthiness. In truth, he marveled that it was still operating at all. And as his eyes flashed from one section of the craft to the next, he wondered just how many things he could patch together and still continue to fly. Grimly amused at the thought, he guessed he’d find out soon enough.

As he moved to put away a case of tools, the open mouth of the hangar doors caught the sound of an approaching vehicle, a well-tuned, expensive engine, completely out of place in a town like Marejo.

Glad for any excuse to move toward the fresh air, he walked to the entrance, wiping the grease from his hands with a tattered rag. Across the tarmac, a dust-covered Land Rover approached, moving slowly down the access road. He guessed this would be a follow-up to the call he’d taken the night before, an offer he had turned down without hesitation.

So they’d come to talk in person now. They must really want something this time.

The black SUV swung toward him and parked at the edge of the tarmac. The door opened. To his surprise, a woman stepped out. Attractive and fashionably dressed, she slammed the door with more than a little edge and strode toward the hangar, her eyes hidden beneath tortoiseshell sunglasses. There was something confrontational in her gait, like a tiger spoiling for a fight.

As she approached, Hawker considered his own grubby appearance, covered in grease and sweat and three days of unshaven stubble. “Great,” he mumbled to himself, then stepped back inside, where he could at least splash some water on his face.

Leaning over the sink, he heard the soles of her boots clicking on the concrete floor.

“Com licença,” she said in Portuguese. “Excuse me; I’m looking for a pilot named Hawker. I was told I could find him here.”

He shut off the water, dried his face with a towel and looked in the tarnished mirror; a marginal improvement. He turned. “You speak Portuguese,” he said.

“And you speak English,” she replied. “American English. You must be Hawker.” She put out her hand. “My name’s Danielle Laidlaw, I’m with the NRI—the National Research Institute—from the States.”

He shook her hand cautiously. “The NRI?”

“We’re a federally funded research house,” she said. “We do a lot of high-tech work in partnership with universities and corporations. Though that’s not exactly why I’m here.”

He’d heard rumors about the NRI in the past. And however unreliable those sources might have been, there was more to the Institute than her little sound bite let on. “You people are persistent. I’ll give you that.”

“You should be flattered,” she said, smiling.

“‘Flattered’ is not quite the word,” he said, though he couldn’t help but smile back. “I turned your friend down on the phone. Apparently you didn’t get that word.”

She removed her sunglasses. “I did, actually. But from what I heard, our men didn’t get a chance to make an offer.”

He threw the towel in the sink. “There was a reason for that.”

“Look,” she said, “I’m not exactly thrilled to be out here myself. Four hours on a dirt road is not my way of enjoying an afternoon. But I’ve come a long way to see you. The least you could do is hear me out. How much could that hurt?”

He stared at her. She was a bold, attractive woman, working for a questionable branch of the U.S. government and about to offer him a contract that would undoubtedly involve some type of covert, illegal or otherwise dangerous activity. And she wanted to know how much it could hurt?

Still, he didn’t want to send her away. “You thirsty?” he asked. “Because I am.”

She nodded and Hawker led her to the side of the hangar, where a dingy refrigerator stood beside a table with a coffeepot. He scooped some ice from the freezer and poured a cup of black coffee over it. “This or water?”

She looked suspiciously at the scratched glass and the dark liquid within it. “I’ll take the coffee.”

“You’re brave,” he said, placing the glass in front of her and pouring himself a drink of water. “And you have come a long way,” he added, taking a seat across from her. “Up from Manaus, I’m guessing, since that’s where your friend wanted me to go. Apparently you have gainful employment to offer. So let’s hear it, tell me about this job.”

She took a sip and her expression did not change. He was impressed; the coffee was absurdly bitter.

“The NRI is funding an expedition into a remote area of the western Amazon,” she said. “The final site hasn’t been determined yet, but we’re pretty certain it’ll be accessible only by river or air. We’re looking for a pilot and helicopter for up to twenty weeks, with an option for next season as well. You’ll be paid for flying, local knowledge and any other duties that would be mutually agreed upon.”

His eyebrows went up. “Mutually agreed upon,” he said. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you would.”

“What’s the cargo?”

“Standard field supplies,” she said. “Staff from our Research Division and some university-level experts.”

He had to stop himself from laughing. “Doesn’t sound so bad. What are you leaving out?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

A perfect pause, practiced. “I don’t follow you.”

He felt certain that she did, in fact, follow him. “What are you doing all the way up here when you could have hired someone in Manaus? Why the long journey to see me? Why the midnight phone call from the man with no name?”