But it was too late.

Seneca leaned back her head and stared up at the sky. "Why? Why?" She dropped her gaze to the man she loved and gently stroked his face before pressing her lips to his forehead. Her tears mixed with his blood as she looked back into the smoke-filled sky.

BLOODY MARY 2012, LONDON.

"THIS PLACE GIVES ME the creeps." The disciple whispered into the tiny mic extending from his earpiece to just beside his mouth. His night-vision goggles created an eerie green glow over the narrow passageway three levels below the main nave of Westminster Abbey. Over three thousand bodies were buried beneath the ancient London landmark, and he moved cautiously past the rows of crypts.

He and his partner were dressed in military black. The first disciple aimed a stock-mounted automatic machine pistol at the tunnel ahead while the second disciple gripped the handle of a duffel bag in one hand and an ultra-sensitive underground GPS unit in the other-its signal utilizing four miniature directional antennae secretly prepositioned around the church. As the two men moved through the pitch-black subterranean labyrinth, the second disciple whispered their location every thirty seconds. "Almost there. Chapel is directly overhead. Henry's Lady Chapel just ahead, slightly to the right."

The first disciple spotted a set of steps and stopped at their base. "This it?"

The second disciple checked the GPS display. "We're just past it. Go up the steps."

The first disciple glanced around before proceeding. His friend waited until the first disciple was a dozen steps above him before following.

A few moments later, they stood in the basement level just below the Lady Chapel. The second disciple again studied the GPS. "Follow the passage west until you come to a wall."

As they moved along the tunnel, the first disciple read off the names on the marble to his right until he saw the last. "It's a duplicate of the inscription on the main tomb above." Aloud, he spoke the Latin, "Regno Consortes Et Urna Hic Obdor Mimus Elizabetha Et Maria Sorores In Spe Resurrectionis."

The second disciple translated. "Partners both in throne and grave, here rest we two sisters, Elizabeth and Mary, in the hope of one The first disciple turned to his friend. "For someone who had three hundred people burned at the stake, Mary was quite optimistic she'd be coming back."

"Probably never thought it would be this soon."

Javier Scarrow stood in the study of the Dorchester's roof-level Harlequin Suite, overlooking Hyde Park. Darkness had enveloped London. It was the last day of his U.K. Phoenix Ministry, and even though the service had ended hours ago, thousands of faithful were still making their way out of the park. In the distance, Scarrow could see the top of the sprawling metal and glass pyramid structure that took up the majority of the northeast corner facing Marble Arch. Tomorrow morning, hundreds of workers would descend upon the Phoenix pavilion, disassemble it, and get it ready for its journey to the next destination.

Scarrow had removed his elaborate red and black ceremonial garb and was now dressed in a floor-length robe of simple white linen. He sipped Roederer Cristal as he watched the reflection in the window of the dignitaries and VIPs filling the hotel suite behind him. He recognized members of Parliament and the National Trust, London city officials, ultra-rich socialites, even a sprinkling of religious leaders, all having expressed support and dedication to his growing worldwide Ministry.

He turned away from the reflection to see a young man standing next to him. The nametag said he was the public relations director of the British Museum.

"So where is your next stop?" asked the PR director.

"Sao Paulo." Scarrow smiled seeing that like so many others who were drawn to his message, this man's eyes sparkled with wonder and fascination at meeting what many were calling a modern-day prophet, a twenty-first-century messiah. Placing his hand on the man's shoulder, he said, "Thank you for coming."

"It's an honor." The director held up his glass in a toast, then took a sip of his champagne. "And from Sao Paulo?"

"On to Moscow and Paris with a final stop in Mexico City."

"Where you'll prove that your message is the only hope left for the salvation of mankind?"

Scarrow nodded. "Exactly."

"I've also read about your amazing crusades in so many countries-Germany, China, Saudi Arabia, Uzbekistan."

"We didn't refer to it as a crusade during our visit in Saudi Arabia. There, we simply paid a cordial visit to the Saudi monarchy in the name of helping to preserve the earth for future generations. But even they agreed with us that there are millions of souls needing guidance in every corner of the world. We are all members of a universal family that goes beyond religion and politics."

"Truly amazing. But having heard your message of hope for the future, I can see why so many are in search of your guidance."

Scarrow noticed a man in a tuxedo approaching-one he so anxiously awaited.

"Good evening." The first disciple made his way through the crowded hotel suite to where Scarrow and the young man stood. "I'm sorry to be so late."

"I trust you bring good news?"

"Yes, very good news, but first, can I offer to have your drinks refilled, gentlemen?" He nodded to Scarrow's empty glass, then waved to one of the catering staff.

"What would you like?" Scarrow turned to the man from the British Museum.

"More of the same, if you don't mind." He raised his crystal flute.

"And you, sir?" the first disciple asked Scarrow. "The same?"

"No, I want to try something different. Do you think they can make me a Bloody Mary?"

The disciple smiled. "Consider it already done."

The warden moved silently through the subbasement of Westminster Abbey on his morning rounds. There had been reports of a small outbreak of rodents, and he used the beam of his flashlight to inspect the corners and crevices along the passageways. He had started at the lowest level and worked his way up until he was now in the basement crypts just below the Lady Chapel. Moving down the row of tombs, he noticed patches of debris in his path and small particles that reflected his light. He walked slowly, swinging the beam like a blind man's cane, the heavy odor of earth and stone invading his nostrils. His concern grew with each sweep of the light. Was there some sort of shift in the foundation of the ancient church that caused bits of the ceiling to shower down? Perhaps it was an outbreak of mold or fungus. He'd recently read about something like that affecting the catacombs in Rome and hoped if that were the source of the particles, perhaps he had caught it before it could spread.

He approached the end of the passage, his head down, his eyes focused on the floor. Suddenly, the passageway became covered with dust and small chunks of marble. He came to a halt and slowly lifted his gaze.

"Sweet Jesus and Mary!"

Before him was a gaping hole in the side of the wall exposing the crypt of Queen Elizabeth I and her sister, Queen Mary. Shining the light into the darkness, he saw the skeletal remains of Elizabeth. But Bloody Mary was gone.

FOG LAMPS 2012, MIAMI.

AFTER PASSING THROUGH CUSTOMS, Seneca stared blankly at the luggage carousel on the arrivals level of Terminal E. She was emotionally drained and physically beaten up.

She had spent two days in the hospital after the bombing recovering from a concussion, multiple lacerations to the scalp and arms, along with contusions that left widespread bruising to her hips and legs. She'd stayed on another few days for Daniel's family to fly in from Guadalajara and make arrangements. Daniel had confided in her many times that if something were to ever happen to him, he didn't want a funeral. He believed the cost of funerals was outrageous and that funeral directors preyed on grieving family members. All he wanted was to be cremated and his ashes sprinkled over his Mexican homeland.

She still hadn't been able to stop asking why God had let this happen? Why was she spared and Daniel taken along with the others at the dig site? But as many times as she asked those questions, no answers came. The pain of losing Daniel was incredible, sometimes so numbing that she had no emotion at all. The mind's way of dealing with it, she thought. She and Daniel's mother had clung to each other, sobbing as they watched Dan's father release the ashes in the Mexican wind. Daniel had become her life-such a gentle and kind man with a great depth of understanding for all people, past and present. He didn't deserve dying like that-no one did. He was just doing a job that he loved. It was so unfair. Survivor guilt was a terrible feeling, especially when there was no way to help find justice.

After Daniel's family left, she grieved alone. No one should have to grieve alone. How she so needed to call her mother and be comforted by her like Seneca had been when she was a child. But her mother wouldn't understand. Not now.

While Seneca was in the hospital, the Mexican police questioned her. She hadn't been able to provide them with any helpful information.

The incident made front-page news across Mexico and was the lead story on all their television networks. No group had yet claimed responsibility for the bombing, but the authorities felt certain it was one of a handful of violent political groups vying for attention in the media or perhaps drug-gang related. The drug wars were escalating with each passing day. This was not the first time something like this had happened, the investigators told her.

She wanted to wake up and find it all a hideous nightmare. The irony was that even when she did sleep, her real dreams were nightmares reliving the bombing and Daniel shivering in her arms as his life drifted away. She had never really considered what death was until that moment. Now she had witnessed up close what it was like to die, and the recurring images and haunting sensory detail tortured her-the bloody torso with its trails of tissue, the smell of singed flesh and hair, Daniel's blood-saturated shirt, the metallic odor of his blood so sharp in her nose that she could even taste it, the wheezing as his body desperately attempted to breathe. The whole process of dying was grisly and horrifying.

As the luggage started to appear in the baggage claim area, Seneca reached inside her handbag and withdrew a plastic bag with the meds prescribed for her by the Mexican doctors. She opened one amber plastic bottle, tumbled a small five-sided pill into her palm, popped it in the back of her throat and swallowed. It was hard to get it down with her dry mouth and no water. The Ativan would take the edge off. When she got home she'd take a sleeping pill. That should numb her for the night ... or at least most of it until she woke up in a sweat, or crying, or screaming, or all of the above.

How was she going to live without him? She couldn't even remember what life had been like before Daniel. He was her first true love-the ones before him were never this deep, this real. She'd had a serious relationship with one guy while studying journalism at the University of South Florida in St. Petersburg. It was her junior year, his senior. When he graduated, he moved to Washington to work on his masters, and the long distance along with his cheating on her with an exchange student from China, quickly killed their love affair. It was a totally different story with Daniel.

Seneca had fallen for Dan as soon as she set eyes on the man. She'd been freelancing a piece on Little Salt Spring, a sinkhole on the west coast of Florida that yielded remains of animals and humans more than ten thousand years old. Because the sinkhole was similar to the cenotes of the Yucatan, Daniel had paid the site a visit which happened to be at the same time Seneca was there. Both had been delighted to find out they were practically neighbors back in Miami. She was a rare Florida native. He had lived there for the past nine years, teaching at the University of Miami after getting his doctorate in archaeology in Mexico. Daniel proposed a lunch date when they returned from Little Salt Spring, and Seneca had accepted eagerly. That was the beginning of the magic.

It was meant to be, the two often said. Back then, coming back home had meant something to look forward to. But not this time.

Seneca watched the snake of suitcases slither along-the drone of her fellow passengers' voices and constant whine and clatter of the conveyer spawned a fatigue in her like some kind of hypnotherapy. Her eyes tried focusing on the carousel as if it were a silver pendulum dangling before her by the hand of an invisible magician.

The luggage thinned as the passengers collected their bags and wandered off. An unclaimed suitcase and a tattered knapsack were all that remained on the carousel. She likened the reappearance of the two pieces to recurring blips on a radar screen.

Where were her bags? The anti-anxiety drug hadn't had time to kick in and the stress inside was intensifying. Seneca paced from one end of the carousel to the other, ending where the bags emerged from the chute. Finally, the conveyor ground to a stop. She leaned over and looked through the rubber-flap ribbons in case her bags were somehow jammed behind them.

The explosion had destroyed her camera gear, photo disks, audiotapes, laptop, and notes from the second day of the interview. Losing those and all her other personal items and clothing seemed to be a final, cruel blow. What else could she lose-could be yanked away from her?

Her head hurt, and she thought about taking a painkiller, but decided that might be unwise. She tried some slow, easy breathing.

The last of the passengers disappeared into the humid South Florida night leaving Seneca standing alone. Soon, a baggage handler came to remove the two unclaimed pieces from the carousel.

"Hey!" She scurried over to the man. "Any more back there? My bags never came out."

"That's it, lady." He hefted up the two orphaned pieces and started to walk away. "You can follow me to lost baggage and make a report."

Seneca looked at her watch. It was nearly one in the morning; she was dead on her feet. The passing thought with the word dead in it made a rush of sudden dizziness sweep through her followed by a wave of nausea.

"You okay, lady?"

"Just tired from my flight." She followed him to lost luggage.

After leaving the airport's long-term parking lot, Seneca made her way to the Dolphin Expressway and finally onto 27th Avenue. She was thankful for the sparse, middle-of-the-night traffic as she drove her ice-white Volvo south. She considered putting the convertible top down but decided she didn't need the noise right now. The whoosh of the wind with the top down was something she loved. So did Daniel. Tonight she wanted quiet.

Her thoughts were filled with images of Daniel, his infectious smile, his boyish giggle, and the life they had planned. After their dream wedding, they would move into a spacious new apartment overlooking Biscayne Bay. Dan would continue teaching at the University of Miami while she advanced her career as a journalist. Getting the exclusive on Montezuma's tomb because of Daniel was an omen of how right they were for each other. But all that had come to a devastating end. Daniel was gone, and so befitting, the Mexican government declared the dig site off limits and ordered the small hole used by the camera probe sealed. If Montezuma's tomb still remained intact below the cobblestones of Zocalo Plaza, it would be as much an unsolved mystery as the emperor's missing ashes. The excavation ended in a flash of death at a place with such a violent past-the Wall of Skulls.

She was heartsick at the possible loss of her luggage. Not so much for her personal belongings, but her bag contained the last pictures she had of Dan preserved on her photo disks. There were also her notes of the interview with him and the recording of his voice-all had been stuffed in her luggage. Not only would she lose those wonderful images of his smiling face and sweet voice, but the items needed to write her story would be gone.

The Mexican police felt the bombing was to gain notorietyperhaps to instill fear or destabilize the tourist trade, disrupt the economy. They recited a dozen reasons. And she was sure the police were right. What a waste of innocent lives. These people, these terrorists, had no soul, no conscience. They were totally selfabsorbed bastards. They didn't even have the balls to declare responsibility. She felt her hands clenching the steering wheel and her teeth grinding, her brows furrowing deep into her forehead so much it was making her squint.

"Stop it!" You're going to drive yourself nuts. Let it go, for God's sake.

Something drew her attention to the traffic in her rearview mirror. It was a set of double headlights-lights with orange fog lamps below them-lights that had been behind her since leaving MIA. While other cars passed or turned onto side streets, the one with the orange fog lamps stayed steady in her wake about a half block back. Even with the light traffic, it would be highly unusual for the same car to keep pace with her for so many miles unless it was intentional.

She changed lanes and watched the trailing vehicle duplicate the move. Out of nervousness, Seneca turned off the radio-one less distraction. The singing of the tires on the pavement and the hum of the motor replaced the music as she steered her C70 south. She fixed her eyes on the reflection of the car's headlights in the mirror. Only ten minutes to her Coconut Grove apartment. Watching the now-familiar headlights follow, a peculiar notion hurtled into Seneca's head.

"Let's have a test," she said to the reflection. When she got to the intersection at South Dixie Highway, rather than going straight into the Grove, she would turn and head north. If the car in her mirror kept on going, she could attribute it up to nothing more than a creepy feeling from an overburdened and fatigued mind.

Without flipping on her blinker, she whipped north onto Dixie.

QUESTIONS 1876, SOUTHERN.

ARIZONA TERRITORY.

"WHERE'D YOU GET THESE?" Charlie Pykes examined the coins Groves had just placed on the scale in the front room of the Calabazas Land and Mining Company office. Pykes was the local assayer.

Groves touched his chest through his shirt and rubbed the place where the arrow had entered. It was still sensitive and sore, but there was little of what should have been a wound. It didn't make sense, almost as if it never happened-nothing more than a bad dream. He had acquired enough cuts, scrapes, and bruises over his thirty-seven years to know how long things take to heal. This was crazy.

"Where 'bouts you 'em?"

Already too many questions. "What difference does it make? I just want the money to buy me a wagon. Any crime in that?"

"No crime, Mr. Groves. We just don't get too many old Spanish coins in here. Any more where these came from?"

"Beats me." Groves glanced around the empty office. A couple of cowboys rode by on the dirt street outside the front window. The town was quiet in the early morning. That didn't stop him from sweating at the thought that someone would discover his secret.

"You okay, Mr. Groves? Look a bit jumpy."

"Just tired awaitin' for you to give me my money so I can be on my way. If we could get on with our business, I'd be much obliged."

"Where'd you say you're from?"

"Over near Tombstone," he lied.

"No foolin'? Now what in heaven's name would a bunch of Spanish coins be doing over there?"

"Maybe somebody 'em. I don't know."

"And you gonna use the money to buy some diggin' gear?"

"I said I need a wagon and a couple of mules. That's all. Do I get my money or do I have to go up to Tucson?"

"No, you don't have to do any of that. Just wonderin' how you came across such a nice collection of gold." Pykes took the coins off the scale and started counting out a stack of paper money. "Looks like at twenty dollars an ounce minus my exchange fee, you're gonna get more than enough for a fine wagon and some strong mules. I'd say you should be all set to head back to Tombstone and look for more of them coins."

"Don't want none of that paper money." Groves pointed to the bills. "And where I go ain't your concern."

"No problem." Pykes opened his safe, took out a handful of $20 gold pieces and handed them to Groves. "Roy over at the livery should be able to fix you right up. Mention my name."

Groves took the money and turned to leave. It occurred to him that if the word got out he'd found a stash of Spanish treasure, everybody would be wanting a share. "Actually, I'm thinking about headin' west to Gila Bend. Probably leave tomorrow."

"Gila Bend, is it? Well, good luck finding more of them coins."

Groves stood on the wooden boardwalk outside the assayer's office and glanced in both directions along the main street of the frontier town. An uneasy feeling came over him. If word spread about the coins, then getting out of town with a wagon full of digging gear and some dynamite was going to be harder than he figured. "The livery's in that direction."

Groves spun around to see Pykes standing behind him pointing.

"Thanks." He stepped off the boardwalk and headed along the dusty street.

"Come back and see me if you find any more gold."

Groves didn't look back, but he knew if he could get his hands on the Apache treasure, it probably wouldn't be the last time he saw Charlie Pykes.

THE PRAYER 2012, SAO PAULO, BRAZIL.

JAVIER SCARROW LAY IN the all-white satin bedding of his suite in the Hotel Emiliano. As his life's mission came closer to fruition he sometimes found it hard to sleep. His body seemed to pump out adrenaline by the gallon. And his mind whirred with checklists and visions of the future, and sometimes after ingesting the ancient god's mushroom, teonanacatl, chased with a drink of chocolate prepared in the old way, he experienced apparitions and hallucinations that led to prophecy.

Tonight he stared at the ceiling, trying to calm himself enough to at least doze. Scarrow reflected back on the day so many years ago when the gods had finally answered his prayers. It was 1960 and he worked as a research analyst for the Smithsonian Institute. The name Javier Scarrow was the latest he had taken to hide his true identity-there had been many others. He remembered the night as if it were yesterday when he had opened the window of his third-story, two-bedroom Bethesda, Maryland, apartment to let the pungent smoke escape.

A small stone altar called a tezcatlipoca sat in the middle of the bedroom. Atop the altar a single-stem marigold lay beside a oneinch, carved jade figure of a jaguar head he had secretly pocketed while cataloging a private collection donated to the Institute. Scarrow knelt before the altar, then sat back on his heels.

In the center of the stone slab was a sculpture he had carved of Quetzalcoatl, the deity he invoked that night. There was also a clay basin in which splinters of wood burned. This was not the Eternal Flame; he had no right to light that fire. Not yet. But he prayed the day would come soon. Most of the smoke rose up from the incense burner, another bowl filled partway with sand on which rested a burning charcoal tablet topped with copal, an aromatic resin.