A tall newcomer stepped up to them all. He appeared to be in his midthirties, his hair cropped short, olive skinned. He was dressed in a traditional dhoti kurta, a spotless wrap of rectangular cloth that hung from waist to ankle, along with a tunic buttoned over a long-sleeved shirt. Atop his head, he wore an embroidered knitted cap called a kufi. He bowed deeply and spoke in English with a crisp British accent.

“I am Abhi Bhanjee, but I would be honored if you would call me Abe. We Indians have a saying: At ithi devo bhava. It means ‘Our guests are like gods.’ And none more so than the daughter of Professor Archibald Polk, a dear friend of mine.” He waved them to the table. “Please join us.”

They obeyed, but it did not take long for his smile to dim as the man learned about her father.

“I had not heard,” he said softly, his face a mask of pain. “It is a loss most tragic and sad. My condolences, Miss Polk.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment.

“He was last seen here at your village,” Gray added and nodded to Masterson. “He called the professor, said he was coming here.”

Masterson cleared his throat. “We hoped you might be able to cast a light on where Archibald went.”

“I knew he should not have gone alone,” the man said with a shake of his head. “But he would not wait.”

“Go where?” Gray asked.

“It was wrong to take him there to begin with. It is a cursed place.”

Elizabeth reached and touched the man’s hand with her fingertips. “If you know something…anything…”

He swallowed visibly and reached to a pocket inside his tunic. He slipped out a tiny cloth bag that clinked. “It all started when I showed your father these.” He fingered the bag open and upended the contents onto the table. “We find them occasionally when we till the fields of these lands.”

Old tarnished coins, nearly black with age, rattled and danced. One rolled to Elizabeth. She stopped it with her palm, then picked it up. She examined the surface, rubbing some of the grime with her thumb—until she realized what she was holding.

Upon the surface, abraded but still distinct, was the face of a woman, her cheeks framed by a tangle of small snakes. It was the Gorgon named Medusa. Elizabeth knew what she was holding.

“An ancient Greek coin,” she said with surprise. “You found these in your fields?”

Abe nodded.

“Amazing.” Elizabeth turned the coin toward the firelight. “Greeks did rule the Punjab for a while. Along with Persians, Arabs, Mughals, Afghans. Alexander the Great even fought a great battle in this region.”

Gray picked up another coin. His expression darkened. He held out the coin toward her. “You’d better look at this, Elizabeth.”

She took it and studied it. Her fingers began to tremble. Upon its surface, a Greek temple had been minted. And not just any temple. She stared at the three pillars that framed a dark doorway. Prominent in that threshold stood a large letter E.

“It’s the Temple of Delphi,” she gasped out.

“It looks like the same coin your father stole from the museum.”

She struggled to understand, but she could not think. It was as if someone had short-circuited her brain. “When…when did you first show my father these coins?”

Abe frowned. “I’m not certain. About two years ago. He told me to keep them safe and hidden, but since he is dead and you are his daughter…”

She barely heard him. Two years ago. The same time her father had arranged for her to work at the Delphi museum. She sensed she was holding the coin that had bought her the museum position. Too busy here himself, her father must have wanted her to follow up on this mystery. A spark of anger fired through her, but she was also too aware of the villagers around her and how they’d been treated. Maybe her father couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon them.

Still, he could have told her something.

Unless…maybe he was protecting her?

She shook her head, filled with questions. What was going on here? She sought answers on the other side of the coin. The surface was black with a large worn symbol that did not appear to be Greek.

Abe noted her confused expression. He pointed to the coin, having studied it before. “That is a chakra wheel. An ancient Hindu symbol.”

But what’s it doing on a Greek coin? she wondered.

“May I see?” Luca asked. He crossed around the table to stare over her shoulder. His body stiffened, and his fingers tightened on the table’s edge. “That…that symbol. It’s also on the Romani flag.”

“What?” Elizabeth asked.

He straightened, his brow crinkled with confusion. “The symbol was chosen because the Sanskrit word chakra means ‘wheel.’ It is said to represent a Gypsy’s wagon wheel, symbolic of our nomadic heritage, while still honoring our Indian roots. But there were always rumors that the symbol had deeper, more ancient roots among the clans.”

As the others discussed the significance, Elizabeth studied the coin in silence, beginning to sense at least one truth.

Gray leaned toward her, reading something on her face. “What is it?”

She met his steely gaze. She held up the coin and pointed to the temple side. “My father pulled strings to get me that position at the Delphi museum shortly after finding this.” She flipped the coin to the chakra side. “At the same time, he started to investigate the Gypsies and their connection to India. Two sides of a coin, two lines of inquiry.”

Elizabeth turned the coin on edge. “But what lies between the two? What connects them?”

She turned to Abhi Bhanjee. He had not told them everything.

“Where did my father go?” she asked with a bite to her voice.

A shout from one of the villagers answered her. A man came running from the outer fires. The music died away—but a distant drumming continued, a heavy beat that thumped to the chest.

Gray jerked up.

Elizabeth stood, confused, and stared out toward the hills, trying to discern the direction of the noise, but it seemed to come from everywhere—then three lights speared out of the overcast sky.

Helicopters.

“Everyone back to the SUV!” Gray shouted.

Abe yelled in Hindi, barking hard orders. Men and women fled in all directions. In the tumult, Elizabeth got separated, spun by passing bodies. Disoriented, she fought to follow their group.

Like diving hawks, the helicopters swept toward the village, then split wide to circle. With her eyes on the skies, she stumbled, but a thick arm caught her. Kowalski scooped her around the waist and lifted her to her toes, urging her faster.

“C’mon, babe.”

He forded through the chaos, a rolling rock.

At the edges of the village, the helicopters settled to a hover. Ropes slithered out from open side doors. Even before their ends reached the ground, dark forms slid down the lines, heavy with helmets and gear.

They would never make it to the SUV.

8:38 P.M.

Pripyat, Ukraine

Nicolas snapped his cell phone closed. So that was one less problem to worry about. He crossed down the hallway toward the gala. Music wafted, a traditional Russian composition from the nineteenth century, “Snegúrochka,” “The Snow Maiden.”

He drew his palm down the lines of his tuxedo. While others dressed in modern couture, Nicolas had handpicked his outfit in Milan, a single-button Brioni cashmere jacket with a peaked lapel and shawl collar. It was classic and elegant, chosen because the Duke of Windsor had worn such suits in the 1930s and 1940s. It had a vintage look that melded with Nicolas’s rhetoric, but he had updated his appearance by replacing the traditional bow tie—which never looked good with his trimmed beard—with a silk pleated tie, accented by a diamond tack set in Russian silver.

Knowing how well he looked, he entered the ballroom.

New marble floors shone under the light of a dozen Baccarat crystal chandeliers, a charitable donation by the company for this event. Tables circled an empty dance floor. But the true dancing had already commenced. The crowd mingled and swirled in eddies of political power, vying for the right nod, a moment alone with the right potentate, a whispered deal.

Russia’s prime minister and the U.S. president created the largest pools. Each was vying for support in regard to how to handle sanctions against burgeoning nuclear threats. An important summit on the matter was scheduled in St. Petersburg after the ceremony here. The sealing of Chernobyl was the symbolic start of that meeting.

Nicolas stared over at the pair, surrounded by a sea of people. He intended to wade into those waters. With his growing popularity as the spokesman for nuclear reform, those seas would easily part for him.

He should at least shake the hands of the two men he planned to kill.

But before he waded into those waters, he headed over to Elena. She stood by one of the arched windows. Heavy silk drapery framed both the window and the woman. She cut a stately figure in a black dress that flowed like oil over her lithe form, a Hollywood matinee idol brought back to life. She carried a flute of champagne in one hand, as if forgotten. She faced the darkness beyond the window.

He joined her.

Beyond the ruins of the city, bright lights twinkled near the horizon. Work crews would labor throughout the night to ready the viewing stands and ensure that the installation of the new Sarcophagus over the shell of Chernobyl went smoothly. The eyes of the world would be on the event.

He touched her arm.

She was not startled, having noticed his reflection in the mirror.

His voluptuous Rasputin.

“It is almost over,” he said and leaned to her ear.

According to his man, the concussion charges had already been secured in place. Nothing could stop them.

8:40 P.M.

Punjab, India

Gunfire erupted before Gray could reach the edge of the village. Screams and shouts echoed. Helicopters thumped overhead. He flattened himself against a stone wall. Beyond the pair of garbage fires, the Mercedes SUV rested at the edge of the glow.

A soldier in black gear ran low across the open ground, assault rifle at his shoulder. Others had to be already solidifying positions around the village, locking the place down. Then they’d close in for the kill, sweeping through the maze of the village.