Dazed and bruised, they lay on the hard earthen floor of a subterranean chamber. Cool air surged in their faces from some dark passageway. Above them, the fire raged on.

Peter staggered to his feet and pulled Davila with him. Together they stumbled down a narrow passage lined with pipes and electrical conduit until they came to a steel door. It opened to the vague outline of a room. Peter groped for the light switch and turned it on.

It was a living space of sorts, a tiny underground studio apartment equipped with a kitchenette, twin bed, dresser, and a small writing desk. Davila dead-bolted the door behind them, while Peter hurried across the room to a second door. It was already locked from the inside. They collapsed on the bed and lay there, catching their breath.

At length they sat up, one after the other. Peter's head throbbed again, nausea snaking its way up his throat. His wrist ached, sprained during the fall, but at least it was not broken.

Davila sat expressionless on the edge of the bed. Her swollen face was streaked with soot and dried blood, her rain parka tattered and pocked by sparks and embers.

"Are you OK?" said Peter.

She said nothing.

He went to the kitchen and soaked two clean rags with cold water. Draping one over the back of his neck, he sat next to Davila and reached out to wipe her face, surprised he could stand the sight of so much blood. But he had barely touched her when she grabbed his wrist. Her right hand shot to her ear, fingers clutching the tiny metal gryphon still dangling there. Ripping it loose, she flung it across the room and buried her face in her hands.

It was then Peter saw her left middle finger. It was swollen, purple, bent at a sickening angle. Getting up again, he began rummaging the kitchenette for materials to make a splint. He had just found a piece of cardboard and some masking tape when Davila let out a muffled cry.

She sat calmly on the bed, left hand cradled in her lap, the bent middle finger now completely straight.

Peter sat beside her, and she laid her injured hand on his knee. Shaping the cardboard into a finger-length trough, he slipped it into position and began securing it with tape.

"Who was that man with Gryphus outside the cottage?" she asked.

"Jason Numec." There was no doubt in Peter's mind. "Gryphus must be working for him. You heard what he said about killing on someone else's orders, eradicating some rare genetic mutation from the human gene pool."

She took the tape from Peter and finished the job herself. "He was lying," she said.

"Lying about what?"

"What he said about me and the Mossad. I don't work for them. Not anymore. I'm inactive."

Peter wondered if that was even possible. "What about your phone?"

She looked up sharply. "I had no idea it was transmitting data to anyone. But now I know why the battery kept draining."

"Is Davila your real name?"

She clenched her jaw. "No. After I was released from hospital, I took a new name and a new job with the IAA so I could continue my search for the ossuary."

"And what about your dad? Did he really kill all those people?"

A hard slap spun Peter halfway around. Head ringing from ear to ear, he turned back, rubbing his cheek. "Did I deserve that?"

Something about her expression said that he did. Then, as if nothing had happened, she got up and began throwing open the kitchen cabinets.

Peter wiped his face with the cold rag. "What are you looking for?"

"Jonas Markussen knew where the Mustard Seeds were, and I think this apartment belonged to him, a hideout of sorts. He was reaching for the trapdoor when he died."

Peter went to the desk and opened the drawer. Several pens rolled to the back, leaving a compact Bible and a little nest of paper clips. Beneath the Bible, someone had left a stack of five or six letter envelopes. Rifling through them, Peter stopped cold. One was addressed to Jonas Markussen and postmarked Burns, Oregon, August 2, 1989. He extracted the letter and handed the envelope to Davila. "I think this letter is from my dad."

Dear Jonas,

I pray this finds you and your family in good health. Although we have not communicated in some time, I write to you now in the strictest confidence, and I ask that you keep secret what follows until we have discussed it in person.

Presently, I am in Oregon, where I've made a remarkable discovery relating to the lost passage of Olav Tryggvason's Saga.

Three months ago, I received a phone call from the most unlikely of people, the chief of a lesser Indian tribe here in the remote deserts of southeastern Oregon. This chief, named Delbert Mackai, said he had been trying to find an expert on Viking "glyphs," as he called them. He was eventually referred to me.

He claimed to have inherited an artifact inscribed with Viking "glyphs." I told him it was almost certainly a hoax, and I put him off. But he kept calling me, and eventually I relented, taking my wife and son with me to his home on a remote mountain in the Oregon desert.

I was amazed by what he showed me. He had in his possession a cube of solid wood, roughly twelve inches (30 cm) to a side. It was heavily worn with age, and partially burned. It had no apparent lid or seam or binding, but based on its weight, I suspect there was something dense inside. The "glyphs" carved along its surface were indeed Norse runes, stylistically dating to the 10th or 11th century.

I'm still working out a final translation, but there's little doubt this object belonged to the treasury of Olav Tryggvason. What lies inside the box, the runes do not say, nor will Delbert Mackai allow me to determine by invasive means. In fact, he has hidden it somewhere and refuses to tell me where. The situation is infuriating!

But I now suspect that the Seeds of Salvation King Olav gave to Leif Eirikson are contained within this ancient wooden vessel. Leif Eirikson must have brought them on his voyage to North America and left them here. And by some miracle of fate, they made their way overland, possibly via trade routes, and ended up in the hands of the Indians here in Oregon.

Even stranger, the box is carved with older letters, worn almost beyond recognition. Each of the six surfaces bears a single Hebrew letter. I am as baffled by their presence as I am by their meaning.

Many questions remain unanswered, not the least of which is the object's provenance. I only wish I could take it with me back to the University of Washington, where any number of colleagues could analyze it and determine if indeed it contains something. For now, I have Mr. Mackai's assurance that if he does try to sell it, which I now think likely, I will have right of first refusal. Hopefully, I can convince him to give me another look at the thing.

I'll write again as soon as I have more information.

In strictest confidence, your friend,

Daniel

Peter lowered the letter and stared at Davila. She snatched it from him and began to read, her eyes darting from side to side.

Finished, she let out her breath. "My God. Your father found the Mustard Seeds years ago."

"It's more like they found him. Now I know what he and Delbert were working on."

"I wish he would have written down the Hebrew letters."

"He did." Peter rummaged through his pants pockets. The scrap of paper was still there, crumpled and ripped down the middle, but otherwise intact. He handed it to Davila. "Those six letters were engraved inside my dad's ring, the one he was wearing when he died." It was the only thing that survived the fire. And not by chance, Peter realized. The ring was made of tungsten, a metal capable of withstanding the heat of a cremation oven. Or even a thermite bomb.

"This doesn't spell anything in Hebrew," said Davila.

"I think it's written backwards."

She cocked her head. "Yes. Of course. It says ha'yeshua, the salvation."

"The rabbi told me you could rearrange the letters to spell something else, something about an ancient word for ruin."

"The rabbi?"

"That's what I was doing at the Jewish cemetery back in Seattle."

Davila's full eyebrows churned through the permutations. "Heh-vav-heh. Hovah, ruin. It's a word found only in the Hebrew Bible. And the remaining three letters spell yasha, another word for salvation. Ruin and salvation. Fascinating."

"Fruits of the same vine. That's what he said."

She returned the scrap of paper. "I have to see this artifact for myself. Do you know where Delbert Mackai lives?"

"I know exactly where he lives." Then it occurred to him. "And so does Gryphus."

Davila nodded. "The burn marks on Jonas Markussen's face, the iron poker. Gryphus must have tortured the information out of him."

"Jesus. We have to warn Delbert."

"But first we have to get off this island."

"What about Gryphus? He's still out there waiting for us."

"Perhaps not." Beneath the blood and soot, her eyes were dark and hard. "As far as he knows, we died in that fire."

She was right. No one could have survived.

"I imagine they'll check the ruins of that cottage for our remains, but until then we have a window of opportunity."

The apartment's rear door led to another passageway, which delivered them to the cellar of a small outbuilding by the island's southwestern seawall, seventy yards from the burning cottage. The rain had let up. A fireboat had arrived offshore and was dowsing the smoldering rubble of the cottage with seawater, the resultant plume billowing up and folding into the low clouds.

They scaled a wooden ladder down to the narrow fringe of algae-covered rocks along the base of the seawall. Working their way clockwise, they crept beneath the fireboat's arcing jets to the northern edge of the island and the sand spit where they had beached the dinghy. Gone was the sleek motorboat that had been moored at the eastern pier. An aluminum police boat had taken its place.

Davila stopped abruptly and examined something in the rocks, a navy-blue cap embroidered with a golden lion on a red shield. Its owner lay a few yards off facedown in the shallow water, his curly black hair lapping the waves. A police radio crackled from the back of his checkered waistband.

Out to the northwest, a black rubber Zodiac boat skimmed the waves, motor revving. It angled toward the spit and skidded ashore next to the dinghy. Out leaped four, five, six black-clad commandos armed with submachine guns. They sprinted across the sand toward Peter and Davila, gesturing wildly for them to get down.

They were surrounded.

Image: take from http://zodiacmilpro.com/hurricane-ribs/