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Caesar.
    “This,” said Bob, holding up the stone fragment John had last seen disappearing into Sutherland’s briefcase. “I had to sign my life away to get this from Bill. As we know, it’s Egyptian of the Middle Kingdom. It fits perfectly, I’ll bet, into that freshly carved niche over the outside entrance way. Your work?” he asked Greg.
    “Yes.” The geologist nodded. “I gave it to Joe Antonucchi the night before I was shipped out. I see he managed to get it off before he was killed—a killing, by the way, I only heard about from Cindy a week after it happened.”
    “You’re clean,” said John. “The FBI placed you in Shreveport that day. So, you think this is what got Antonucchi killed, Greg?”
    “Yes. Once this find was announced, no port facility, no more Royal contract. This would have become the new Area 51. And put a crimp in Director Freddy’s lifestyle.”
    “Yes and no,” said Bob. “If I were Langston, I’d give my right hand to have found this. I’d use it to catapult my scientific career into the heavens. My colleagues would honor me—once they got over the shock and stopped belittling me. Any university in the world would have me on my own terms. Rumors of government intrigue and involvement would only heighten my reputation. And my lecture fees…!” He leaned against the altar, silhouetted by Greg’s powerful light. “You’d do very well out of this, Greg.”
    “I know.”
    “Besides,” John added. “Royal wouldn’t cancel Leurre’s contract. They’d just move the docking facility to New Bedford and bask in the sheen of Langston’s reflected glory. The positive PR would help overcome the flak they’re taking for wanting to drill here.”
    “Any thoughts on the doorway?” asked McShane.
    “A million,” Farnesworth grinned. “All culled from Saturday sci-fi reruns. I do have an observation, though. Even under a magnifying glass, there’s no visible separation between rock and door. They seem melded together—maybe on a sub-molecular level.”
    Bob cleared his throat. “Well that steals some of my thunder.”
    “We interrupted you,” said John. “You were saying about the fragment?”
    “I was saying that fragment’s in a language whose peoples were dust five thousand years before the Celts of Europe. There are lucid arguments for the existence of ancient trading routes to the New World from the Classical—Egypt, Tarshish, Carthage. Dead Mediterranean languages have been found carved into rocks throughout North America, especially New England. But this is the first evidence that allegedly unrelated, loose trading confederations not only were established on these shores, but also overlapped, interacting with each other down through time. To believe that two people so far separated in time and origin as the Celts and the Egyptians occupied the same concealed site— concealed , mind you—fifty centuries apart through coincidence . . . well, I can’t accept it. The little green light and its wondrous door only fuel my skepticism.”
    Automatic weapons fire echoed faintly through the temple.
    “Zahava!” cried John, leading the rush for the stairs.

Chapter 5

    Z ahava had been settled behind some boulders no more than ten minutes when movement in the undergrowth below snapped her to alert.
    Led by Fred Langston, a score of M-16 toting Institute security guards were winding their way up the trail toward her. When they were out of the brush, about forty yards away, she shouted, “Halt!” and fired a warning burst.
    All but Langston dived for cover. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “Harrison, is that you?”
    “His associate,” Zahava called back.
    “I’m unarmed and coming up alone.” Which he did, topping the rough trail quickly, not breaking a sweat.
    “Where’s Harrison?” he demanded, ignoring the Uzi’s muzzle leveled at his belly.
    “Here.” John appeared from behind the boulder, Greg and Bob behind him.
    “Hi,