It was this collective breath that put her here at this specific place and time and allowed her to get into the backseat of the car.

In the weeks she’d been back, Dominique had found out more about cuneiforms.

The Sumerian stones were indeed the oldest written records on the planet. Fifty-eight hundred years old. But they described things that happened billions of years earlier than that, and in great detail.

The ancient Sumerians were telling us a story of history that’s difficult to accept because of our certainty that what we know about the past is all there is to know.

She read the controversial works of Zecharia Sitchin. He wrote about many cities that were described in the Bible: Babylon, Akkad, and Erech, which for a long time people thought were myths because no one could prove their existence. There wasn’t even the slightest sign they’d existed. Then archaeologists found one city, which led to another, and another, eventually finding all of the cities mentioned in the Bible. These excavators and explorers of the past dug into the layers of these ancient ruins and discovered thousands of clay tablets on which the history of Sumer, and the history of the Earth were recorded in great detail, going back eons.

The echo of remembrance reverberated through Dominique, and she knew without knowing that those she was now connected to were part of a nervous system, and she was at the center of that which is breathed.

She dialed a number on her mobile.

“What are you doing?” Nazir demanded, watching her in the rearview.

“I’m calling someone to help us,” she said, as she looked at the dead body of Taliq in the front passenger seat—his neck still draining blood.

55

55

Dominique and Nazir stood in the kitchen of Catherine’s Virginia Beach cottage. It was more lived in since Hashim had spent time here. Covers had been removed from the furniture. Pots were on the stove. The kitchen table was set, looking like company was expected.

Dominique stared at the text on Taliq’s burner. Getting hot. Get out!

“Who was he?” Nazir asked.

“Julian’s finding out.”

“He had no identification?”

“No.”

“And his body?”

“I’m not sure what Julian is doing with that.”

She looked at Nazir bent over the kitchen sink, head in his hands.

“Did you plan to kill him?”

“No. But I never trusted him.”

She remembered first setting eyes on Nazir in the warehouse and thinking if jihad was attracting young men this sensitive and strong there was more to fear than anyone could imagine. Now, here he was, this young man. Frightened. Isolated from the world he knew. Alone.