CHAPTER ONE

Nathan Pollard's sleep period was long overdue. He had to give it up because of the delays in recalibrating the scope. The new mirrors were better adjusted but it still took a lot of doing to get the prisms reset and the computers back online. Finally the scope was ready to go back to work. Pollard decided a tight resolution planetary scan would be a good test of the improved scope's ability. Coasting in the zero-G control room to the command terminal, he began keying the instructions for the enormous telescope. Finally he hit the "Enter" key and the data was uploaded to the scope's onboard CPU. The traincar-sized satellite, officially known as the Optical Collection Unit, was in fact a second-generation Hubbell space telescope. Much larger and more expensive that the first, this one was built in space over a period of three years funded by NASA, the US Department of Defense and the National Security Agency. It was a miracle of technology, eclipsed in size only by the supersecret permanent US space station in which it was built. The station, codenamed WINDOW, had been operational for almost six years, supported by Space Shuttle resupply flights. On board was a crew of six astronauts, one of them in the process of aiming the Optical Collection Unit at the planet Mars for a test scanning run.

That this station and the telescope were still a secret was also a miracle. The budget for this project was unimaginably large. Hiding it among millions of budget line items every year was the sole task of some of the best accountants in government service. So far, it worked. Thanks to that and the brutally tight security measures WINDOW remained secret. The scientists and astronauts involved could never add this to their resume but the payoff was that these brilliant people had the chance to work with the most advanced equipment imaginable, far beyond the cutting edge. That was what attracted Pollard to this project. He was content to work for WINDOW his entire career, not bothered that his life's work might remain secret long after his death.

One of the reasons for this was coming on the screen now. The scope was beginning its scan. Surface images of the Red Planet, clearer and more detailed than any Space Shuttle photograph of the Earth, were sliding across the monitor. Pollard smiled. He wasn't supposed to be seeing this. No one was. The grainy pictures from Pioneer were solely for public consumption. This scope and this station were NASA's real source of data. And what data it was. The pictures yielded by the upgraded mirrors were amazing.

Pollard gazed at the images, making sure they were being recorded when one caught his eye. He stared hard at it. Finally he punched it up on the large LCD screen on the wall for a closer look. As his eyes took in the details of the image, they grew wide.

"My God."

************************************

The meeting room was in a secure electronic bubble that prevented any kind of eavesdropping. Those in attendance included the head of NASA, the Director of Central Intelligence, head of the National Reconnaissance Office, the Secretary of Defense and the National Security Advisor. The subject of the meeting was the discovery on Mars since named the Pollard Site.

"Let's get started," The National Security Advisor announced. "I've got to brief the President in an hour. Colonel, give us a quick review of the data."

An Air Force colonel stepped up to a lectern at the end of the room. A large video screen switched on with various images of the Martian landscape behind him.

"This is an overview image of the Pollard Site," the colonel began. "Since the initial discovery, we've dedicated all our deep-space resources to investigating this area. We've even turned our KH-12 satellites around to get thermal, infrared and ultraviolet readings. Here's what we know so far." He gestured with his pointer at the screen.

"There's a series of what appear to be non-organic structures here in this valley. There are six of them arranged in two rows of three. They 're large; three hundred meters long by one hundred wide at the average, rectangular in shape. Thermal readings are very slight, but there is a point five degree temperature difference between the structures and the surrounding landscape. Infrared and ultraviolet scans have come up empty. By the way, the two rows run exactly parallel to the Martian equator. By 'exactly', I mean within centimeters." The DCI spoke up. "How is it that we haven't seen these things before? Hasn't Pioneer or one of those missions photographed the surface before?"

"Yes it has," the head of NASA replied. "But this area was recently hit by an unusually strong storm. We clocked windspeeds of over three hundred miles per hour through that valley. Our guess is that the storm blew away sand and dust that was previously covering these things."

The National Security Advisor was not convinced. "So you're telling me there are these things on Mars. They're square. They're big. And I need to tell my boss about them because they're so important? I'm sorry, gentlemen, but the President has bigger things on his plate than this."

"Let me be clear, sir," The Air Force colonel interjected. "These structures are not natural in origin. They are perfectly spaced and aligned with the equator at exactly 45 degrees north latitude. That's precisely between the equator and the pole. And they're warmer than the surrounding terrain, which suggests an internal heat source. Are you hearing me, sir? These structures were built by someone. This is indisputable proof of extraterrestrial intelligence. Pardon me sir, but that seems like something the President would be very interested in." The silence that filled the room underscored his point.

"I think we understand where we are now," the Secretary of Defense chimed in. "This thing on Mars deserves a closer look. Maybe a manned mission to actually explore the thing at some point."

"That's what we're thinking," The NASA chief agreed. "Down the road of course, after some unmanned mapping flights. We definitely have to put some astronauts on the surface to check these structures out."

"A manned mission to Mars? That'll cost billions," the National Security Advisor retorted. "Congress won't authorize that kind of expenditure. How can I recommend such an option to the President?"

"Well," NASA replied cryptically, "We have some off-the-shelf technology that we can use. But that's for another meeting."

"What if we send up a manned mission? What would astronauts know about something like this? They're mathematicians, for God's sake. You'd need some kind of specialist."

NASA turned to the Security Advisor in response. "You're right, sir. We're looking into that aspect. We think the mission calls for an archaeologist. Someone who'd be adaptable to astronaut training and the rigors of spaceflight. We're still looking for a suitable candidate."

"Well," the Defense Secretary remarked as everyone rose to leave, "Someone like that would be rare indeed."

PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN SIX MONTHS LATER

The sun had just advanced over the mountains, barely putting a dent in the bitter cold. Herds of sheep and goats wandered aimlessly on the hillsides. In the village shopkeepers began to open their stores for another day's business. Few pedestrians ventured out this early. One, a person of slight stature dressed head to foot in desert robes, seemed interested in a shop at the end of the street. It was one of many shops that made Peshawar famous throughout the Afghan war. As the lone pedestrian neared the shop, the shopkeeper opened the front of his shanty and lit an oil lamp. Along the walls of the little shack hung his wares: Soviet-bloc automatic weapons. On sale was everything from AK-47 rifles to PKM and DShK machine guns, ammunition and more. Except these weapons were handmade copies. The old man, an expert metalsmith, forged and assembled every one of these weapons using originals as models. While they were serviceable, their safety and durability was dubious at best.

The lone visitor wasn't interested in weapons, however. Approaching the little shop, the visitor addressed the shopkeeper in fluent Arabic. The lilting voice was decidedly feminine, the accent sounding Egyptian or maybe Saudi.

"Good morning sir. You have many fine items for sale today."

"Thank you. What can I interest you in?"

The woman handed the old man a slip of paper. He examined it, his eyes straining in the faint light.

"I do not have this."

"I am told that you do."

"Such a thing would be very expensive". And so the bargaining began.

"I can pay you in English pounds or American dollars."

"Dollars?" The old man's eyes lit up.

Haggling over a price was an age-old custom in this part of the world. And the woman was good at it. Finally a price was agreed upon. The old man produced a small parcel wrapped in cotton cloth and set it on the table before him. The woman took out a roll of US$20 bills, peeled off eight of them and laid them next to the parcel. The transaction was complete.

Twelve minutes later, the woman opened the door to her hotel room. She pulled the dusty robes off and tossed them to the floor, revealing the leather jacket and jeans she wore underneath. As she crossed to the table she pulled out the 9mm Makarov pistol she was carrying and laid it on the bed. Finally she set the parcel on the table, untied the cloth and opened it.

"Eureka," she whispered. She examined her prize for several minutes and finally got up to make a phone call. She pulled a satellite cell phone, punched some buttons and waited. After a few seconds the connection was made.

"It's me." A pause. "Yes, I have it. Your description was correct. It does have the key to the map. Yes, I think you'll be very pleased." A Cheshire-like smile spread across the woman's face - the kind of smile that comes from the satisfaction of a completed assignment. "No, it proved to be easy to obtain. Easier than I thought. Yes, make sure a ticket is waiting for me at the Karachi airport. First class. In the name of…"

WASHINGTON, D.C.

"Lara Croft?" The Director of NASA was incredulous. "That's your pick?"

"Yes sir," his assistant replied. "She fit the profile completely. She has the background, proper academic credentials and -- er, the aptitude".

The Director laughed sardonically at that. "'Aptitude'. She's a gun-toting Indiana Jane, for crying out loud. We don't need this kind of reputation, Mitch. Not on this mission."

"I thought this would be top secret."

"Yeah, well things manage to leak out. Something like this definitely will. Are you sure she's the only choice?"

Mitch sighed. "Sir, we went through a list of over three hundred archaeologists. Half of them are older than Metheusla's housecat. Most of the remaining ones are just researchers and technicians. Only a handful of them actually went out and searched a hazardous area for any kind of artifact. And none of those have the talent or instincts of this woman. Besides that, she already has a security clearance."

"All right," the Director announced, resigned. "It's Doctor Lara Croft, the Tomb Raider. Now let's see if she'll do it."

CHAPTER TWO Croft Manor Timmonshire, Surrey, U.K. 0623 GMT

Lara's breath came in short gasps and went in little clouds of vapor as she ran. There were no sounds on this crisp, gray morning other than her footfalls on the cold stone. She was running her usual course: twenty laps around the track on top of the twelve-foot high wall surrounding her estate. She enjoyed this run. It gave her a bit of a challenge, on a narrow track with no safety restraints, not to mention the high stone arch over the main gate she had to scale every time she came around. She usually followed this with a workout in the weight room but would have to forego it today because she had a 9AM meeting in Oxford. The London rush hour would be in full force and Lara needed extra time to deal with the traffic.

The purpose of the meeting was the artifact Lara had brought back from Pakistan. It was a clay pot inscribed with a combination of early Arabic writing and symbols that matched those found on French cathedrals built in the Middle Ages. The incredible find confirmed a theory held by Lara and several others on the Oxford archaeology faculty that the Knights Templar had traveled as far as the Himalayas. In fact that theory was the subject of a research paper being written by Dr. Sir William Graves-Urquhart, dean of the Institute for Social and Cultural Anthropology and Lara's "boss". Uncle Wills, as Lara affectionately called him, helped Lara through her Masters studies when she was a student there, really encouraging her to chase after her dreams. He was a surrogate father in many ways, especially right after Lara was cut off from her family. Lara felt close to the old man and was thrilled when he hired her to come back as an adjunct professor-researcher. She was only too happy to search for this artifact when she first heard of it and today would have the pleasure of handing it over.

Lara slowed to a fast walk for the last lap to cool down. She could feel the sweat trickling down her forehead and back. Reaching the zipline tower at the end of the assault course, Lara deftly hopped onto it and zipped down to the ground. She picked up the towel and a bottle of Evian she left and wiped her neck and forehead while guzzling the water. Time for a shower.

Some emails and faxes had come in, Lara noticed as she plopped down in the office chair. She wore a thick terrycloth robe and had her long auburn hair wrapped in a towel, feeling very refreshed from her hot shower. A lot of the usual message traffic this morning. There was a receipt from her New Delhi office for the payment of a one way first class ticket on British Airways from Karachi to Heathrow. Good, Lara thought. She can turn that in to the University today. There were some invitations to various functions and a couple of personal notes from friends. One fax caught her eye. It was from the North Atlantic Seafarer's Association asking her to help with a special research project regarding shipwrecks. Interesting, Lara thought. Not too many calls like this. She set that one aside.

Just then Jeeves entered the office. He bore a tray with fruit, tomato slices, a boiled egg, toast, juice and tea arranged appetizingly on a platter next to a crisply folded edition of the Times.

"Good morning, mum," Jeeves said cheerily.

"Jeeves, darling," Lara beamed. "Good morning. Breakfast smells wonderful. Just set it on the desk here."

"Which car will Miss be needing this morning?" Jeeves asked as he sat the tray in front of Lara. She snatched a piece of toast, slapped a tomato slice on it and chewed it ravenously.

"Hmmm. Well, I am going to see Uncle Wills, aren't I? He does disapprove of my motorbikes. Perhaps the Land Rover might be the wise choice. It'll make me look more responsible and mature."

"I'll have it brought round," Jeeves chuckled. "Enjoy your breakfast, mum."

************************************

The drive from Timonshire to Oxford took less time than Lara estimated. There was an accident at the Leatherhead interchange causing some delays, but the motorway was largely clear. Lara always enjoyed the view as she drove in the the little town. The rich meadows and knots of oak and maple trees that surrounded the University made it seem like a refuge.

Expertly maneuvering the narrow streets of the town, Lara drove around the main building of All Souls College and parked in a special reserved space. As she hopped out she reached into the back seat to recover an aluminum Haliburton briefcase. Inside, packed in a foam rubber cushion, rested the artifact. As Lara strolled to the back entrance of All Souls, she smiled at a couple of students who noticed her and were waving at the famous alumnus of their university. Lara was a minor legend in these parts.

Lara could pass for any professor on the campus. She was dressed in that most British of garments, a tweed jacket, under which went an ivory silk blouse and paisley ascot. The image of adventurer was hinted at by the tight riding pants and high-topped chestnut-brown riding boots, polished to a mirror shine. Something about the way she wore that outfit stopped all conversation as she entered the All Souls foyer. Without batting an eye she turned on her heel and knocked on the first door on the left. After a brief pause, she entered.

"Ah, Lara," Dr. Graves-Urquhart grinned, his arms wide. "How was your trip?" He got out of his armchair just as Lara stepped toward him, giving her a bear hug.

Lara hugged him back, smiling broadly. "It was just fine. I actually made it home without any scratches for once."

The old man retook his seat, gesturing to Lara to sit down opposite him in the other leather wingback chair. He poured two cups of tea as Lara unlatched the briefcase.

"Well, Uncle," Lara said as she lifted the artifact from the foam padding, "Here it is." She carefully sat the clay object on the table. Graves-Urquhart handed her a cup on a little saucer as he gazed at the artifact for the first time.

"Hallo," he intoned. "This is quite the find. You recovered it in northern Pakistan?"

"Mm-hmm," Lara replied, tasting her tea. "Just outside Peshawar. A few miles east of the Khyber Pass."

"'Before the old Peshawur Gate where Kurd and Kaffir meet, the Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street…'" The old man intoned wistfully as he examined the artifact. Noticing Lara's surprised reaction, he grinned wickedly. "A bit bawdy for your proper sensibilities, eh, Doctor?"

Lara's head lowered and eyes narrowed as she spoke with a measured mock-dramatic voice. "'…And that was straight as running noose and swift as plunging knife, tho' he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life.'"

The old man laughed out loud. "Bravo! You've never been at a loss for words, my girl. I see you've been reading your Kipling."

"Well, I knew I was coming to see you today," Lara replied, giggling. "One has to be prepared."

Graves-Urquhart examined the little clay pot intently. He noticed the writing and odd little symbols scrawled around its base. "So, have you deciphered these inscriptions?" His professorial voice was switched on, the same one he used when grilling a doctoral candidate.

"Not all of them," Lara replied crisply. "I do know that these are Arabic, probably from about the 13th Century. I haven't translated them all yet. Dr. Al-Hashiri down the hall will be helping me in that regard. But what interested me were these," Lara brushed her left index finger across several small inscriptions near the lip of the pot. "What do you make of them, Uncle?"

The old man peered at them, holding the pot under the lamp to see them better. Gradually his eyes opened wider. "Hallo, then," he mumbled. "These are…"

"Maltese crosses." Lara interjected. "And not just Maltese crosses, but identical in shape and design to the ones on the front of the Cathedral in Samois-sur-Seine. That's the cathedral where…"

"Where the Knights Templar planned the first Crusade," Graves-Urquhart said, finishing Lara's thought. "My young Doctor Croft, you may have found the first actual evidence that the Knights Templar traveled to Asia. Good show!"

Lara took another sip of tea in triumph. "This pot is also the key to the map, as I said on the phone. I believe those runes or cuneiforms or whatever they are on the bottom are symbols that decode the markings on the map's edge. With that, we can find …"

"Don't say it, young lady," The old man's voice took on a seriousness that stopped Lara's next sentence in her throat. "You don't know that for sure. It's still a myth for all we know. And we haven't even proven the map's authenticity."

Lara was genuinely surprised. The sudden change in Uncle Will's demeanor was odd. She considered protesting his censure, but decided against it.

"Very well, Uncle," Lara sighed. "I shall leave that for another day."

"As well you should, my dear," Graves-Urquhart said as he rose from his chair. "I have an Egyptology lecture in five minutes and the professor cannot be late."

"Certainly not," Lara observed with mock seriousness. "Your students would never learn the Graves-Urquart Theorem of the Lower Nile Migration."

"I see you still have your class notes," the old man chuckled as he donned his traditional black scholar's robe. "Good day, my dear."

To be continued...