Under a flickering flame, the intricate, flowing designs — covering every square inch of the walls and arched ceiling — might have seemed ominous, but Jasper would suffer no such indignity. Light as bright as day flooded the narrow passage, stripping the etchings of their mystique but not their mystery.

Harlow reached out his gloved hand and traced the outer lines of a large spiral — disturbing the dust that had covered it for millennia — his eyes drawn towards the center. Jasper, now several steps ahead, looked back with an expression of impatience and barely concealed contempt. It took Harlow a moment to notice Jasper’s lingering gaze, and when he did he studiously avoided eye contact and sheepishly wiped his hand on his absurd urban camouflage jacket. He quickened his pace, but continued to idly study his surroundings.

The tense silence was broken by the crackle of Jenkins’ radio. Through it Markin said, in his thick Russian accent , “Jenkins, get over here.” And, with characteristic gravitas, “Now.”