The Third Gate Read Online Free PDF Page A

seated at the table, his back to them, hunched over an ancient scroll. He had not moved at their entrance, and did not move now. He appeared completely engrossed in his reading.
    Rush took a step forward to stand beside Logan. Then he quietly cleared his throat.
    For a long moment, the figure did not move. Then he turned slightly in their direction. The old man—for it was clear to Logan he was an elderly scholar—did not bother to make eye contact; rather, he simply acknowledged the new presences. He was dressed in a formal but rather threadbare gray thawb, with faded cotton pants and a hooded linen robe that partially concealed a plain black-and-white patterned ghutra fringing his forehead. Beside him, a tiny cup of Turkish coffee sat on a worn earthenware coaster.
    Logan felt an inexplicable stab of annoyance at this presence. Rush had clearly brought him here to consult some private document: How were they going to keep their business confidential from an elderly scholar, even one who was so insolent as to barely acknowledge them?
    Then—to Logan’s surprise—the old man pushed his chair away from the desk and, very deliberately, stood up to face them. He was wearing a pair of old reading glasses, cracked and dusty, and his seamed face was hidden behind the folds of the hood. He stood, regarding them, eyes indistinguishable behind the ancient spectacles.
    “I’m sorry we’re late,” Rush said.
    The man nodded. “That’s all right. This scroll was just getting interesting.”
    Logan looked from one to the other in confusion. The stranger standing before them had replied in perfect English—American English, in fact, with the faintest whiff of a Boston accent.
    Now, slowly and carefully, the old man pulled back his hood, revealing a shock of brilliant white hair combed carefully beneath the ghutra. He took off the glasses, folded them, and slipped them into a pocket of his robe. A pair of eyes stared back at Logan. Even in the faint light of the archives, they were as pale blue as a swimming pool on the first fresh day of summer vacation.
    Suddenly, Logan understood. The man he was looking at was Porter Stone.

4
    Logan took a step backward. He saw Rush’s hand approach his elbow and instinctively brushed it aside. Already the shock was passing, replaced by curiosity.
    “Dr. Logan,” Stone said, “I’m sorry to surprise you like this. But, as you can no doubt appreciate, I am forced to keep the very lowest of profiles.”
    He smiled, but the smile did not extend as far as his eyes. Those eyes were far more piercing, more brilliant, than the pointillist photo on the cover of Fortune had conveyed. Behind them clearly burned not only a fierce intelligence but an unslakable hunger—for antiquities or wealth or merely knowledge, Logan could not surmise. The man was taller than he’d expected. But the frame beneath the Arab garb was just as thin as the photos in the press had led him to believe.
    Stone nodded to Rush. As the doctor turned to lock the door,Stone shook Logan’s hand, then gestured for him to have a seat. Logan drew no particular impression from the handshake—just a fierce energy out of keeping with such a gaunt frame and almost effeminate features.
    “I didn’t expect to find you here, Dr. Stone,” he said as he sat down. “I thought you kept yourself far removed from your projects these days.”
    “That is what I would like people to believe,” Stone replied. “And for the most part, it’s true. But old habits die hard. There are times even now when I can’t resist doing a little digging, getting my hands dirty.”
    Logan nodded. He understood perfectly.
    “Besides, whenever possible I prefer to talk personally to key members of a new team—especially on a project as important as this one. And of course, I was very curious to meet you face-to-face.”
    Logan was aware the blue eyes were still scrutinizing him. There was something almost pitiless in their intensity: here was someone