by Jay Stringer
He looked back through all the documents and could now piece more of the puzzle together. These records to a soldier, James Gilmore, and the NHS files on a man known as James with no surname. The same man? A century apart?
There was a document of notes from Chase. He scanned down her list.
Khartoum is a long walk from where he was found.
Hass smiled and shook his head at that. It was the mistake people always make, looking at navigating Africa from the air or from maps. They think of deserts and jungles, of the large, vast distances to be crossed to get anywhere. But Chase should know better by now. Traveling down through the continent, especially in the time of these soldiers, was all about the Nile.
Khartoum was the meeting point of the Blue Nile and the White Nile. From that spot, you could go one way, down into modern Ethiopia, or go the other, through South Sudan, into Uganda and the Great Lakes region. A British regiment “lost” in Sudan could get anywhere in eastern Africa just by following the water.
She’d wanted him to look at these files fresh for this very reason. His eyes. His experiences. His knowledge.
What else were they missing?
What else had been missed?
He focused back on the photograph. That was the thing that was pulling at his thoughts. Forget the video. Forget the old man, the real or fake James Gilmore. The key questions were why was the photo taken, and what had it survived?
The only way to answer those questions was to find out about the person who took it. Hass clicked through the rest of the files, eventually coming to the back of the photograph. It listed the place and the date, and then, down at the bottom, were three letters. The first character was clearly visible. H. The middle character was half erased by a fold in the photograph, but it looked like an M. The third was faded, almost washed away by water damage. In most circumstances, it would have been impossible to guess what that last initial was. But in this context, with the time and the place the photograph was taken, Hass was confident he could complete the handwritten clue: H. M. S. Henry Morton Stanley.
His was a name that would forever be associated with African exploration. Stanley was a journalist, born in Britain but naturalized in the States. He’d been part of many of the most famous expeditions across central and southern Africa. He was the man who, after searching for a lost friend for several weeks, got to say the famous line “Doctor Livingston, I presume?” He had explored the Congo and had a mountain named after him. And, during the many conflicts in Sudan, he had used his local expertise to lead rescue and escape missions.
Stanley was as well-known for exaggeration as he was for discovery. His writings were a mix of truth and tall tales, especially in relation to his own background and achievements. He was generally considered honest about the places he’d visited, though, and his work was still seen as important to Britain and America. Depending on which side of history you were on, he was a great adventurer and modernizer, or he was the poster boy of colonialism and theft.
Everybody knew which side of that divide Hass was on.
But why had one of the most famous explorers in history photographed this particular regiment? Why had the picture survived? Why had this picture come to the attention of whoever had gathered all of this information together?
Hass searched the internet for Henry Morton Stanley Fountain of Youth and found nothing of note. He tried Henry Morton Stanley Macrobia. The result was the same. The third search was Henry Morton Stanley Punt. He got dozens of hits. Egyptian hieroglyphs had only been translated a generation before Stanley’s time, so the history had still felt fresh and new. Most of the links were a variation on the same quote from Stanley’s autobiography, published in 1909, in which he mentioned hearing tales “of the mountains of Punt, covered in silver and fire, and guarded by evil spirits.”
Most of the links were blogs, news reports, and websites about Punt itself and didn’t provide any context or extra detail on the quote. Hass found scanned PDFs of Stanley’s other books online, but not a complete version of the autobiography.
He needed a hard copy.
And he knew exactly where he’d get one.
TWENTY
Nash knew he was being watched. He didn’t like it.
He and Lenny were leaning against the railings outside Camden Town tube station, on the busy junction where six roads met in a collision of noise and life. High street chain stores blended with street stalls, and two buskers were playing competing styles of music. The sidewalks were packed, and each person who walked past seemed to be of a different ethnicity.
None of this was new to Nash. He’d been in most of the countries on the map, had even been present at the creation of a few of them. He was well accustomed to looking and feeling at home wherever he went. Lenny, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to step outside of his own character. He looked like his skin was itching, and he’d said at least five offensive things in the time they’d been standing there. Nash was starting to suspect Lenny had probably been arrested in France for saying something completely inappropriate.
They were waiting for a sign. Lenny had made contact when they got into town, arranging a meeting with R18. He’d framed it as a deal. I introduce you to August Nash, living legend, you forget how you want me dead.
The plan was to stand in this spot and await another message on Lenny’s phone. Nash knew there were eyes on them right now, assessing their threat, deciding whether to go ahead with the meeting. After a few more seconds, Lenny’s phone beeped.
“It says to walk north up Kentish Town Road, and we’ll know when to stop,” he reported. “But… how do we know which way is north? Hang on, I’ve got an app.”
Nash rolled his eyes and pushed off from the metal barricade. Lenny fell in beside him, delivering another of his long, pointless monologues, but Nash filtered it out and focused on his surroundings. The street was lined with e-cigarette stores, and the area clearly had an abundant supply of halal fried chicken.
As they neared the bridge, he became aware they’d picked up a tail. He used the glass of a shop front to tell him it was a large bald man, wearing black jeans and a tight, long-sleeved black T-shirt. It wasn’t subtle. Either this guy was an amateur or he was highly trained and giving Nash the professional courtesy of announcing his presence.
After a few more paces, Nash got his answer. A second tail fell into step with them across the street, dressed the same way, with an identical haircut. The only difference was the new guy had short sleeves, and Nash could make out the bottom of a Nordic hammer tattoo. It was a common symbol among the European white-power types. A lot of heavy metal fans liked the imagery, too, and the hammer was a good way to hide in plain sight. Nash made eye contact with the second guy, who looked away fast. He hadn’t deliberately revealed himself, and now he was angry at being blown. These were the people he was looking for, but they seemed to be amateurs.
Lenny, lost in whatever he was saying, hadn’t noticed a thing.
They crossed the bridge over the canal. Immediately on the other side, a small man stepped out ahead of them. He was dressed differently. Khaki work trousers and a linen shirt hanging off a tight, wiry frame. He wore yellow-tinted glasses and sported a goatee that had been precision-trimmed. He looked relaxed and confident, giving off enough menace to let Nash know he was a grade above the two tails. He was a professional.
Lenny clearly recognized him. His step faltered. “Uh, Danny. Hi. This is—”
“August Nash.” Danny spoke with a faint Belfast accent. “We’ve met.”
It took Nash a few more seconds to place Danny, without showing that he hadn’t recognized him at first. It had been a younger version of Danny, without the goatee or glasses, and with bleached spiky hair, who had tried to recruit him for R18. He’d looked softer back then. He’d put in some real work in the intervening years.
“Danny.” Nash offered his hand in shake. Danny’s grip was strong.
Danny eyed Lenny with contempt but kept his conve
rsation directed at Nash. “You keep some strange company, Mr. Nash.”
“Keep your enemies close, but your idiots closer.”
“Hey.” Lenny’s voice rose in indignation, but he quieted down again when Danny glared at him. As Danny’s head was turned, Nash got a look at the earpiece he was wearing.
“I think you can relate.” Nash smiled and turned to look at the two tails.
Danny eyed them coolly. “Yes. Please, follow me.”
They turned down a narrow set of steps to the canal towpath. They were greeted there by a woman, the largest of the crew so far, who towered over everyone except Nash. She had the same haircut as the two tails but twice as much muscle.
Danny asked permission for both Nash and Lenny to be searched, but it was the kind of request that came pre-answered. In a surprisingly high northern accent, the woman asked them to empty their pockets and handed their cells to Danny before patting them down. Danny put their phones into a small black case, then scanned Nash and Lenny for any further electronic signals. Once they’d passed the inspection, the woman and the two street guards turned to Danny and put their hands out as if for a shake. Nash noticed that each of them had their thumb and index finger curled to touch, forming a circle, and their remaining fingers were pressed together and out straight. They slid their hands on the inside of Danny’s, in a bizarre impression of a handshake, until their index fingers touched and formed the number eight. Once they’d each done it, they left, heading back up the steps.
“They have somewhere to be,” was all Danny said as explanation.
There was the sound of a small outboard engine, and Nash turned to see a rubber boat coming toward them along the smooth surface of the canal’s water. It was piloted by yet another nondescript skinhead. The boat slapped into the brick towpath, and Danny gestured for Nash and Lenny to climb aboard.
“I don’t really need to tag along,” Lenny said.
Danny pointed again at the boat. “We’re all going.”
Once they were all on, the pilot squeezed on the throttle again and they jerked away from the side, continuing around a bend and past the Camden Lock Market. Beside a large redbrick building, the footpath rose up into a bridge, forming a tunnel that appeared to lead straight into the building. The boat turned into the tunnel. In the darkness, Nash could make out huge metal girders overhead, supporting the weight of the structure above them. They were in a small, covered canal basin. The boat pulled in beside a metal ladder. Danny handed the black case containing the cell phones to the boatman and started to climb the ladder, telling Nash and Lenny to follow him. The ladder led up and over a wall that looked to have been added recently, set into a much older archway. On the other side, Danny flicked a switch and strips of halogen light filled out the space around them. They were standing in a brick tunnel, with low arches only just above their heads.
They walked deeper into the network of tunnels, coming to a recent addition, a wall made of gray cinder block that blocked the passageway. There was a door in the middle of the new wall, covered in a curtain. Danny pulled the drape aside and nodded for Nash and Lenny to step through. Now they were standing in a much larger space, with a high brick ceiling and square walls. The surfaces had all been drywalled and painted, and the floor was covered in sound-absorbent carpet tiles. It was decorated like the dream of a bachelor apartment or a hipster bar, with pool tables, large leather sofas, and television screens as large as panel trucks. There were other curtains at the end, which Nash guessed covered other doorways. Nash and Lenny shared a look and a shrug, then followed Danny to the sofas. He waited for them to sit down before settling onto the sofa opposite.
“So, how can we help, Mr. Nash?”
“What is this place?”
“There’s a network of tunnels down here. Used to be stables for the railyard ponies, and transport passages to get goods between the trains and the boats. It was just sitting derelict until we took it.”
“Impressive.”
“This is just part. We’ve got a kitchen, dorm rooms, a shooting range, a gym.”
“Hotel Nazifornia.”
Danny didn’t crack a smile. “I seem to remember, when I offered you a job, you said you didn’t want to work with a bunch of ‘goose-stepping morons.’ ”
“I’m short with people who are getting between me and a drink.”
Danny turned his focus to Lenny. “And last time we spoke, I’m sure I told you I’d cut out your tongue and mail it to your ma.”
“She’s dead.” Lenny shrugged before realizing that wasn’t the best tone to take in the circumstances. “Uh, sorry, buddy. Really. Nothing personal. And we agreed.” He turned to gesture at Nash with both hands. “He’s here.”
“You didn’t agree with me.” Danny’s voice was cold. Nash decided he must be a hell of a poker player. “But it’s not my call.”
Nash got two things from this. First, Danny wasn’t in command. This was another audition before being allowed to meet the top guy. Second, Danny’s tone told them he wasn’t happy about the current setup. He resented whoever was above him and the orders he was being given. Nash filed that away. It might come in handy.
Nash leaned forward in his seat, deciding on the direct approach. “I want to meet Lothar Caliburn.”
Danny’s head twitched in a way that suggested he was listening to a message through his earpiece. He got to his feet and nodded to Nash.
“I’ll take you to him.”
TWENTY-ONE
The kettle needed to be boiled again by the time Mason and Chase had finished their brief fumble. It was more stress relief than anything else. Mason had always known how to get Chase at her loudest, and Chase, for her part, had always known the right places to touch to get Mason to drop her act.
Now dressed, smiling, and breathing deep, Mason handed Chase a black coffee and settled into the seat across the table. “Still thinking about Kara?”
“Tara. I think we broke the leg,” Chase said, rocking the table with her hands.
“It was a noble way to go. You don’t look yourself. Are you okay?”
“Feeling it.” Chase breathed out, leaned into the wood of the chair. “Travel. Dirt. I’m thinking it’s time I got out.”
“Heard that before.”
Mason had been the one to help fix Chase’s reputation, to set her up with the job offers. The dance of Chase threatening to retire from the black market was one they’d done a number of times.
“This time I mean it. I’ve been feeling…” She looked out at the brick wall for a moment. “We had fun together, didn’t we?”
“Okay, now I’m worried. What’s wrong?”
Chase shook her head, then ran a hand through her hair and carried down to massage the back of her own neck. “I don’t know. I’m off-balance. Been feeling strange the last few days. Aster Bekele screwed me over, and I let her. The thing with Zoe a couple years ago. Us. There’s a girl back home, a bike messenger. She’s fun, but…” Chase paused. Shook her head. “Ignore all that. I’m just off-balance. I found the Ark.”
“As in…?”
“Yeah, as in. In Ethiopia.”
“Did it shoot lasers or anything? Any faces melt?”
“It’s just a wooden box.”
“Wow. I mean, that’s… wow.”
“But then Bekele stole it away from me. That’s what I meant, screwed me over. She said it belonged there, in the country where I found it. And you know, I thought I agreed with that? Except…”
“Except?”
“I’ve had this feeling ever since, like it was mine. I walked past a synagogue in New York and I got all emotional. I’ve never felt that before. I almost went in. I think maybe I wish I had. It felt like… I think maybe it felt like faith? I don’t know.”
“I think that’s probably natural. The Ark—I can’t believe I’m saying that, so cool—the Ark is part of your history, too. I mean, it was your people’s. And I know you’ve never believed in any of it, but even still. If
you find proof that your people did actually carry the thing that the book says they carried…”
“Yeah.”
“But this isn’t the first time you’ve found real history.”
Mason was one of the few people who knew what Chase had found in the cave beneath Alexandria. She didn’t know the full story. Only four other people in the world knew that. But Mason knew enough. She’d known about the weapon they’d discovered, and helped Chase get it back out of the UK. As far as MI6 and the UK government knew, the weapon had been destroyed during the attack.
“Do you ever think about that?” Chase said. “About what we hid? Who gets to own history like that? Who gets to make that decision?”
Mason tilted her head, shrugged. “I make decisions like that every day. It’s my job. You’re overthinking all of this.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Thinking’s not really my style. I’m just done. It’s time to get out of the game and live that normal life everyone always tells me about. But I got this one last loose end to tie up first.”
“Why are you looking for Ashley Eades?”
“I think she’s in trouble.”
Mason smiled. “That much I know.”
Chase finally saw it. Of course that was why LaFarge had led her to Mason. “It was you,” she said. “You arranged it.”
“Someone else did the cleaning, I just made the introductions. But I need to know why you’re after her. Even you.”
Chase thought it over. What was the easiest way into the story? “Someone tried to hire me to find Macrobia.”
“Sounds like a kitchen cleaner.”
Chase laughed. “Right? It’s actually a legendary lost country. Somewhere that might be in Africa or India. Could be on the Arabian Peninsula, too, I guess. But given what I just found, and where I found it, I’m leaning toward Africa.”
