The 5th Amulet

by SJ Hailey

  ‘Eli, I am going to do a panning shot of this area, and then I am going to have to cut through one of the walls, the doors are jammed.’

  He turned his head, scanning with experienced eyes, looking for a weak spot on the walls, he saw a hatch of sorts on the right side, its hinges discoloured, they would not move, but the hatch would be easier to cut through than the walls, or the reinforced doors. He removed a small circular saw, and began to cut a neat square in the hatch, just inside the original border. Within minutes he had removed the timber, teak from the smell of it, and bagged it up as a sample for later. He left the duffle bag outside, squeezed through the opening the hatch was concealing. About two feet in was another hatch, but with a push from a strong shoulder, it gave, allowing him access to the room beyond.

  The room was pitch dark, only the tubes of light emitted by his headlights highlighted what was directly in front of him. He decided to use night vision, and clipped the goggles onto his helmet, turning off the headlights. In the green hue he could see the cabin he had entered, an officer’s, possibly the Captain.

  In the corner the remains of a person, tied to a chair, a sword still on his belt, but no waist to speak off. Jacob thought that nothing was of value here, and no clue as to the ships origin. Then he saw a symbol carved into the wall, he only recognised it, as it was his son’s name in Chinese, archer. He rubbed away and found an edge surrounding the symbol, sealed with wax, or was it sap?

  The area was about three feet by two feet, and he radioed to Eli, ‘Can you see this? I presume something was sealed behind this, in a hurry.’

  ‘Perhaps Jacob, how do you want to proceed?’

  ‘Well Eli, normally I would take my time to preserve as much of the site as possible, but considering that this could submerge, and will melt in about a week anyway, I am going to carefully remove this, but place everything into the bags.’

  ‘Okay, do you want to take your helmet off and we can see from behind you?’

  ‘Good idea Eli.’

  Jacob liked Eli, never afraid of authority, and never an issue giving advice to someone more senior, in years or rank.

  Jacob made a pile of debris, placed his helmet complete with cameras and lights onto it, illuminating the area. Without the night goggles, his only area of sight was the wall, and a few refractions of light from the water, he had put the bag on a hook in the wall.

  The sap was tough and he used his ice axe to score and remove it, dropping some samples into plastic bags and sealing them up. His hands were cold, the gloves hindering his progress, so tucked into his pockets, but allowing his fingers to probe and investigate the wall.

  A corner of the archer wall plate was exposed, and Jacob pushed four fingers into the slot, applying pressure to the timber, grimacing to avoid the crack as the timber gave way. However, the timber did not yield or flex, it popped out, dropping onto his foot, and bouncing off the Kolfach boot protecting it. He recovered the board, inspecting the back of it, some words etched in Chinese on the rear, but a rumble and movement of the water in the room stopped his inspection. The berg was moving, water swilling around, he braced against the wall, and within seconds the movement settled down. He shrugged at the camera and continued, turning back to the new opening in the wall. Within was a large red box, he touched the surface; it was wax, a box of wax?

  He could just make out an embedded rope handle, pulled it gently. The box slid towards him, it seemed light, but he placed a hand under it as a precaution. He removed the heavy box, and placed it on his makeshift table, picking up the camera and giving Eli the grand tour.

  He put his helmet back on Eli’s voice coming over the radio, ‘Hello Jacob, are there you are? I think the box is Chinese, not the signage, they sometimes used wax balls to protect messages in transit, it is possible they applied the same logic to this box and sealed it to protect it.’

  ‘Perhaps Eli but why seal it in a wall?’

  Jacob went back to the hole, retrieved a tube also sealed in wax. He placed it in a bag, and added it to his duffle. Put a strap around the wax box, covered it with a plastic bag to protect it. Then the room turned over.

  Eli was shouting in his headset, but Jacob was concerned with the room rotating, the wax box and table it was upon shifting with the water now running across the room. He was thrown twelve feet, the water cushioning his fall, and then he was buried under the pursuing debris.

  He stood up, getting his bearings, the room now at a forty-five degree angle, the berg had moved substantially.

  ‘Jacob! Jacob!’

  Eli screaming in his ear, Jacobs calm but determined manner responding, ‘Eli, relax.’

  ‘Jean here, Jacob, this berg has shifted again.’

  ‘No Shit! Really? I hadn’t noticed until the room moved!’

  ‘Sorry Jacob, I think you have no time, get out now.’

  Jacob did not reply, no need, the helicopters engines hummed overhead, which was now to his right. As he turned he realised the hole he had entered from was now underwater, he would have to go down to come up. He grabbed the duffle bag. Without hesitation he pushed it and himself under the black water. He emerged within seconds to an illuminated area, the helicopter already on station overhead, a cable dangling enticingly before him. Jean was good.

  Jacob clipped him and the duffle onto the cable and waved to the vigilant Canadian, his face hidden by the glare of the floodlight. The wind hit hard as he breached the hull, sailing a few feet and started a pendulum motion as he was winched to the relative safety of the helicopter. Jacob scrambled into the cabin reached out and pulled the duffle in, and placed it on the seat. The weight of the box had quite exhausted him. Before the door slammed Jean was heading back.

  ‘Bonjour Jacob, glad you could make it!’

  ‘No my friend glad you could!’

  As Jacob glanced out the window the banking aircraft afforded him the final view as the wooden hull disappeared below the water, the berg turning again to smother its passenger, disappearing into the veil of black rain.

  EIGHT

  Mabalia, Horn of Africa.

  Archer had retired for the night, all sentries set and briefed, he retrieved his phone and weapons from their safes, opened his secure laptop and placed the memory card into the slot. The usual junk appeared, calendar, women’s phone numbers, Khan was such a hound-dog, and some secure files. They were password protected, which was not a problem, but Archer knew that Khan would have rigged them to scrap the files, and the whole memory card if the password was entered incorrectly twice. He sat and thought, checking his email and contact websites for old friends, and then he realised, motorbikes. Khan and Archer had a mutual interest in motorbikes. They had a website which they used for leaving messages, a dead drop.

  Archer logged onto the site, and sure enough a picture of a motorbike posted the day Khan met Archer. The picture was from a display they had both seen back in the States. Archer clicked on the picture, and entered a code, no cursor on the screen no indication to anyone else who casually found the site. He pressed enter and the picture changed, revealing a short message from Khan, ‘My friend if you find this, I am dead. The word you are seeking is wrath. Goodbye and take care.’ Archer smiled, ‘A trekkie to the end.’

  He entered wrath and the memory card opened up the secure files. Archer scanned through them quickly and then transmitted copies to an online email address, deleting all records of the message and the files he used. He took the memory card out, secured his kit, and was about to leave to discuss his findings with the President when the phone rang.

  ‘Mr Darnay, it is Chui Enzi, may I meet with you in the reception room.’

  ‘Mr Enzi, this is not a good time, can’t it wait?’

  ‘No I am afraid the issue is most urgent, please come now.’

  Archer walked swiftly down to the reception room at the front of the building; the President had made it clear that Enzi was not to ever venture further than this in the palace.

  Enzi was seate
d on an antique Queen Anne chair, arms resting on the exquisitely polished wood, his legs crossed, suit immaculate. The room was all white, recently redecorated to impress diplomats and visitors alike, the deep blue heavy curtains reached up over fifteen feet to the ceiling and intricate plasterwork encircling the room. The floor was recovered marble, from a destroyed hotel, and the delicate grey flecks tricked the eye that the floor was partially fluid. Enzi sat on this sea of stone, motionless, a moderate smile forced onto his face at Archer’s approach.

  Enzi invited Archer to sit, gesturing with a finely manicured hand, the smile dissipating as he spoke.

  ‘Mr Darnay, which of course we both know is not your true name. Who did you meet today in town?’

  ‘Mr Enzi, I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Mr Darnay, don’t insult my superior intelligence, you met with a fellow operative in a bar, would you like to know what you ordered to drink? Or perhaps you would like to see photos?’

  ‘Would that be from the large gentlemen with the military tattoo on his left forearm?’

  ‘Touché Mr Darnay, or should I say Mr Archer Mathias?’

  Archer paused, this was unexpected, his cover was sound, Protection Incorporated had seen to it. Someone had given his info to Enzi, and that was extremely hazardous.

  ‘You appear surprised Mr Mathias, that a man, such as myself, could have access to such information, believe me you have no idea of my resources and contacts. Now the operative, what did he give you?’

  ‘I can genuinely tell you, he gave me nothing but polite conversation.’

  Enzi was unusually flustered, and agitated, he adjusted his seating position, but was cautious not to make a hostile movement.

  Archer did not see Mr Smith, one of Enzi’s senior operatives in the doorway. With a barely audible waft of air, a tranquilliser gun fired a dart into Archer’s neck. Archer reached for his handgun, another man swiftly disarmed him, and the drug coursed into his neck. Within seconds he was incapacitated.

  Enzi beckoned to Mr Smith, a large man over six feet seven inches tall, bulky solid build, barely fitting into his custom suit. Archer was picked up in the broad hands, and placed over Mr Smith’s shoulder in one fluid movement. A four-wheel drive jeep had reversed up; tailgate awaited its fresh cargo. Archer was dumped in the back, alongside some plastic sheeting, his feet tucked in. Smith searched and removed all weapons and electronic equipment he could find.

  ‘Mr Jones please go to Mr Mathias room and empty it, I want no trace he was ever there. ‘

  Within minutes the covert group had departed the Presidential compound, the guards Archer had spent so many hours training not noticing the strange hour of the jeeps departure.

  Archer regained consciousness with a sore head, he was unsure if the drug he was given, or his head banging against the floor of the vehicle was the cause. He felt around his surroundings; he was not tied up and had none of his kit. A torch rolled into his face, he was startled but turned it on.

  The illuminated space was standard jeep trunk, and a lump of plastic next to him. He pulled it over, and the bloody face of someone looked back. The plastic blurring their remains of their features. The jeep came to a quick stop, slamming Archer into the bodywork, slightly cushioning his impact. He braced himself, aimed his feet at the trunk lid, the intent to push it into the face of any possible assailant. The keys clicked in the lock, and the boot swung up. All Archer kicked was air, two large men stood back from the boot, anticipating his actions.

  ‘Mr Mathias, please calm yourself, we did not expect you to be awake.’

  A second dart hit his chest.

  He awoke in a shed, light streaked in through the tin roof and wooden slated walls, the floor a mixture of sand and sawdust, recently added. This time he was restrained, strapped to an old tractor wheel tilted up at an angle, his legs and arms spread so he formed a human X shape upon it. He instinctively pulled at his bonds, but to no avail, his shirt and boots removed, only his combat pants remained.

  He could smell a sea breeze amongst the wood and dust, to be near the coast meant he was at least fifty miles from the capital Mabalia City. He had no idea how long they had been travelling but now it was very hot, probably middle of the day. He gathered his thoughts, remembering his training, how to escape. Over near the door was a green rucksack he recognised, his handgun and holster poking out one side, they had removed all his property, not intending him to return. The two guards adjacent to the door ignored his movements, one talking quietly into a radio, the other nodding his head to music from the MP3 player around his neck. The door opened, light streaming in, causing Archer to squint and turn his head, the sun blocked briefly by the bulk of two men entering.

  ‘Mr Mathias, I am an assistant to Mr Enzi, you can call me Mr Jones. This is my associate, Mr Smith.’

  ‘Pleasure I’m sure.’

  Mr Jones was over six feet tall, slender but robust build, and a baldhead. He was older than Smith, grey spikes showing through on his face as he had not shaved. Jones was not as much of a concern as his colleague Mr Smith was.

  Archer had been warned of him, over six feet seven inches tall, large muscular frame, reminded Archer of the character from ‘The Green Mile‘. His skin very well looked after, a healthy sheen, and a disfiguring circular scar on his right cheek. The result of a bullet exiting by his right ear, taking off his earlobe. The man who shot him was never found and no second shot was heard. The rumour was that Smith beat him to death, or ripped off his arms and legs in a rage.

  ‘Mr Smith is here in case my questions are not answered, we will have to trust his limited experience, as Mr Enzi’s expert interrogator is other occupied.’

  Smith moved forward standing directly in front of Archer’s spread legs, Jones to the side, talking calmly in his left ear.

  ‘Mr Mathias, Archer. You need to tell us what your friend told you. What did Khan say?’

  ‘Just what lousy taste you have in ties I think.’

  ‘Very funny Archer. Once more, what did he tell you?’

  Archer did not respond. Jones nodded to Smith, who punched Archer in the mouth, a pulled punch as full strength would have rendered him unconscious.

  ‘Archer, that is just a taste of Mr Smith’s talents; tell me what I need to know and this will stop.’

  ‘I am sorry Jones, but Khan did not give me any information at our meeting.’

  Smith hit Archer again, this time in the chest; a rib snapped immediately, the hot searing pain coursed through his side.

  ‘You have twelve ribs each side Archer, and we will keep breaking one for every question, how about that?’

  ‘Jones it does not matter, I cannot tell what I don’t know!’

  ‘Let’s get more specific, did he say anything to you about the Bow of Yi? Or perhaps he mentioned an artefact?’

  ‘I told you nothing but polite conversation.’

  ‘You may think you are strong Archer, I have read you were a decorated US Ranger, an honourable man, brave. Do you think not helping us is brave? Do you think any Ranger is coming to save you?’

  ‘You can think what you want Jones, and as for was a Ranger, I will always be a Ranger.’

  ‘I am sure. We will soon discover how well you are trained.’

  Jones moved over to Archer, leaning over the tyre so he could speak quietly into his ear, ‘I whisper because I do not want to offend Mr Smith. You see he did not hold back with Mr Khan, as he is with you, and this caused Mr Khan to expire rather quicker than we anticipated.’

  ‘Well I am sure that Mr Smith regrets his lack of self-control.’

  ‘Archer, you really should not mock him, he is easily provoked.’

  Jones moved over to the chair near the door, opened a file, glanced at pictures and then returned to Archer. ‘These are pictures of people dying of cancer, terrible aren’t they? That is how your mother died isn’t it?’

  Archer glared at Jones, pulling against his bonds.

  ‘I do t
hink that a dedicated Army man resigns just two months after his mother’s death. Are you a, what is the phrase? Mummy’s boy?’

  ‘I will not dignify that with a response.’

  ‘That is what your friend Mr Khan said; oh did I mention that we are framing you for his brutal murder?’

  He pulled back a blanket, showing Khan’s bloody body wrapped in plastic, the flies attempting to gain a feed.

  ‘Well Mr Smith will spend some time with you, and then I will return to see if you have changed your mind. You should know that the technique he is going to use was actually approved by your former President, quite ironic.’

  Before Jones left, Smith repeatedly punched Archer around the face, chest, stomach and legs, this continued for about five minutes. Archer was battered, the pain in his face head and upper body combining into a throbbing mass even adrenaline could not mask. Smith collected a bucket of water and a towel. ‘You giving me a nice wash Mr Smith?’ Smith did not respond, he placed the towel over Archer’s face, holding it over his nose and mouth with one hand.

  Archer knew what was coming, and was trying to hold his breath; Jones seeing his chest expand hit him in the solar plexus. Archer let out a wheeze as the unexpected jab expelled all his air. Smith replaced the towel and began to pour water over it from the bucket. The towel was quickly overloaded, water going into Archer’s nose, he tried to keep his mouth closed but his body instinctively gasped for air, his mouth opened and filled with water. Smith emptied the bucket, and was refilling it with a hose. Archer gasped attempting to regain breath before the next onslaught.

  Smith continued this and even with the return of Mr Jones, who repeated his questions, Smith was relentless. The torture did not abate for over two hours, Smith had done this before, and left just enough time between soakings so his victim did not drown or pass out. Archer of course was trained to resist interrogation, even something like this; he remained silent on the contents of Khan’s message.