“This is my decision as director of the IHA,” Nina said, standing. “I want all resources dedicated to clearing the rest of that area so I can see the final texts.” She turned to Matt. “How long?”
“I dunno,” said the Australian, as surprised as Hayter by the turn of events. “A week, maybe more? There’s a fair old pile of stones that needs to be shifted.”
“Then shift them. This is top priority.” She turned to leave.
Hayter jumped up. “This—this is absolutely insane! You can’t reprioritize an ongoing dig on some personal whim. I know the description of these statues matches the two that Donald Bellfriar examined for the IHA, but that doesn’t mean they’re really the key to god-like powers!”
“If you won’t do it, Lewis, I’ll replace you with somebody who will. The IHA is about more than just archaeology, remember? It’s also got a global security mandate, and like it or not the second of those trumps the first. I need to see those last texts. Are you with me?” Hayter could only respond with silent shock. “Good.” She opened the door.
“I’m—I’ll take this higher.”
“You do that. But in the meantime, you’d better get back to the site. There’s a lot of work to do, and I want it done fast.” She left the room, the team staring after her in stunned bewilderment.
An hour later, Nina’s phone rang. She jabbed at the speaker button. “I told you not to disturb me.”
“Sorry, Nina,” said Lola, “but Mr. Penrose is here. He says he needs to see you urgently.”
Nina frowned. While Sebastian Penrose worked for the United Nations, not the IHA, his position as liaison between the UN and its cultural protection agency gave him a certain degree of authority. “Okay,” she said reluctantly, “send him in.”
The prim, bespectacled Englishman entered. “Afternoon, Nina.”
“Sebastian. I can guess why you’re here.”
“I imagine everyone in the Secretariat Building heard Lewis Hayter throwing a wobbly. But as soon as he said you claimed it was a security issue, I told him to shut up until I’d had a chance to look into it. Not quite that bluntly, of course.” He sat facing her. “So what’s going on?”
Nina turned her laptop so he could see the screen. She had already accessed all of Hayter’s research data on the ongoing excavations and was reading the full translation of the uncovered texts. “The three statues. They’re Atlantean.”
Penrose’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. They’re described here … along with a display of something that can only be earth energy.” She gave him a précis of what was written on the temple wall and how it related to the strange, not yet fully explained lines of power coursing through the planet, the effects of which she had experienced—and barely survived—on some of her previous adventures.
Now his eyes were almost larger than the lenses of his glasses. “Well. I see why you made it a security issue.”
“Damn right. We know that earth energy can be incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands—and it looks like the Atlanteans knew about it eleven thousand years ago. Considering what we know about them now, that they were a race of ruthless conquerors, I don’t consider their hands particularly safe.”
Penrose rubbed his chin, thinking. “So how do you want to proceed?”
“For now, I want to do exactly what I told Lewis. We need to excavate the rest of the altar room and find out what’s written in the final texts—the last records of Atlantis before it sank. If there is an earth energy connection, then we have to find the statues. They’re too dangerous to be left in the open—especially in Stikes’s hands.”
“You think he might find a way to use them?”
“I’m more worried that he might sell them to someone who can. We know the Russians have the ability to build an earth energy weapon—and so does the United States, for that matter.” Both nations had developed systems that could collect and focus the natural power and unleash it on a faraway target with the force of an atomic blast. “It won’t work without a natural superconductor to channel the energy, but I have a horrible feeling that the statues might be exactly what they need.”
“But the superconductor won’t work on its own. They would also need a person who can activate the effect.”
Nina knew exactly what he was suggesting. “Yeah. Someone like me.”
“You know, that might …” He stopped.
“What?”
He hesitated before answering. “If someone did build another earth energy system, to make it work they would need the statues—and you. And if another party wanted to stop them from developing it, well …”
“They might try to kill me?” said Nina, suddenly feeling very cold even in the warm room.
“I’m just saying that this could be dangerous on a personal level, not simply as a global security issue. You’re the only person in the world who is known to be able to channel earth energy. That makes you potentially extremely valuable to some people … and possibly a great threat to others. You need to be careful. Very careful.”
“Careful?” Nina said. “After everything I’ve been through, it’s lucky I’m not completely paranoid! But judging from what’s written in the temple texts, I’m not the only person who’s ever been able to channel earth energy. There was a priestess, Nantalas, who could apparently do the same thing. I guess that proves Kristian and Kari Frost were right—I really am a descendant of the Atlanteans.”
“Personally, I wouldn’t place much stock in the beliefs of a pair of genocidal lunatics,” said Penrose. The IHA had been created in the wake of an attempt to use “pure” recovered Atlantean DNA to genetically engineer a virus that would be lethal to anyone not of that descent. The agency’s task since then had been to ensure that nobody else exploited Atlantis—or any other archaeological discoveries—for similar gain. “But the idea that Atlantis could hold the key to using earth energy … you’re right, it’s definitely a concern. And I absolutely agree with your decision to make it a security matter. If there is any more information in that temple, it needs to be found.”
“We need to find the statues too. And Stikes.”
“I’ll speak to the UN intelligence committee and try to prod its members into stepping up the search. And I’ll talk to the State Department as well, make sure the CIA and National Security Agency get a reminder.” He shook his head. “All those thousands of agents, billions of dollars, computers, satellites … and they can’t find one man.”
More than one, thought Nina, glancing at the photo of herself and Eddie.
She gave Penrose what additional facts she had; then the Englishman departed, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She continued reading Hayter’s files, but anything further the Atlanteans had recorded about the statues remained hidden in the Temple of Poseidon …
The phone rang. Lola again. “Nina, there’s a phone call for you.”
“ ‘Do not disturb’ is still in effect, Lola,” Nina replied testily.
“I know, but I think this could be important.”
Something in Lola’s tone made Nina’s heart pound. Eddie! Was it someone with news about him? Or even her husband himself, finally making contact? “Put it through!”
She waited in tense anticipation for the call to be transferred. A click of the line … then a voice.
It belonged to a man called Chase. But not the one she had hoped to hear.
Larry Chase, Eddie’s father.
THREE
Mozambique
The bar was dimly lit at best, and the haze of smoke made it murkier still. Most of the miasma was from cigarettes, but it was bolstered by the tang of cigars and even whiffs of hashish from the darkest corners.
Eddie shot a disapproving glance toward one of the shadowed users as he stubbed out his cigarette. Secondhand smoke was one thing; secondhand narcotics, another entirely. He flicked another Marlboro out of its pack and was about to light it when he paused, gazing at his reflection in his Zippo. He had qui
t smoking years ago, during his first, short-lived marriage, but the strain of being on the run, perpetually alert for the approaching hand of the authorities, had seen him take up the habit once more.
He shook his head and lit the cigarette. Nina would be furious if she knew, he thought, a sudden gloom settling over him. There was a cellular phone on the scratched table before him, and he could talk to her with a couple of key presses … but he knew it wasn’t possible. For one thing, any contact—on a line that was almost certainly being monitored—could see Interpol eyeing Nina as an accomplice rather than a witness.
For another, from what she had said the last time he saw her, in Peru … she thought he was guilty. She might not even want to speak to him.
So he had to prove his innocence first. Which meant finding Stikes. And doing whatever was necessary to force the truth from him—before his much-deserved death.
He looked at his watch. Strutter was, as expected, late. Tracking down contacts and wheedling information out of them, especially on a subject as risky as Stikes, wasn’t something that could be done on a timetable. But the Kenyan had said earlier that he had a promising lead, so Eddie was willing to wait.
The phone rang. Strutter? No—the number on the screen was British. There was only one person in his home country who knew how to contact him. Nevertheless, he was still cautious and terse when he answered, putting a finger to his other ear to block out the tinny music coming from a tape deck behind the bar. “Yeah?”
“It’s me.” He knew the voice. Peter Alderley, an officer of MI6, the United Kingdom’s foreign intelligence service. Not a friend, exactly—in fact, Eddie rather disliked him—but for now an uneasy ally. The murder of Mac had instilled them both with the need to uncover the truth. Alderley had given Eddie a sporting head start to escape the law in London following their comrade’s funeral, and since then had provided surreptitious updates on Interpol’s search for him during their intermittent contacts.
In return, Eddie had provided Alderley with what information he had uncovered on his travels, and was hoping he had managed to do something useful with it. “What’ve you got?”
“First thing: Interpol is getting closer to you. They know you were just in Botswana.”
“Do they know where I am now?”
“No, but if I were you I’d move on. Sharpish.”
“That’s the plan anyway—I’m just waiting to find out where to go. What else?”
“That paper you found in Jindal’s flat, the one with a number and some Hindi text. I’ve had it checked out—on the quiet, obviously, which is why it took so long. The number could mean anything, of course, but my best guess is the international code for a Greek phone number.”
“Greek?” Eddie was surprised. He couldn’t imagine any possible link between Kit and Greece.
“Yeah. I tried ringing it, but it’s a dead number. The thing is, though, the text with it translates as ‘and the best of the greatest.’ I think what we’ve got here is a fairly simple code. The ‘best of the greatest’ is probably another number, so if you add that to the one you already have, you get the real result.”
“So what’s the other number?”
“Damned if I know. Something significant to Jindal, at a guess. You knew him far better than I did—any idea what it might be?”
Eddie thought about Kit. Youthful, handsome, an idealistic Indian cop who had specialized in the investigation of art thefts before transferring to Interpol to do the same thing in a worldwide jurisdiction. Cheery and good-natured but with steely determination behind his smile, a cricket fan, a Hindu, not as stylish a dresser as he thought he was. A friend.
A friend who had killed another friend in cold blood. Eddie hadn’t witnessed it personally, but when he pieced together everything seen by others there was only one possible conclusion.
Kit had murdered Mac in order to let Stikes escape from El Dorado. He had shot the elderly Scot twice in the back and left him to die.
What Eddie couldn’t fathom was why. Why had the Interpol officer suddenly turned against his friends and the law he had pledged to uphold? Why had he struck a deal with Stikes, a man who just days earlier had tortured him? Blackmail? Brainwashing? Eddie didn’t know.
And Stikes wasn’t the only one of Eddie’s enemies with whom Kit was involved. When Eddie confronted him at the pumping station, he had found not only Kit making a deal with Stikes, but also someone he thought was dead. His ex-wife, Sophia Blackwood. Aristocrat, murderer, terrorist … and seemingly in charge, negotiating with the mercenary and giving Kit orders.
Eddie couldn’t reconcile the friend he thought he knew with the man who had tried to kill him. The contradictions made it impossible for him to get a handle on Kit’s thought processes. “I dunno,” he told Alderley at last. “I just don’t know.”
“Well, keep thinking about it. Maybe you’ll come up with something. I’ll have another poke through Interpol’s file on him to see if anything suggests itself.”
“Just don’t attract any attention. If you get busted, it’ll make it a real pain in the arse for me to stay ahead of the cops.”
“Glad you’ve got my best interests at heart,” Alderley snarked. “But I want to know what happened as much as you do. If I find out something new, I’ll be in touch—and you do the same if you hear anything.”
“Will do. And … thanks.”
“I can’t exactly say it’s my pleasure, for all sorts of reasons, but I appreciate hearing that. Don’t get caught, okay?”
Alderley disconnected. Eddie put down the phone, then tapped the growing length of ash from the end of his cigarette and took a drag. The best of the greatest. But who or what was the greatest in Kit’s mind?
He thought back three months. One of his first ports of call after fleeing Peru, and then England after paying his last respects to both his late grandmother and Mac, had been India. Eddie had broken into the young cop’s apartment to find it had already been searched by Interpol officers trying to learn more about the circumstances of his death. Suspecting that Kit would have kept his secrets hidden in a way his colleagues wouldn’t expect, he had eventually discovered something concealed in plain sight. Interpol had taken Kit’s laptop and printer but left the latter’s paper … and written on the bottom sheet, Eddie found words in Hindi and a number.
Alderley had to be right. It was a code, one that could give him the answers he wanted. But without the clue he needed to crack it, it was worthless …
The music changed: the opening bars of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.” One of Eddie’s favorite records, but on this occasion it filled him with an unexpected melancholy. At one time, it had been a symbol of his wanderlust and desire for action when he felt stifled by the demands of his relationship with Nina and an office job at the IHA. Now, though, a life of everyday domesticity with her was the thing he wanted most in the world. Longing pulled at his heart …
“Eddie, my friend!” Strutter’s voice jerked him back to grim reality. He looked around to see the middleman approaching, wearing an electric blue suit and a purple silk shirt beneath it.
“You found some new threads, then,” said Eddie as Strutter sat opposite him.
“I have an image to maintain.” He regarded Eddie’s beard. “You should consider yours too.”
Eddie shrugged. “I dunno, I like it. Makes me look distinguished.”
“More like disreputable. But as for myself, I wouldn’t attract many clients in prison rags, would I?”
“Lose much business while you were away?”
“In Africa, there is always business for mercenaries. I’m already getting back into the heart of the storm. It takes more than Zimbabwean thugs to keep down Johnny Strutter!” Registering Eddie’s thoroughly unimpressed expression, he became more muted. “But you no longer want to be part of that world, do you, my friend? A shame—you always were a very good fighter. Still, there will be plenty of work for Maximov.” He tapped his forehead. “Not too smart, but the man
is like a walking tank!”
“I’m only interested in Stikes,” Eddie said impatiently. “Do you know where he is or not?”
Strutter leaned closer. “No. But,” he added quickly, “I know someone who does. I put the word out to my contacts, and I heard back from a man in Yemen, who had spoken to another man in Pakistan—”
“I don’t care who talked to who. I just want to know what they said.”
The sharpness in Eddie’s voice warned Strutter to stick to the facts. “Okay, okay. There is an American called Scarber, Madeline Scarber, in Hong Kong. She knows where Stikes is.”
“So where is he?”
Strutter shifted uncomfortably. “Well, the thing is, my friend … she would not tell me. She will tell you—but only in person.”
Eddie had never heard of Madeline Scarber, and didn’t like that the reverse was apparently not the case. “Why?”
“I don’t know. But that’s what she told me.”
“How do you know she’s not working for Interpol? Or Stikes, for that matter?”
Strutter shook his head. “People I trust have vouched for her.”
“The only people you trust are on banknotes, Strutter,” Eddie said scathingly. “You’ve spoken to her?”
“Yes.”
“Recently? Like, just now?”
“Before I came here, yes.”
“Call her. I want to talk to her.”
The Kenyan wasn’t happy at the prospect. “I don’t know if that is a good idea.”
“Flying all the way to Hong Kong to meet someone I don’t even know on your say-so isn’t a good fucking idea either. Make the call.”
Strutter reluctantly acquiesced. After a brief exchange, he held his phone out to Eddie. “She’ll talk to you.”
“Good.” He took it. “Madeline Scarber?”
“Speaking” came a dry, rasping voice. Scarber was clearly a chain-smoker; she sounded quite old.
“I’m told you’ve got some information for me. About Alexander Stikes.”
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