by Tom Haase
The cell phone rang. This call came on the phone he only used with the buyers of his arms. No one else knew the number. He’d learned long ago to keep a separate phone for this business and not to mix anything to do with the arms sales on his other cell.
“You owe us some weapons,” came the familiar voice of Ashil who delivered the money to him at the farmhouse.
“I believe not. You handed me the money, which I accepted and you took possession of the weapons. Remember, you started to load your weapons on your truck. They were yours at that time, not mine. The fact you lost them after that is your responsibility.” He determined to make sure the blame wasn’t his.
“Mr. Alexandro, I do not think you want to make an enemy of us. Do you hear me?”
“Are you threatening me? I acted in good faith with you on every one of these transactions. You know I control the entire East Coast. If you want weapons, you have to go through me. Somebody talked and since I’m the only person on my team, it wasn’t me. Therefore, one of your minions betrayed you.”
“I’ll concede you that point. We’re looking into it as we speak. We do need the weapons. You have been our only source and a good one. We wish to continue with that arrangement. I regret you think I threatened you. Please accept my apology.”
The bastard has no one else who can deliver the goods, thought Mike. If he threatened him again, it would be war with these jihadists, actually homegrown terrorists, and he held the means to inflict great damage on their organization. He now knew almost every location and every leader in the movement east of the Mississippi.
Mike moved to Savannah because of the port facilities, the third largest port on the East Coast. The paramount reason for this location centered on the road and rail networks that served the port of Savannah. Within a few minutes of unloading from a ship and clearing customs, the freight could be on the interstate system going north, south, or west with no inner city traffic to contend with, unlike the other ports on the coast.
Over the past five years, Mike built up an intricate system for bringing in the weapons from Russia. He perfected the custom clearance procedures where there existed virtually no chance a container would be opened and if it were to be only a cursory inspection they would find crates of imported Russian dolls. The agents had never unloaded the container to see all the crates, thus missing the weapons. He ran a cover up legitimate operation front for his import/export business.
“Due to your loss and our continued friendship and business ventures, I believe I can offer a substantial discount on your next order. But it is good for only one order and you must assure me the traitor is no longer with you.”
“Most kind. We’ll be in touch. Please arrange for a replacement of the exact shipment that we recently lost.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.” Mike smiled and he hung up the phone. Another three quarter of a million just went into his pocket.
Cha-ching!
* * * *
Just before he fell sleep, the phone rang.
"Hello, Michael Alexander Alexandrovitch. I hear you had a slight difficulty recently."
“Damn, Uncle Dmitri, word sure travels fast. Remember, no one in this country knows me by that name. No record exists here connecting me with that name. Please don’t use it over the phone.” In America, he only used the name Mike Alexandro. Everyone knew him by one name and his polished American accent generally disguised his Russian birth to all but a trained ear.
“Okay, but your other name sounds false to me,” Dmitri said.
“I need a replacement shipment and a new security man. When can you have them to me?" Mike asked. His bearded security man died at the farmhouse.
"They'll be on the way by the end of the week to arrive in a few weeks. Also, I’ll send you a new security man. Please try to keep this one alive. I'll confirm to you the time. Can you meet me at my resort house? Say, this weekend?”
Mike didn’t want to go to Vancouver but this didn’t come a suggestion from his uncle. The actual location of the meeting place was in Squamish, B.C. Mike could make the travel arrangements in the morning
“Of course,” he replied.
“Good night, dear nephew," Dmitri said and the line went dead.
"More guns, more money," Mike said and then rolled over and went to sleep.
CHAPTER 8
Athens, Greece
"Stop," Gerti shouted as she ran into the room.
Her father stared in utter amazement at the sight of his daughter. "How’d you get here?"
"Don't hurt her. She didn't double-cross you,” Gerti said emphasizing each word. “I know she didn’t."
Mr. Schultz slowly lowered the gun away from Bridget’s head. "I think she did."
Scott rushed over to his sister and untied her.
"Stop that," Schultz ordered. He pointed the gun at Scott.
Gerti swiftly moved between her father and Scott. She put her hands on her hips and defiantly glared at him. She waited, not saying a word. It rested with him now to make the first gesture.
"Damn it Gertrude, she has to pay for stealing the money from us. I know I owed her something for saving my life, but I paid her back by getting into a business deal with her for five million dollars. That arrangement hinged on her giving me an original Bible of Constantine. She, however, deceived me with a fake," Schultz said.
"Father,” Gerti said, “Bridget didn't even know about that until we arrived here in Greece. We informed her the bible she gave you wasn’t the original. Your men arrived and whisked her away before we had any time to work out a plan of how to get this information to you. I can tell you she received an absolute shock when I told her what happened."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Bridget spoke in a soft tone.
“Father, she tried to figure out some way to make this right once we told her. I believe she thinks she might be onto a major find in Pella. She said to me yesterday she wanted to do whatever it took to get the money back to you and make this right."
"Mr. Shultz, I have used quite a bit of the money in my exploration of Pella. I may be onto something there. It’s focused on the mosaic of the Amazon Battle. I think there might be more to that mosaic than previously thought. We’ll continue the effort to discover something as we previously agreed when I turned over the bible. We’ll find something, if you’ll let us," Bridget said.
"She's telling the truth," Scott added.
Schultz put the gun back in his holster. He walked over and sat down daughter.
He knew Gerti thought over what he said. She remained silent and he noticed she used a waving hand signal to tell the others to do the same. Gerti obviously knew her father possessed millions of dollars from his trading and selling of artifacts to museums all over the world. But his real money, the multi-millions in foreign accounts, came from the marketing, laundering, and surreptitious distribution of stolen or purloined rare artifacts.
He watched as Bridget stood up. Scott gave her a hug and they moved over and stood beside Gerti.
"I can see my daughter and her friends are all on the same page. I’m still not pleased. Since you admit that you owe me the money and there was no deception on your part, I’ll give you one week to get the money back to me."
"One week?" Gerti, Scott and Bridget said in disbelief at the same time.
"Two months at least," Bridget insisted. "I can't get it done in one week."
"That’s not my problem. It's yours." Schultz took a sip of his coffee.
"Father, I’ll go with them. I'll look out for our investment since it is my money, too. Don't send anyone after them, as I’ll be there and report to you on our progress. Since I'm co-owner of the company, I’ll extend their time frame based on what I observe. Is that satisfactory?" Gerti asked.
"Hell, no." Shultz shook his head. Then he looked down and mumbled, "Dammit, I know when I'm licked."
Gerti gave a quick smile to Bridget and Scott before she ran over and embraced her father. "You're doing the rig
ht thing. It's what's best for our company now and in the future."
"You’ve secured a reprieve for them, not a pardon,” Schultz said. He looked at his daughter with admiration. Her jet-black hair, the light olive-toned skin, and her beautifully sculpted body always reminded him of his Egyptian wife, her mother. He guided Gertrude through the proper formative girls' schools and paid to get her into Yale to obtain her physics degree and later a masters in art and antiquities. Her friends called her Gerti. She ran the business as his right arm, knew almost all the secrets, and she resided in his penthouse.
He signaled his men and they departed without a look back.
* * * *
Once outside the house, Bridget led as they walked in silence for two blocks to a local mom-and-pop type taverna. The restaurant contained a few tables and no décor to speak of. A rather plump elderly lady in black came over to serve them. There were no menus, so Bridget ordered using the few words of Greek she possessed.
"I want to thank you for what you did," Bridget said looking at Gerti. "You were able to convince him of exactly what I attempted to communicate, but failed."
"I want you to know,” Gerti said, “that he hasn’t forgiven you. He’ll extract the vengeance mentioned if you don’t deliver his money. He has tried to instill that method of business in me. I must admit, to a certain extent, he has succeeded. But I believe once the money is taken care of, I’ll be able to smooth over the other things."
Bridget realized what Gerti said rang true. She also concluded that probably nothing she found in Pella would allow her to accumulate the amount of money she needed in such a short time. Bridget took this opportunity to examine Scott’s appearance.
"My God, you look like somebody used you for a punching bag. Anything seriously hurt?" Bridget asked.
"No, it's all superficial. Gerti fixed me up before we left the dig."
"What do we do now?" Gerti asked.
"To tell you the truth, I have no idea. Let's examine our options," Bridget said.
The food arrived, and since they were famished, they dug in with gusto.
"You know we have to get some new cell phones," Scott said after they finished.
"I'm sure ours were destroyed by the goons that picked up Bridget," Gerti said.
At the mention of phones, Bridget snapped her fingers when she remembered her cell and the email from Matt. Her kidnappers hadn’t taken hers. She supposed they thought she would not be alive to use it. She dug into her purse and pulled it out. It took a minute for the pictures to load. The email contained no message, just two digital photos. She assumed he wanted to get her opinion on them. As an archaeologist, Bridget recognized the picture contained an image of a religious icon, not from the ancient Greek world but from sometime after the eighth or ninth century A.D. The writings on the first photo of the icon she viewed were not very clear, as the photo was taken too far away. She surmised on initial inspection they were either Russian or Greek orthodox in origin.
"What you got there, sis?" Scott asked.
"Right before those men grabbed me, I received an email from an old friend of mine, Matt Higgins, who served with me in the Army. Remember, he’s that FBI agent who helped me out when I rescued your father." Bridget pointed at Gerti as she said this.
Bridget returned to the email and flipped to the next picture. The image contained better definition and clearly showed a beautiful icon with some type of precious stones embedded. The writing above the head of the Christ child definitely scrolled in Russian. The Madonna wore a red robe. She really needed Matt to explain why he’d sent these pictures.
One thought went through her mind. If that icon was real, it could be worth a lot of money.
She needed to contact Matt.
CHAPTER 9
Washington D.C.
Matt Higgins walked over the 14th Street Bridge and then proceeded along the George Washington Parkway. His mind raced, considering if he did the right thing in the deputy director's office. The more he reflected on it, the more he became certain about the correctness of his actions. He continued at a brisk pace past Reagan International Airport and now enjoyed the walk toward his apartment. Somehow he knew he would be all right. He just knew it.
A school bus passed him. He read the sign on its side. The yellow bus bore the name of a local Catholic grade school. His mind keyed from Catholic school, to religion, to the religious pictures — the ones he photographed near Roanoke. He recalled emailing them to Bridget Donavan shortly after the gun battle. He hoped she might be able to shed some light on that particular image. He pulled out his ringing cell phone and answered.
“Hello,” he said.
"Hello, Matt, Bridget here," she responded. "I just examined the pictures you sent. It’s a photo of an icon. What do you want me to do?" Bridget asked.
He described what happened at the farmhouse and how he found the icon. He explained it felt heavy and it looked like real gold with precious stones embedded in it, but when he went back, it had disappeared.
"I was hoping you could tell me something about it,” Matt continued, “as it might be important or very valuable. I need it as quick as possible. I know it's a lot to ask for in a short time, but I would really appreciate it. To show my appreciation would you be willing to have dinner with me this evening?"
"I would, but I happen to be in Greece. I’ll see what I can do. Let me call you back in a bit," Bridget said.
Matt closed his phone. He remembered Bridget Donavan quite clearly. He recalled the first time he laid eyes on her. She possessed outstanding beauty with piercing golden brown eyes and flaming red hair, about five eight with a slim build and amply endowed. He thought it might be a good thing to reconnect with her.
* * * *
Bridget looked at her two companions. She smiled when she said, "There is an icon missing. Value unknown, but I believe it has to be worth a lot if it is made of gold. This picture was taken after an FBI raid on an arms transaction.” She passed around the phone with the picture. “We need to find all we can about it."
"Maybe we could actually locate that icon," Scott said.
“That might be the way to go. I don’t see securing the money in Pella with the time constraint we have,” Bridget said.
"But getting that icon might solve our problem," Gerti added.
"Let’s use some of the money I have remaining to allow us set up and operate. We're off on a new venture," Bridges said. She felt good for the first time that day.
A few hours later, equipped with new cell phones and computers, the trio checked into the Hilton in downtown Athens. Bridget didn’t know if they would need three rooms, but Gerti corrected her saying they would only need two.
* * * *
In the hotel room, Scott flopped into a chair and stared at Gerti.
“What’s wrong? You have that pissed off look,” she said.
“We have gone through a lot together, but this is a bridge too far.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’m having a hard time with your father threatening to kill my sister. He’s your father. Can’t you see this is a problem for me?”
“Listen, Scott. I love you. We are the team. Not my father, get it.”
“I don’t know what would happen to us if your father kills my sister. Yes, you saved her today, but maybe not next time. Can I be with you if your father kills my sister?”
“Scott, we’re the team. Not me and my father. That has changed since we became involved and we are going to get more involved if I have my way.” She moved over and sat on the arm of the chair. She turned his head to look into her eyes.
“I want you to hear this and hear it good. If for some reason that we can’t foresee at present, we don’t get the money back, I’ll tell father to keep his business and I won’t be part of it. He will lose the daughter he plans as his successor. He’ll back off, I promise. But in the meantime, we have to try to get his money back. If I took it out of my accounts to pay him he would f
ind out, so that isn’t an option.”
Scott believed her. The sincerity in her voice conveyed the conviction of her words.
“I mean it. In the end, I have the trump card.”
“I see what you are saying,” Scott said, “and I believe you that we are now a team, but I don’t believe what you have promised will stop him.” He pulled her down into his lap and embraced her.
* * * *
After cleaning up in her room, Bridget started to do research on the Internet. She hoped Scott and Gerti were doing the same but somehow doubted it.
An hour later, she called Scott's room to see if they’d made any progress on the icon. She learned what she’d expected. They’d done no research and were now starting to set up their computers. Fancy that, wonder what they’d been doing, she mused.
They agreed to meet for breakfast early the next morning. She returned to her research, trying to find out anything about this mysterious icon. There didn’t seem to be anything on the Internet that could provide information concerning this particular sacred image. She felt frustrated at the lack of progress in identifying anything about it.
After she spent an hour, her search produced no results. She decided to up the game. At her old university, she maintained a good relationship with another professor in archeology. Robert Morrison held the distinction of being the foremost authority on Greek art during the Byzantine era. She decided to give him a call as it would be early evening in the States.
“Hello, Bob. Sorry to call so early, but I have an urgent request that I thought you might be able to help me with,” Bridget said
“Great to hear from you, Bridget. Sorry about what happened to you and the way you were treated by the university. Hope you can get that reversed sometime. So, what is so important that you’re calling now?”
