Petite Charlene was seated at the keyboard before the flat screen, and big, rangy George was just behind her, looking over her shoulder.
They didn't seem at all annoyed by our intrusion, and George Hurley grinned and came over, sticking out a big hand for me to shake. "I trust our security measures didn't put you out any?"
Matthew, at my side, said, "Little over the top, isn't it, Dad?"
I answered before his father could. "No. These boys are Special Forces. Government help already, George?"
There was a fleeting exchange of looks between Hurley and his wife that said they'd probably heard from any number of government agencies.
A small conference table down at one end was one of the few nonmetallic surfaces in the lab. Charlene rose from her computer and ushered us over, slipping an arm around her daughter as we went.
Charlene played hostess, offering coffee or soft drinks, but got no takers. She was a lovely woman with a sweet heart-shaped face and a halo of blond curls and a beauty that required little or no makeup—George Hurley was a lucky man. Damn if she didn't remind me of someone, but I couldn't quite place the resemblance. It would come to me.
There are times when you have to get something across fast, and I knew a couple of the tricks. It's only a look, but they got the gist of it.
This time I looked straight at Matthew Hurley and said, "You do remember that chunk of dead protein over there is more than a scientific trophy, don't you?"
The Hurleys exchanged expressions that seemed vaguely embarrassed. Charlene, sitting next to her daughter, took Jenna's hand and squeezed.
"Nothing means more to us than the safety of our children," Charlene said. "A scientific slant on history is our calling, Mr. Hammer ... Mike. But our family is, well, our family."
I looked at Hurley. "You on the same page as your wife, George?"
"Of course I am." His smile seemed a little forced. "And we're grateful to you for everything you're doing."
But I'd kept the parents in the dark on part of what had been going on. They didn't know why yesterday I'd moved Matthew and Jenna out of that apartment in the building they owned, and the kids had been instructed not to say anything about it to them over the phone.
So I gave the Hurleys a quick rundown on the incident, speaking softly so those guards down at the other end of the stainless-steel bone sanctuary couldn't hear.
When I'd finished, both George and Charlene Hurley were as white as their smocks.
"Mike," George said. "You ... you killed one of them?"
"Unless he has a spare skull I did, and the only extra bone around is Goliath's over there. Yes, we've racked up another death. But we would've racked up the death of these two kids if I hadn't been around."
Hurley shook his head. "Well, of course, we're very grateful, Mike. What else can be done to protect them?"
"That's what I want to talk to you about. In the short term, I can move the kids on a daily basis from one safe house to another. I have some people who do contract work for me that would make your Special Forces babysitters here look like mall cops."
If the guys in khaki down there had heard me, they had better poker faces than those guards in the funny hats outside Buckingham Palace.
Charlene, still clutching her daughter's hand, said, "That's the short term. What about the long term, Mike?"
I shrugged. "Up till now nobody has bothered to establish ownership of this artifact, although there are a few entities seemingly connected with its discovery. The state of Israel, for one. Certain Arab states and/or groups may also stake a claim."
Velda said, "Till now we've been concerned with protecting your kids from kidnapping or some other harm. As for the Goliath bone, all we've done is get it into your hands where it can be kept under armed guard."
I asked Hurley, "What have the government people you've spoken to been saying? What have you been advised to do?"
"So far," he said, "it's been strictly a matter of support—these guards and other heightened security measures designed to keep our lab in twenty-four—hour lockdown. After all, the university works quite closely with the government when the need arises."
"And the need, from time to time," Charlene added, "can arise on both sides, theirs and ours."
"Well," I said, "somebody down there in Washington is pretty damn sharp. When that bone was given a name, they saw right away the implications of what that thing could become in the so-called War on Terror. Me, I don't believe in declaring war on nouns—I'd prefer to take on a person like Bin Laden or a group like al-Qaeda or maybe a whole damn country if I'm feeling ambitious. But I'm not on the marketing side of killing. I'm just another old soldier. And right now I'm in a battle in the war to protect Matthew and Jenna Hurley."
"Obviously we're all in favor of that," Hurley said, and exchanged a confused glance with Charlene.
"I don't know if I see where you heading, Mike," Charlene admitted.
"Who has ownership of the bone?" I asked them.
For a few seconds they both hesitated, each deciding whether to defer to the other. Then George Hurley said, "Well, most likely these two." He gestured to his children.
"There are laws," I reminded him, "against removal of artifacts from some historical areas."
"So far there have been no formal claims or protests," he remarked.
"Oh, they'll start, all right. Right now all the talk is on the lower levels, but when things start to escalate, the attacks will go beyond men with guns to courtrooms of so-called international law, not to mention that other kangaroo court, the media."
George Hurley's jaw was firm. "I believe our government will stand behind us here at the university."
"If the politicians think it'll make them look better to turn this discovery over to the Israelis or Saudi Arabia or whoever has the most political clout or oil or connections, they'll sell out your university and these kids without a twinge."
Matthew, sitting next to me, said, "Is it so bad, Mr. Hammer, if Israel winds up with the bone? We could negotiate terms that give my parents control over the research."
I said, "Has it occurred to anyone here that the Goliath bone is valuable ... and I'm not talking about historical or symbolic value. Money. Good old American dollars. George ... Charlene ... these kids of yours are about to go out into the world and start their lives."
From the corner of an eye I saw Matthew tense up, afraid I'd tell his folks about his stepsister and himself.
"They have ambitions to follow in your footsteps," I went on, "but building a life on a little nest egg of, say, a few million dollars, would that be so bad?"
Hurley's eyes made damn-near-perfect circles. "Are you saying—sell this to the highest bidder?"
"I'll be honest with you, George. I haven't quite worked it out yet. I just know these kids ought to come out of this thing with more than assorted attempts on their damn lives."
Next to me, Matthew Hurley took a deep breath that seemed to make him grow taller. "Why don't we turn it over to the USA, Mr. Hammer? Let the rogue nations come after the Goliath bone. There's nothing this country can't handle."
"Fine," I said. "Check back with me after they rebuild the Trade Towers."
My burst of cynicism startled the boy. "There are efforts in progress right now to make that area a national monument."
"A multimillion-dollar piece of property in downtown Manhattan isn't going to house a flagpole and a statue. Listen, Matt ... Jenna ... the choice is yours."
Jenna said, "I'm not sure I'm...we're...ready to make that decision."
"That's fine. I don't think you should right away, myself. But I do think we need to get that bone out of this facility."
Charlene let go of her daughter's hand and sat up straight, her eyes and nostrils flaring. I almost had it for a moment, who she reminded me of...
She said, "Mike! Whatever selfish reasons any government might have for laying claim to the Goliath bone, George and I want to study it only as a historical and archeo
logical treasure."
Hurley's eyes were unblinking and hard. "I have to agree with Charlene, Mike. We agree that it belongs to the kids, but in a greater sense, it belongs to everyone."
"Well, everyone doesn't get a say in this. The bone can't stay here because, for one thing, this lab is for all intents and purposes a Federal one, meaning Uncle Sam can grab that bone and run off with it any time he feels like it. And for another thing, a terrorist cell could come into this place and, after a firelight with those guards, waltz out with the damn thing themselves."
"I don't think so," George said tightly. "These are top men. Special Forces. You said it yourself."
"Well, what if it's a terrorist cell that wants to put a stop to the Goliath bone before Israel can grab it and shake it in their faces. They might blow this whole joint up, including you, the guards, and that overgrown thighbone."
Hurley studied me for several long seconds, like I was another scrap of parchment with ancient scribbles on it. Finally he said in a flat tone of voice, "What are your intentions, Mr. Hammer?"
Not "Mike" now—"Mr. Hammer."
But it was Matthew Hurley who caught the ball. He said, "Dad, Mike is right—that is our relic. Jenna and I are the sole owners of that grossly enlarged femur. Where it came from and to whom it once belonged is pure speculation, but its discovery belongs to us. We're as interested in its history as you are, but its disposition is rightfully ours."
The parents looked from Matthew to Jenna, who nodded firmly. Good kids. My kind of clients.
I thought Matthew's father might turn on him like a snake, but Hurley's face softened and he gave a slight shrug and told the boy, "Damned if you don't sound just like me when I was your age. Okay, son—what have you got in mind?"
"Ask Mike."
Hurley turned to me. "Mike?"
"Mike" again. Nice to see that Dad and Mom put their kids first and science/history second.
I said, "I'd like to have three copies made of that bone." The Doctors Hurley gaped at me.
"By copies," I said, "I mean exact duplicates. I know you have the facilities right here to perform that kind of work, and in museums I've seen some of the results that satisfy the casual viewer. But the kind of duplication I'm talking about can be handled by only a few experts, and they aren't tied into any university."
This time Charlene responded, and her response had a certain haughtiness. "Oh? And where would these so-called experts be?"
"Hollywood."
Now they were all gaping at me, except for Velda, of course.
"You must be joking," Hurley said. "Matthew, are you going along with this?"
Matthew swallowed. I gave him a hard-eyed smile. Then the kid grinned and said to his dad, "Yeah. Whatever Mike says."
I told the Hurleys, "Tomorrow have that bone ready to be turned over. Spend the rest of today and tonight going nuts with your research—knock yourself out. In the meantime, I'll be with the group taking the pickup and will sign off for the transfer. Either Jenna or Matthew, the owners and discoverers of the bone, will be with me. The reason we're here is to establish ownership of that bone, and you've already certified that fact. Hell, it's all in the family, so nothing's out of the bag. Let's keep it that way."
"We're to pretend we still have the bone?" Hurley asked.
"Yes. I plan to play an elaborate game of button-button-who's-got-the-button with the factions after this thing. And you'll be getting the original back eventually. Till then, who's to know, as tight as you're locked down here?"
Hurley swallowed and said, "You want me to lie to the government?"
"You're not under oath. Hell, don't lie—just mislead. Anyway, no governmental agency has put a hold on that bone, have they?"
"Mr. Hammer," Hurley said challengingly, "the United States government has sponsored the works of this institution to the tune of countless millions of dollars. You're asking me to risk that."
"You're risking your own reputations, maybe, for the sake of your kids. Not the university's."
I glanced at Jenna and Matthew. Just a flick of the eyes. Their expressions seemed mildly amused, as if they were enjoying the moment. For a second it occurred to me that living in the shadow of a pair of geniuses like their parents could have been a tiresome job.
Charlene, her momentary haughtiness gone, said, "George—if Mike thinks this strategy will help protect our kids, perhaps even enrich them ... we need to go along."
I said, "Look at it this way, Dad—your kids found the buried treasure. Let them benefit."
I stood and so did everybody else.
"Tomorrow," I told the white-smocked parents. "The pickup will be at nine in the morning. Have Goliath bubble-wrapped and boxed, keep a copy of the papers you will sign, and when the duplicates are ready, you'll get his leg back. And don't screw around with this. Old Goliath isn't just a historical relic—he's the unholy grail."
Chapter 6
We made like sardines again on the elevator—Velda, the kids, the security team, and me—and took the one-floor ride up to the anonymously modern lobby of the NYU research center, where I asked the khaki-clad guard at my side if I could speak to the head of security.
He was a blue-eyed buzz-cut young soldier who with one hand could kill most people. With me, it would have taken two hands. When I was his age, he'd have been in trouble.
"Sir," he said, "I'm not authorized to do that."
"You're not authorized not to do it, either," I said with a grin. "I must be a VIP to warrant this attention, right? So trust in the other seven of you that they can handle me and one woman and a couple of college kids till you get back."
He almost grinned himself, but, after a moment of hesitation, he said he would call it in, then stepped away from us and spoke into the button mike on his jacket lapel.
When he returned to my side he said, "Mr. Rogers will be right down."
"So that's whose neighborhood we're in."
I got him that time. The kid grinned and said, "Yes, sir, it is. But he doesn't have my outstanding sense of humor, sir."
"I'll keep that in mind."
The blue-eyed guard stayed right with us until I heard elevator doors snick open then snick shut and Mr. Rogers strode into the lobby, and he wasn't wearing a sweater and sneakers. He wasn't in khaki, either, merely the kind of black business suit with black tie that you usually only see Feds, morticians, and hipsters wearing.
He was five-ten and maybe fifty-five, with just the broad shoulders to give away anything unusual about him, and only his seldom-blinking slate gray eyes separated him from a guy selling you insurance.
I knew this guy was some sort of an ex-cop from the way he walked and the characteristic expression he wore—not mad, not overjoyed, simply indifferent; not biased in any way.
The blue-eyed guard said, "This is Mr. Hammer, sir. He's part of the Hurley party—the rest are by the door there."
Velda, Matthew, and Jenna were standing on this side of the security checkpoint, the kids wondering what I was up to; Velda had long since stopped bothering trying.
Mr. Rogers didn't hold out his hand to shake mine. This was business, and business on his turf. It was a rough business and a private turf, and a man like Rogers kept his hands ready for more than a pointless ritual between strangers.
He spoke carefully in a mid-range, toneless voice. "Mr. Hammer, you're a private investigator, I understand."
"Want to see my ticket?"
"Not necessary. Dr. George Hurley has already cleared you. He's made it clear I'm to cooperate with you."
"Nice to hear."
"But I don't answer to Dr. Hurley. So you'll understand that you don't have carte blanche here at this facility."
"Wouldn't expect it. I'm glad to see you run a tight ship."
A tiny flicker in the slate-color eyes indicated he was processing that remark for sarcasm or condescension. When he came up empty, he said, "Well, then, Mr. Hammer—what can I help you with?"
"Could you spare me
a few minutes? No more than five."
He studied my face just a little more thoroughly than the Hurleys downstairs were studying the Goliath bone. Then he nodded. Once.
We moved away from the guards, Velda, the kids, and the security checkpoint. He gestured to a sleek pine modernistic bench by the tinted glass wall of windows, and I sat. Then he sat.
I said, "How tight is security? I saw you hesitate when I complimented you on the security situation here."
There was another slight pause before he answered me. Then: "As tight as they could make it."
Now my nastiest grin blossomed. "But not as tight as you could make it."
His lips twitched slightly and his eyes darted briefly toward Velda, Matthew, and Jenna, but they were too far away to hear what he was saying. His eyes looked into mine and he was satisfied with what he saw there.
He told me, "Police work—security operations—have to be absolute if they are to be functional."
He might have been giving a sermon. I think he knew he was preaching to the choir.
I nodded vaguely around the high-ceilinged lobby. "How easy would it be to break into this place?"
"Not easy at all."
"But it is possible?"
"Probably for an expert, yes."
"You're not just talking about a commando action, or a terrorist bombing?"
"No. I'm not."
"There's a hole in the wall somewhere, isn't there?"
His smile was so faint, it almost wasn't there. "What makes you think so, Mr. Hammer?"
I let him see another nasty grin and shook my head. "Because there always is. A university building is not designed to be a military guardhouse. It has guards, all right, but it is purely a civilian structure, and it always has at least one hole in it."
The seconds ticked by while our eyes stayed locked. Finally his head bobbed slightly and he said, "I think I will take a look at your ticket, Mr. Hammer."
[Mike Hammer 14] - The Goliath Bone Page 9
