by Ed Kovacs
He gingerly traversed a long terracotta tiled hallway which lead to the open-air lobby. He stopped short, shocked to see a large display case featuring Egyptian curios, along with the business card of the gift shop in town where they could be purchased. Beckoning from inside the case were brightly painted Pharaohs, soapstone versions of Horus and Nefertiti, phony gold gilt jewelry of Tutankhamen. Certain no one was watching, he jimmied the lock to the display case. After removing the priceless tablet of Hui from his deerskin pouch, Wilder easily placed it amongst the Egyptian relics. Hidden in plain sight.
The Sedona white pages offered up attorney Marsha Loeb’s phone number, and he called using the phone card. They'd dated years earlier when she worked a civil court case down in Tucson. Geography more than anything else ended their dating, but they had stayed friendly.
“Sky, are you in town?” asked Marsha, over the phone line.
“I can’t explain right now, but I’m in a little bit of a jam. I need you to meet me at the Cowboy Club in an hour, and bring all the cash you can spare.”
“Hey, are you kidding?”
“Not kidding. Can you do it?”
After a pause, “Yeah, okay, I can cancel a meeting, but tell me—”
“Not now, when I see you.” He hung up, and, limping slightly, meandered off the lobby into a narrow hallway serving as the spine of hotel operations.
All the individual office doors were open and he glanced into each until he found an unattended computer that was inside a door marked Marketing and Promotions. An inner office door was closed, but it was quiet and impossible to know if someone was inside.
It took less than two minutes for him to access the resort's e-mail software and attach the digital images of Hui’s tablet from his memory card to an E-mail. He sent it to an address that could not be traced to him, then quietly left.
Outside, a handful of hotel guests crammed the last minutes of direct sunlight into their tanning regimen. A small, thatch-covered poolside bar with a tacky Tiki motif looked inviting to him, so he pulled up a stool. He could use a drink, for his ever-increasing pain, if for no other reason, although there were plenty of other reasons. He ordered an Irish coffee and selected an overpriced Montecristo #1. Drink and cigar in hand, Wilder pulled down his cap and kept his back to the pool and other guests.
The draw of the Dominican helped him relax and focus, as he considered that his next step might be critical. What the hell, every step is critical right now. First, sleep, maybe under the gazebo behind the hotel. Then get up to Lake Powell. He’d ditched his bank and credit cards because they were too dangerous to use and was now without money. Hitchhiking put him out in the open, and the dirt bike was almost out of gas. I need a car. Maybe Marsha’s.
Relaxed now, he suddenly knew that he should move on, that he’d lingered too long at Los Abrigados, exposed and unprotected. “Charge this to my room, will you buddy?” he said as he smiled at the bartender. He picked up the deerskin pouch and eased off the stool. Remembering the lady in the gift shop he said, “Perkins, Room—”
Suddenly someone was close behind him. “No need darling, let me pay cash,” purred a female voice, practically in his ear.
Sky blanched.
A woman’s hand slid a hundred dollar bill onto the bar and her cool voice told the bartender, “Keep the change, but if anybody asks, you haven’t seen us. And I mean that. You haven't seen either of us.”
“No problem,” said the smiling bartender, scooping up the cash.
Sky felt the barrel of a gun in his back and a moist pair of lips touch his right ear as the woman very softly whispered, “Play along with me. We’re both in danger and have to get out of here now.”
Wilder’s mind raced as he took another draw on the cigar, searching for clarity. He turned to face her, and found himself momentarily lost in the most intriguing pair of gun-metal blue eyes, simultaneously suggesting soulfulness, determination and confident competence. Looking comfortable and fit in white Levis and an ivory-colored cotton shirt, she was gorgeous, as he knew many assassins were, sixty percent of them internationally being women. Whether this was because they were more bloodthirsty, or were simply less suspect and therefore more proficient as professional killers, he wasn’t sure. He flashed on the phrase, “The best man for the job is a woman.”
His words to her were barely audible as he settled back onto the stool. “Maybe it’s safer for me to stay right here. I’m not sure you’d cap me in front of these witnesses.”
Almost on cue, the sun disappeared behind clouds gathering in the west, causing the sunbathers to stir. Wilder needed them to stick around for awhile as he tried to figure his next move.
Captain Diana Hunt smiled big and retracted the gun that was hidden from view by her purse. She edged closer to him at the bar but remained standing. “If we can find you this easily, so can they. The difference is, we want to keep you alive.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“I work for General Klaymen, whom I believe you’ve met.”
Sky’s face darkened. “Going to kill everybody here at the pool, like you guys killed all the deputies?”
“The General lost two men at that sheriff’s station who wanted to take you into protective custody. That’s why I’m here talking to you now.”
“Maybe. And maybe you’re lying. I’d rather die here at the bar with a Dominican in one hand and Irish whiskey in the other, than in the back of a van on a dirt road somewhere.” He took a long, soothing drag, and pretended to be calm while he formulated an escape plan. “How’d you find me so fast?”
She paused for a moment as if deciding whether she should tell him. “Voiceprint match when you called the woman.”
He couldn't hide his look of surprise. He'd taken every caution he could think of, and still they found him, and in less than thirty minutes. Damn! How could he could to escape that kind of surveillance efficiency? He noticed she was smiling slightly.
“You thought you were safe? Well, the government, quasi-legally, has access to the voiceprint of almost every American through the cooperation of your local friendly phone company, which are basically de facto extensions of the government, anyway. I had NSA screen every telephone call made in Arizona, southern Utah, and western New Mexico for the last sixteen hours. Regardless of who you would have called, the first few words you spoke, we had a match.”
“But I only made the call a short time ago.”
“I had a feeling you were in Sedona, so I've been standing by here. And here’s the thing... we’re not the only ones using the NSA to look for you. So be advised, we’re wasting precious time.”
“Maybe.” At least he'd hidden the Hui tablet, and not a moment too soon. But he had the tracings of the tablet's front and back sides in his deerskin pouch sitting on the bar in front of him. Whoever this woman worked for would glean plenty just from that. He felt relieved he'd hidden the tracings of the tablet's edges under that rock near the Camp Verde Sheriff’s substation after he'd escaped that living hell. They could kill him, seize all of his materials, but unless they discovered Hui's tablet sitting amongst the curios in Los Abrigados' display case, the information would be incomplete.
“Look, I would have thought that after what happened to you in Camp Verde, you'd be a little more motivated to save your ass.”
It didn't appear the woman was in any hurry to kill him, but Wilder could tell she wasn’t happy with his noncompliance. Considering his current physical state, she could probably overpower him and drag him out, but what a commotion that would cause.
When she suddenly tensed, he followed her gaze; two men in dark blazers—not Sedona attire—were inquiring at the front desk. Her eyes seemed to harden to diamond points.
“They’ve come,” she said, reaching into her purse. “I didn’t sign on to get killed. You want to die, just keep sucking on that cigar parked right where you are. You want to live, come with me.” Smiling, she casually walked off in the opposite direction of the lobby.
He rubbed his gold Hathor pendant. The two men in the lobby could be his saviors, not the statuesque, strawberry-blonde beauty. Or this could be a set-up, she could be with them.
As he turned to watch her, a shaft of light stabbed through the clouds and crowned her silky hair with that golden hue of twilight that bespoke the magical transition from day to night. She was unknowingly anointed by the Sun God, by Ra, the father of Hathor, and Wilder was cognizant enough to accept he was out of everything except omens.
He practically jumped off the stool and tried not to hobble as he caught up with her at the deep end of the pool. “Listen, two things—”
“Shut up,” she cut him off, discreetly pulling the semi-auto from her purse.
Sky watched her eyes laser onto another pair of men working their way into the resort grounds from the other end of the complex. He looked closely; one of them was a very aggravated-looking gentleman who he distinctly remembered shooting in the chest inside the tunnel. “Whoa, I thought I killed that guy.”
A blue and white-striped fully enclosed cabana stood a few feet away. “In here.” She pushed him into the nylon shelter which hadn’t been cleaned up from the last occupants, and was cluttered with discarded towels, a room service cart with half-eaten lunch, and melting ice in bourbon glasses. “Take off your clothes, fast! And lie down on the chaise lounge.” She snapped the flap closed just as she saw the two men from the lobby enter the pool area.
“I’ll keep them on, thanks,” he retorted.
“Do it and don’t get cute.” She gave him a shove which caught him off guard and he fell back onto the lounge. It was enough of a push that his hat and glasses flew off, and he cringed and groaned as he clutched his ribs where she’d touched him. Her tome immediately softened. “You’re injured.”
###
Diana Hunt wasn't at all sure about this cabana ruse. It was certainly a passive play, as opposed to killing the four men outside, which she thought she could do. But if she killed those men, there would be more, many more, maybe even Forte himself. So unless she got very lucky, shooting her way out of this was not the smart move, and her return to fieldwork would be over before it began.
She quickly scanned Wilder and saw the disjointed fingers and putrid discoloration spreading on his left hand. His knuckles and fingers were open wounds—skinned and badly cut. Standing above him, she saw the fresh wounds to his scalp and forehead. She should have spotted all this sooner as no margin existed for being rusty in the field right now. “How badly hurt are you?”
“Just a little banged up.”
He was a trooper, she liked that.
“If you can take your sweats off, this little charade will play better, but we’ve only got a few seconds.”
He gritted his teeth as he pulled off his top, showing deep, jagged cuts on his back, some bleeding, some freshly scabbed. He painfully reclined on the chaise and pulled off his bottoms, clad only in briefs, huge purple-yellow bruises, scrapes and cuts on his legs.
“Damn, you look like a torture victim.” At this moment, when she saw his battered condition, she committed herself one hundred percent to saving him. Whatever it took. Could she use her sex if she had too? Preferably not. But maybe. It would be her choice this time.
The repercussions of having been forced into it by Forte had informed virtually every aspect of her life subsequent to leaving black ops. She would have to come to terms with it eventually, and that moment, she felt, would be faced on this assignment.
She surprised Wilder by kicking off her shoes and stepping out of her Levis, revealing pale pink panties. In a flash she dropped her shirt, revealing a matching pale pink bra supporting her marvelous breasts and a twenty karat gold pendant of Diana, the Greek goddess nestling safely in her cleavage. She surprised him again by straddling him on the chaise, gently, the gun close by in her open purse.
“That’s some piece of work.” He stared at her chest and she flashed angry at the remark, but before she could respond, he quickly interjected, “I’m talking about the medallion. It’s Diana, of course, huntsperson-in-chief to the gods. An unusual position for a woman to hold.”
“Save your energy, Doctor Wilder.” She tugged the room service cart closer. A potted aloe vera plant sat at a corner of the cart, and she dumped the liquid from a bourbon glass into the pot, reached in for a scoop of freshly made mud and smeared the dirt onto his face.
“Call me Sky. Is this the seaweed special?” He relaxed, his muscles easing a bit, and closed his eyes. She swabbed his face again, completing an impromptu mud pack. He seemed to be fighting unconsciousness as he forced his eyes open and watched her cannibalized a sandwich for cucumber slices.
“Close your eyes, but try to stay alert.” She placed the cool vegetable strips over his sockets and he very much looked the part of a pampered resort guest getting the latest spa treatment from a vivacious babe, especially when she reached behind her back, unstrapped her bra and flung it aside, swinging her firm pendulous breasts free of encumbrance.
She counted on the distraction her breasts would cause when the flap swung open, which it suddenly did.
###
Steve Kraus sported a bulky bandage on his left arm where Sky Wilder had shot him with the M-4, and a sore chest where body armor stopped Wilder’s thirty-eight slug at the tunnel doorway. Wilder now reigned as a one-man wrecking crew in Kraus’ life. The two constant reminders of pain, not to mention the humiliation of losing an entire team and the subsequent wrath of Simon Forte, fueled Kraus with a fury not easily weathered.
Kraus invaded the cabana, quickly scanned the set-up, then sized-up the tableau of a half-naked beauty straddling some lucky guy getting a mud mask treatment. His impatient eyes naturally riveted to Diana’s breasts.
“Are you room service? You can take the cart and... we’re ready for that bottle of champagne now,” she said, giggling.
Kraus didn’t smile or change expressions and left as quickly as he came.
###
Simon Forte and Rene Bailey sat in oversize Mission-style chairs leisurely sipping Campari and soda in Los Abrigados' open-air lobby. Various no-nonsense bodyguards loitered nearby as Daniel Pratt gave them a sit-rep. “Tlaquepaque is covered, and I have two men at the Cowboy Club, but we should shift the rest of the crew there for his meeting with the Loeb woman, the attorney Wilder called. He’s clearly not here in the hotel,” said Pratt, with his usual serious intensity. He was coordinating the search with a frustrated Kraus.
Forte pondered Pratt's remark. “Rene?”
“He’s got to be close.”
“Yes, but slipping away, I fear. Perhaps General Klaymen has a few aces up his sleeve. Look into that, would you love?”
Rene smiled demurely as she stood. Crossing the lobby, she fished out her encrypted cell phone.
“Daniel, get your people into some clothes appropriate for where we are. If Wilder doesn’t appear for his meeting with the woman, keep her under twenty-four hour surveillance until further notice. And reconfirm my drinks meeting with the Governor.”
Pratt hurried off, discretely speaking into his comm-link.
Forte removed an encrypted satellite phone from his vest pocket and punched up the preprogrammed number of Dr. Yuseff Fakhry, Director of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities and the Egyptian representative on the UNHCR board, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. To Forte, it sounded as if Fakhry was genuflecting over the phone, offering profuse thanks for his most recent generous donations, both to the Commission and to Fakhry’s bank account. The Egyptian gave assurances that the upcoming gala ball at the Giza Pyramids would be spectacular and he certainly hoped Forte would attend.
“Of course I’ll be there, Yuseff. With my usual donation.”
“You are very kind, Mister Forte.”
Forte rung off, pleased the event in Cairo was on-track. But he still needed two more tablets. The second full moon in May was two weeks away. Enough time, but none to waist, either.<
br />
###
Rene wandered out from the lobby into an open-air walkway, dialed a number, then noticed the kitschy display of Egyptian curios. Stepping closer, a smile broke over her lips as she scanned the gaudy idols, her eyes flashing to the gold gilt.
A man’s voice on the other end of the line drew her attention away. She engaged the digital recorder function of her watch, holding it close to the phone as three tones sounded, two short high, one long and low. Then her questioning began.
If she had only looked out toward the cheesy Polynesian bar hut, Rene would have seen two figures near the end of the pool emerge from a cabana and slink off into the shadowy dusk.
CHAPTER 11
Sky Wilder sleepily opened his eyes and faced steel mesh. He was in a cage! His whole body jerked violently and he rolled... off the lower bunk. Not a cage, a cabin. The mesh he saw belonged to the springs of the upper bunk. Gentle rocking told him he was on a boat.
At the window he looked out to a vision of towering, naturally sculpted stone labyrinths, stratified brown sandstone rising inviolably from shimmering olive green water like the great impenetrable castles looming mournfully over the Allgau in Bavaria. This had to be one of the hundred or so remote and tranquil coves—canyons set back from the much larger tempestuous bays of long, narrow, spindly Lake Powell.
He checked the room and saw his deerskin pouch. His belongings looked intact, including the tracings he took of the front and back of Hui’s tablet. Maybe the tracings were here in his pouch, but he didn’t for a minute think they hadn’t already been copied. The fact that they were incomplete, that the tracings of the tablet’s edges lay hidden under a rock in Camp Verde, was his only hedge.
As his mind shifted into higher gear, he realized his broken fingers had been splintered and his wounds stitched and bandaged. He wore a fresh pair of boxer shorts he didn’t recognize, and eased into a new set of sweats laid out for him. Feeling sore and very hungry, he opened his cabin door.
