He tapped the Google maps app on his phone, and said, “Rio Chama.” It was forty-three miles away, about an hour along these roads.
March 31, 2016
Taos, New Mexico
The Escalade soon reached a secondary road that was little more than a beaten track through the wilderness. Branches and bushes sideswiped the SUV at every chance. Pete watched the driver negotiate the turns and the washed-out, deeply rutted road with an ease that told him these guys were pros. What does the DeVere Group need with professional military men to confirm a diamond discovery? Then it occurred to him. They must think somebody else knows about the diamonds.
The road ended at a small clearing and the group got out. While the others loaded up their gear, Pete pulled an iPad from his daypack and brought up a three-dimensional topo map of the area. Then he pressed an icon that was the image of a drone. Underneath it was the name “Buttercup.” Instantly the screen was overlaid with the camera feed from the drone. Pete looked up and there it was hovering right over them. It was the length of a bicycle with a wingspan of a North American condor. Made from carbon fiber, it weighed only twenty pounds fully loaded with camera gear. Solar panels in the wings powered the two lithium ion batteries that ran the motor, ailerons, tail rudder, and cameras. Controls on the screen allowed him to not only pilot the drone but direct the cameras as well.
Pointing to the drone, Pete said, “Ordinary GPS can’t show us the safest route to where we’re going. The drone is our eye in the sky allowing me to pick out the fastest and safest route.” Then he pushed a question just to hear the response. “It’ll also tell us if someone else is out here.”
Hass smiled thinly. “Yes, it would be good to know if there’s anyone out here who shouldn’t be.”
Using his fingers and thumbs sliding across the screen, the drone’s nose camera responded and zeroed in on Haas and Beecher, standing beside the SUV. They were in an intense conversation that ended when one of the paramilitary guys strode up to them. The man’s pack was partially open and Pete could see the barrel of an Israeli-made Uzi. The man handed Haas a pistol. In the next instant his hand smashed against the hood of the car as he squashed a wasp with a casual air of brutality.
Pete licked his lips. Ex-military, weapons, South Africans . . . diamonds. Pete old son, what have you gotten yourself into?
Haas motioned Pete over. “Dr. Miami, if you will please do the honors by pointing out the way.”
Pete nodded. He punched a button on the tablet and the drone proceeded forward. “It’s open country for about a mile and then we’ll enter the Sangre de Christo Mountains. From there our only hope of finding the kimberlite site is for the drone to pick the least nasty route through the wilderness.”
One of the ex-military men came up to him. He was tall with short blond hair and thick lips. He had the unmistakable air of authority. “My men and I can go anywhere you tell us to.”
“This is Goren,” Haas introduced the man.
“To hell and back?” Pete joked.
“If necessary.” The man didn’t smile.
Let’s hope it isn’t necessary, Pete thought.
Goren flashed a hand signal at the other men. Two of them dropped back. The team’s only black man stayed at point. Goren motioned Pete to go first. “Flint will be right beside you.”
To everyone else he shouted, “Saddle up. We’ll break for five minutes in an hour.” He turned to Haas and said, “Sir, when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Goren. Let’s move out.”
The first hour was along a well-maintained National Forest Service trail. Rangers had even carved steps in some of the steeper places. At the first hour’s break point, the trail veered sharply south, but the drone indicated they move straight ahead.
“The trail will take us way south of the kimberlite location into ancient Pueblo land,” Pete explained to Haas. “We have to stay true as long as we can. According to the drone images, we shouldn’t encounter any major obstacles for another five miles. Then there’s a steep ravine. We may need climbing ropes to get in and out of it, but that will save us hours compared to going around it.”
By midday they had scaled the cliff and stopped for half an hour to rest and eat. They settled on one side of a wide beautiful valley.
Haas turned to Pete. “We must be close.”
“On the other side of the ridge there is a depression grown over with piñon pines. That’s exactly the center of the strongest kimberlite signature. It’s less than a quarter of a mile.” What happened next surprised Pete.
Rather than pulling everybody together for the march to the kimberlite location, Haas gestured to his men. “You boys go with Pete and see what he has located. Beecher and I will wait here.” The men gathered their gear.
Pete, recovering from his surprise, asked, “Sure you don’t want to come?”
“It’s bad luck for me to go. We’ll just wait here for the good news. Godspeed.”
Pete ran his hand through his hair. The reason sounded superstitious and Haas didn’t strike him as that kind of person. Still surrounded by Uzis and thugs whose arms were bigger than his thighs, Pete wasn’t going to argue. He just hoped he got out of this alive.
He ducked under some branches and headed towards the ridge. Hass’s men followed. The drone hovered overhead then darted toward the other side of the valley.
Beecher watched them go, uncertain what was going to happen next. Suddenly he felt the strong grip of Hass’ hand on his shoulder steering him to a vantage point where they could look out across the valley. He handed Beecher the binoculars and pointed. “What do you see?”
Beecher quartered the terrain. A long overhang caught his attention. It looked almost manmade. As he adjusted the field of view he saw the telltale architecture of an Anasazi cliff dwelling. Something moved among the ruins. Maybe it was a deer. Maybe a person. Handing the binoculars back to a Haas, he said, “I might’ve seen somebody. Do you think it could be Adam?”
“Hopefully,” answered Haas. A slight smile crossed his face as he added, “After all, he’s the real prize . . . Adam Gwillt the super healer.”
Beecher started at the reverent tone in the South African’s voice. “You sound like a true believer.”
Haas leaned against a gnarled piñon pine. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes. “Goren and the others are about half way to the objective.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Beecher. “As I said earlier. You have to choose.”
Beecher’s stomach turned over at the sudden chill in the man’s tone. “You know Billy Paul asked me to have Adam killed, and that I tried to carry out his orders.”
“Your zeal was misplaced. Luckily fate interceded. Good for us, and I hope you’ll come to understand, good for you.”
“You don’t want to kill Adam?”
“Not at all. I see him as an asset, just the same as I do our diamonds.” Haas laughed, the sound over-confident in the thin mountain air. “You might say he’s a very special diamond.”
Beecher’s mind was reeling at the news. “I don’t get it. Why?”
“A power like his could help gain control of a piece of the global medical economy especially if he could teach others his gift.”
Beecher reflected on what Haas said. The power to heal could certainly make believers out of millions of people. Zealots more like it. Zealots who would do anything for their master. He glanced at Haas. “What’s your connection to the Reverend?”
“He’s a self-righteous fool. We needed him to get to Jonathan Ramsey, to get to you and to your woman Myriam.”
“For what?”
“From what I’ve learned, Adam knows you and he likes and trusts Myriam. When we find Adam, we’d like you and Myriam to befriend him, talk him into joining us.”
Beecher was so confused he didn’t know how to react. Everything was suddenly upside down. All this time I thought this was about killing Adam. But it’s much more than that. He didn’t want to argue with Haas, but he needed informat
ion to figure out what to do. Beecher said, “Gwillt’s a threat to Christianity . . . The second coming of the devil.”
Haas let the binoculars hang from their leather strap around his neck. “You may have believed that rubbish once, but you’ve changed. I can see it. And there’s a whole larger movement going on based on the power of Adam. The Reverend Billy Paul didn’t tell you about that did he? They’re called the New Gnostics. It’s a new kind of Christianity. Very powerful.” Haas looked Beecher straight in the eye. “Like I said. You have to choose.”
Beecher felt anger and confusion well up in his gut, but he forced it away. He needed time to reconcile what he just heard, so he decided to ask a simple question. “How do you know all this?”
“We know everything that’s going on in the area. It’s standard operating procedure when we’re investigating for a potential diamond mine. Plus we have an insider who knows all about Adam and who for now will remain nameless.”
An alarm bell rang out in the still air. Both men whirled at the noise.
“Where’s that alarm coming from?” Haas asked.
Beecher shrugged. “In these mountains, it’s hard to say. He peered across the valley. Shadows moved among the ruins. They could have been Goren and the team. It was hard to tell with or without binoculars.
THE ALARM ECHOED a second time throughout the ancient Anasazi cliff dwelling. A young man in his late twenties walked into a ground-level apartment on the cliff. He wore blue jeans and cowboy boots and carried a 30.06 in his right hand. He went into an inner room and looked down into a chamber dug nearly ten feet into the floor. This was a kiva, a circular room built underground where religious ceremonies had been conducted by generations of Anasazi. He clambered down the crude wooden ladder and stood beside a figure sitting on the red dusty floor. He saw no breath or heartbeat. But the face was ruddy colored and looked in good health. He touched the shoulder. The muscle was firm.
“Adam . . . we have to go” the young man said quietly.
A DRY BUZZING SOUND issued from Haas’s pack. He walked over and pulled out a sat phone. He paused and listened. Beecher watched him carefully. Haas scratched his chin with a well-manicured finger.
“Anything?” Beecher mouthed.
Haas shook his head. There was a pause as Haas listened. Then, he smiled and said, “They found kimberlite . . . lots of it and now they’re looking for the pipe.”
Beecher picked up the binoculars and focused on the ridge across the valley. A speck moved above it. He adjusted the lenses and saw the drone circling the Anasazi cliff dwelling. As he watched, its right wing exploded and the drone winged over, spinning toward the ground.
A gunshot from the ridge split the silence.
Haas dropped the sat phone into the pack and pulled out a pistol with his left hand. His other held the pistol Goren gave him. Beecher took it. Part of his brain registered the crash of the drone. The rest of him was settling into a place where he was protected. His eyes scanned the ridgeline opposite and the tree line nearby. He didn’t see any movement.
“Are your men prepared for this?” he whispered.
Haas nodded. “They’re the best mercenaries in the business. Saw action in Mali with the rebels fighting the French. Goren did three tours in Basra, Iraq as part of the British Expeditionary Force.”
Two more shots came from the trail where Goren and his men had followed Pete to the kimberlite location. Beecher squinted against the westering sun, looking for some sign of intruders. The bolt action of hunting rifle sliding a cartridge home ripped through the small clearing. Beecher didn’t move. The noise was deliberate. He glanced at Haas who’d heard it also. Instinctively both men slowly raised their hands in the air, pistols dangling from their index fingers. They turned and looked into the barrels of two rifles pointed directly at their hearts. The larger of the two Hispanic men gestured for them to put their guns on the ground. Beecher and Haas complied.
They were zip tied with their hands behind their backs and put in the center of the clearing. When Beecher opened his mouth to ask what was going on, one of the men said, “No talking Americano.”
Ten minutes later Pete and the four South African mercenaries marched into camp covered by six more Hispanic men, all carrying rifles. One of Goren’s men had his arm in a makeshift sling.
Haas’s eyes narrowed and he asked Pete, “Did you find the pipe?”
The Hispanic leader shouted, “Shut up!” He unfolded a large sack and his men put cell phones, sat phones, food, and water inside. Watches and jewelry followed. The team’s weapons were slung on their persons.
Pete stole a glance at Haas and shook his head negatively. He looked at the Hispanic men and froze. He vaguely remembered the smallest one. He worked in the kitchen at Rosa Cisneros’ café. What if he remembers me?
The leader of the Hispanics looked to the small man and said in Spanish, “Julio what should we do now?”
“Go crazy like I said.”
Pete tensed, his high school Spanish still good enough to translate. Crazy could mean anything.
Immediately the leader began strutting around the makeshift camp waving his rifle in the air and cursing at Haas’s party. “Bastardos. . . . You think you can come up into our mountains and take what doesn’t belong to you? You’re gonna pay a price for trespassing.”
The other Hispanic men were busy gathering the backpacks and the rest of the gear, while handcuffing each of the commandos with plastic zip ties. They were well-organized and prepared. In all the commotion they seemed to forget about Pete. He gradually slid towards the edge of the group. For a moment when all eyes were on the ranting leader, he dove down the side of the hill. Tumbling and spinning around the piñon pines and scrub brush, he finally landed in a heap at the bottom.
From all of the yelling at the top of the hill, Pete was able to make out that Julio had told the others he recognized him. He heard the man shout, “I’m going after him. Do what we planned.”
Pete scrambled to his feet and took off running, dodging between trees and sliding around boulders, guided only by the fear that he had to put as much distance between his pursuer and himself as he could or he was going to end up dead. Branches whipped across his eyes, momentarily blinding him. Roots and rocks grabbed at his ankles. Miraculously he stayed upright. He rounded a large outcropping of rock and shot along a narrow ridge toward a pass maybe a mile in the distance. Once he reached the other side of the mountain he convinced himself he would be safe. The area was more heavily forested and easier to get lost in.
He doubled his speed, though he knew he couldn’t hold on for much longer. He just needed as much distance as he could get. Maybe the man would become disheartened and give up.
Pete had gone nearly a mile at top speed. Sharp pains laced his lungs with every breath. He slowed momentarily and a rifle shot echoed through the late afternoon. A branch above is head splintered.
He redoubled his pace heedless of where he was going. Rounding a large boulder on the narrow trail, he came to a skidding halt. A sheer cliff face plunged hundreds of feet to a shallow stream. The other side was nearly thirty feet across. There was no way to jump and the only way out was back the way he came.
Cursing his luck, Pete knew he had to chance it. He eased around the boulder, hoping to catch sight of his pursuer, something that could tell him if he had a chance. A gun blast and the rock splintered by his head. A chip slammed into his temple and he fell backward, cracking his head on the ground. Stunned, he tried to move but his legs wouldn’t respond. He had to get out of there. He tried to get up but all he could make were little scrabbling motions with his hands. His vision cleared and a shadow fell across him.
Julio pointed his rifle at his chest. “I’m sorry, man. But I can’t let you live. You know too much.”
Pete said the first thing that came to his mind. “You think Rosa would want you to do this?”
The man smiled, his teeth crooked and yellow stained. “She will not care, I can assure y
ou.” Pete winced as a stubby thick finger closed on the trigger. Then his dread turned to fascination as a feathered shaft blossomed in the man’s chest. The Hispanic swiped at it and another arrow caught the hand, pinning it like a butterfly beside the first arrow. Julio stumbled forward, fell to his knees and keeled over. He lay still.
Pete tried to get his feet under him but his legs still didn’t work. He put a hand to his head and felt a deep gash there. I’m seriously hurt, he thought with a dispassion he didn’t know he possessed. It was like observing a dying rabbit—only he was the rabbit. He was amazed he could be so nonchalant.
Another shadow fell across him. The figure was backlit and it was hard to make out. The man wore a feathered headdress and a breechclout and carried a bow with a quiver of arrows on his back. His skin was red-bronzed by the sun. He knelt beside Pete and smiled. “Today is not your day to die.”
The Indian went to Julio who lay on his back, breathing in shallow gasps.
Julio’s vision was blurring. He knew he was dying and it filled him with such fear he cried out for his mother. Blood foamed at his mouth. Then a shadow swarmed in front of him, solidified, and appeared to him as a black-garbed priest. He recognized the face of Father Michael from the Rio Chama de Milagro Shrine. He reached out with a hand and grasped the crucifix Father Michael dangled before him. His courage welled up. Though his life was over, he knew his soul could be saved. “Father, forgive me, I have sinned,” he rasped.
“Do you admit freely of your wrong doings, my son?”
The dying man nodded.
The priest intoned the Penance. “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Julio’s hands squeezed the cross once then collapsed on the rocks.
The Adam Enigma Page 16
