Treasure of Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  “Now’s the perfect time,” Dr. Farmer agreed.

  Jaime had flown in and out of Frankfurt before, and had picked up visiting family and friends, so she was used to the yawning concrete levels and circuitous ramps of the parking garage that had to be negotiated just to leave the airport. They whizzed by as she pressed the number 3 and said simply, “Operator.”

  “Hello, Jaime,” came a pleasant voice–this one live, and female. “You and Dr. Farmer had a safe trip, I take it?”

  “Incident free, after Tallil,” Jaime reported. “So what’s up in Davos?”

  “The key players are all arriving. In fact, so many of them are either there or scheduled to arrive this evening that we’re wondering if the meeting of interest is planned for tonight. If you’re in the car now, barring unforeseen circumstances you should be on time. Operative One on this operation, Eddie Williams, is already there. He’s a specialist in electronics, and he’s been monitoring the communications of those likely to convene the meeting–which the attendees are keeping strictly secret. Nothing yet. Anything you need from us at this point?”

  “No, thanks. It’s good to be in touch.”

  “Likewise. Godspeed.”

  And the connection light disappeared.

  The car was warming up as Jaime fed the paid parking receipt to the machine and exited the garage. Now that she was on the ground and nearly on the road, she began to feel the effects of a night without sleep. It was going to be a long trip–and if the whole point was to get the economist there in time for the meeting, which might be as soon as this evening, there would be precious little time for pit stops, let alone rest breaks.

  “Dr. Farmer–Andrea,” she queried, “do you know how to drive?” It occurred to her that perhaps they might trade off driving and sleeping.

  “No, sorry,” said the older woman. “Even during my most recent sojourn in the Terris world to get my doctorate I lived on the Stanford campus and always had friends to take me if I needed to travel more widely. I haven’t been back in several decades, and I have to say, cars have evolved a lot since then.” She smiled at the memory. “The first car I ever rode in was a Model T. Now there was a bumpy ride! It was nothing like this!” She patted the leather seat that was beginning to warm beneath her.

  Jaime knew that people who lived in Eden had a much longer life expectancy than their Terris counterparts, but the Model-T reference surprised her, even so. “You first surfaced in the early twentieth century? How many times have you lived here?”

  “Only twice. And yes, the first time, when I was very young, was nearly a hundred years ago. Both worlds were very different then. As I mentioned, the only other time I lived here was to get a doctorate from a Terris university so that I could be traceable and taken seriously when I published papers on economic theory.”

  Jaime stole a glance again at the fit, energetic woman beside her. According to her Terris bio, this important and reclusive (or so it was assumed) economist had received her doctorate in the 1960s. It put her current age at sixty-six, and noted that her hair had been snow-white since birth. Now it was a lovely look for her age–whatever it truly was.

  “So can you tell me why, after all these years, you’ve surfaced for this particular mission?”

  Andrea sighed. “It’s a long story, one that had its genesis ages ago…”

  “A story I could use right now!” Jaime laughed. “If you can’t help drive, then I need you to help me stay awake.” She had followed the direction signs through the Frankfurt Airport and slid onto the Autobahn, heading south toward Switzerland.

  “The reason I’m on this mission,” Andrea hesitated for just a beat, “is because I asked–actually, I pleaded with Clement to let me come. After long hours of arguing, he finally relented.”

  “Why was he against it? It seems you’d be the perfect person to send to a meeting at the World Economic Forum. Or is it a problem that your writings make you such a recognizable public figure?”

  She was looking out the opposite window when she quietly replied, “His concern was that I’m too close to the topic, too emotionally involved to keep a balanced perspective throughout the mission. In fact, I’m not currently an Eden Operative, but I once was. My first assignment was to infiltrate a secret meeting on Jekyll Island, Georgia, back in 1910. Unfortunately, I was exposed and almost killed before bringing the mission to successful completion.”

  She fell silent but seemed to be struggling with her thoughts. Jaime didn’t interfere. She’d learned through years of counseling that sometimes it was best to let a person talk, or not talk, at their own pace.

  “But that wasn’t the worst of it.” When she resumed, her voice took on a hard, determined edge. “The very thing we’d hoped to prevent happened because I was unable to complete my mission! The men gathered at that meeting wrote the plans for an economic system in your country that may have stunted your economic progress for a century.”

  “You mean the Federal Reserve System?” interjected Jaime, shifting into sixth, then punching the accelerator to pass a VW that was annoying her greatly. “The U.S. government claims it was set up to protect our financial holdings from disaster. Is it really that bad?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying the Federal Reserve Act is the most horrible thing that could have happened. But the public had a right to know and understand the ramifications of the system. Instead, they were purposely kept in the dark. Had they known the whole truth from the beginning, open debate might have led to better choices, a much more balanced system. That’s our mission this time as well. Some important financial players are planning a Jekyll Island–style secret meeting at Davos this year, one that could have worldwide financial ramifications.”

  “And we need to–?”

  “According to the e-mails we’ve intercepted, some powerful leaders in the world of finance are planning to push the world markets in a particular direction, which could affect the livelihoods of millions–driven by the American magnate J. Aldrich Woodbury. We need to discover their plan and expose it. If it’s on the level, it will hold up under scrutiny. If not–let’s just say this time, we plan to let the world decide.”

  “When you say ‘push the markets in a particular direction,’ what are you talking about?”

  “We believe they’re working together to choose which international currencies to uphold, and which to devalue. If a currency is devalued–whether the dollar, the yen, the euro, whatever–that means the people who trade with that currency will find their investments and their life savings gone, overnight. Even the possessions they have, their houses, cars, whatever, become virtually worthless because only those who own the favored currencies can afford to buy them, and for a fraction of their worth. Entire national economies can collapse–even those belonging to the world’s wealthiest countries–if people with the means and the know-how work together to make it happen.”

  “How exactly is Woodbury planning to pull this off?”

  “He hasn’t been discussing the details either electronically or by phone. He’s insisting on a face-to-face buy-in of the plan. But the stature of the international players with whom he’s been in contact is enough to cause grave concern. That’s why I have every intention of being there.”

  “I’m proud to be with you, proud to be an Operative on this mission,” said Jaime.

  “I’m glad to be with you.” She smiled. “Let’s get to Davos and bark with the big dogs.”

  Jaime laughed at Andrea’s turn of phrase. “The big dogs have no idea who’s on the way,” she said, and pushed the pedal to the sedan’s carpeted floor.

  January 24, 3:30 p.m.

  (2 days, 19 hours, 0 minutes until end of auction)

  Arqaka, Cyprus

  * * *

  Abihu el-Musaq lay on a massage table by the pool outside his stone house on the island of Cyprus. He was being worked on by a short, muscular man who used to be a fisherman until he discovered how much money he could make at the local resorts if he beca
me a certified masseur. El-Musaq’s pool was designed with an infinity edge on one side, allowing the water to cascade down a level, which gave the illusion that the pool had no end until it merged into the deeper blue that was the sea beyond. Water flowed continually into the pool from two fountains that looked like ancient jars. It was beautiful.

  Which always made him angry when he had to leave.

  Damn Bedouins.

  El-Musaq accepted that there were certain problems and risks that came with the business he’d chosen. Oh, not his legitimate business, which was luxury food imports. But in his other, even more fruitful business in black-market antiquities, he much preferred being the unseen go-between, who never had to leave his beautiful cocoon.

  He’d sent a trusted messenger to pick up the item being offered for sale by Hajj al-Asim, the tribal chief in the Israeli desert west of the Dead Sea. The man had returned empty-handed, saying al-Asim wanted to keep it as a good-luck charm for his upcoming wedding, which would be over before the eBay auction ended.

  Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.

  The auction bidding was already up to $150,000.00 U.S.–and that was mostly the serious bidders just throwing their hats into the ring. He couldn’t let anything go wrong.

  He had to have that box.

  In his mind, he wasn’t displaying prejudice by not trusting the Bedouin. His own grandfather was a Bedouin. One of the few who left for school, discovered there was a real world outside the damn desert, and got a life.

  As for trusting them in business dealings, el-Musaq remembered how in the earlier times the Turkish ruler Ahmed al-Jazar had faced outrage because no caravans could cross the desert without being robbed by the Bedouin. So al-Jazar had captured a Bedouin sheikh, and some of his chiefs. Al-Jazar had promised their release only if the tribes promised to leave the caravans alone.

  The sheikh said, “It is tradition that we plunder caravans. It has gone on for thousands of years. It’s what we do.”

  So they killed him. And boiled his body

  And still his men refused to leave the caravans alone.

  The ruler realized he could not win and if he killed the chiefs, the Bedouin would cause even more trouble. He let the men go and ended up having to give them land as a make-good.

  It made Abihu el-Musaq crazy to have Bedouin blood in his own veins. He wasn’t a thief, of course. He was a businessman. But his particular business meant he had to deal with thieves.

  Still, one law of the Bedouin held that if travelers–as opposed to merchant caravans–came their way, they offered protection and hospitality. So Abihu el-Musaq was about to head their way. He’d attend the wedding of the Hajj. He’d leave with the box.

  Or he’d see to it that this would be one of the shortest marriages ever recorded.

  January 24, 2007, 9:05 p.m.

  (2 days, 13 hours, 25 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  When all the men had left the tent after feasting, the Hajj’s first, son, Farook, returned to him and said quietly, “Your wife Asad waits to speak to you. May she come in?”

  Hajj al-Asim gave a deep sigh and turned to go into his private sleeping quarters, but he waved his hand, giving his assent.

  Asad entered the room, which was sectioned off by large, handwoven rugs that served as walls. She stood waiting until her husband turned to face her. When he did, he saw she was trembling with rage.

  “Why?” he asked, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

  “Husband, I call on you to right a terrible wrong. While the women were cooking for the feast tonight, someone went into my tent and went through all my things! Our things. Our family’s things!”

  With a sigh that clearly meant, “Oh, is that all?” the Hajj turned and sat down to take off his shoes. “Was anything taken?”

  “Not that I’ve found,” she said. “But this is a great indignity! You must find who did it and they must be punished!”

  He removed his second shoe and sat looking up at her. She was still slim, after five children, and he could see traces of the young woman he’d taken as his third wife. She was still his favorite. For two days more, she was his favorite.

  “Wife,” he said, “it was done as a protection to you. Something of great worth is missing, and I had to make sure you didn’t have it. It wasn’t just you–all the members of my household were searched. It was not found. You have been cleared. So, in this instance you are under my protection.”

  Rather than calming her, his remarks caused the woman’s eyes to blaze. “It was you?” she snorted. “You had someone ransack my things as a ‘protection’? If you care for me so much, why didn’t you simply ask?”

  “Now I can prove to everyone you’re above suspicion,” he said.

  She stomped her foot, her nostrils flaring. She was like his favorite pony, high-spirited, stubborn, and needing to be tamed.

  “I am your wife!” she said, not shrilly, but in even, measured tones. “I want–the least I want from you is an apology!”

  Oh, Asad, he thought, you are angry with me. You are defiant. You are fortunate that, unlike other chiefs, I do not punish my wives for impertinence, as I have the right to do. In fact, it has always been your defiance that attracted me to you.

  She stomped her foot again.

  He smiled. “Come to the mats.” She looked at him aghast, as if she was still surprised that her pretty little tantrums provoked this outcome.

  “I want your apology!”

  “You demand from me?”

  “I said, I want an apology. I’m owed one.” Now her eyes were filling with tears of anger.

  She clearly knew where this was going. But maybe this was her plan. After tonight, she would not expect to come to his mats for a week, at the very least.

  “Who is your husband?” he asked. “Who is the Hajj?”

  Asad did not answer but looked at the ground, biting her lip.

  “Come here. Now.”

  She could do nothing but obey.

  She was a willful little pony. And once again, she would be tamed.

  January 24, 2007, 9:15 p.m.

  (2 days, 12 hours, 15 minutes until end of auction)

  Highway 28

  32 Miles Northeast of Laret, Switzerland

  * * *

  Jaime and Andrea had only made two very brief stops for gas, to use the restroom, buy some fruit, and–in Jaime’s case–buy caffeinated soda.

  Under normal circumstances, Jaime would seriously enjoy the freedom of being behind the wheel–no convoys, no heavy combat gear, just a turbocharged sedan that handled like a dream in the traffic on the Autobahn. The best part was the six-speed manual transmission. She had always enjoyed the challenge of finding the perfect point between the clutch and the shift, when the next gear moved in so smoothly you could hardly detect the change.

  But by nightfall, the effects of the caffeine had ebbed and Jaime was just plain exhausted. She knew she had to get Dr. Farmer to the hotel as quickly as humanly possible. Jaime only hoped she herself could catch a little sleep there before anything happened.

  Driving in the dark was not helping.

  “Were you aware that I know your great-grandmother?” Dr. Farmer asked.

  “No,” Jaime said, grateful for the conversation.

  “Yes.” The older woman smiled. “She told me about the incredible mystery you solved shortly after your arrival in Eden.”

  Jaime smiled. It was kind of Andrea to do her part to level the playing field of their relationship. The research Jaime had been assigned to do on international finance had led her to a healthy awe of this woman and how astutely she understood the social and spiritual ramifications of economic theory. It was an honor to be accompanying her. Jaime was certain that once the economists gathered in Davos realized that Dr. Farmer was among them, she’d be surrounded and peppered with questions.

  Jaime said, “I’ve really enjoyed
reading your papers. Most of the points you make seem crucial. I’d say irrefutable, although obviously there are those who do argue with your conclusions. But the fact is, even if they disagree, you’ve taken the conversation to a new, and important, level,” said Jaime.

  “You know, the most important thing I got from my time at Stanford wasn’t from the classes or even the brilliant professors. It was the understanding of how many people in the Terris world only think of money in terms of their allotment of it,” Andrea commented. “Living from paycheck to paycheck, without ever understanding that their government’s financial system determines so much about their daily lives.”

  “Even stranger is that so many people spend their lives chasing money and never quite catching it. Yet they take no time to get a grasp of the big picture, or even how we were trained to be on this treadmill of consumption.” Jaime said. “I know that to be true because, until recently, I was one of them.”

  “Do you think it’s money they’re chasing, or the idea of wealth and acquisition that’s been sold to them by ad agencies?” Dr. Farmer’s question was rhetorical.

  “Do you feel individual wealth is wrong, Dr. Farmer?” Jaime asked. Once their conversation turned economic, it felt much more natural for Jaime to use a term of respect.

  “My answer to you on that question is much franker than my answer to an economist would be,” Andrea said. “Wealth in itself is not bad–depending on what your true treasure is, and where it lies. It won’t surprise you when I say that the history of Eden economics changed substantially two thousand years ago when agents in the Terris world returned after spending three years listening to the economic theories of Jesus.”

  “‘For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also’,” Jaime quoted.