Using a knife, he pried chunks of corrosion from the disk. He then poured water from a canteen over it and, using his shirtsleeve, scoured it vigorously with a circular, polishing motion. Years of grime flaked off. And though the color didn’t change from its tarnished black, details began to emerge.
The long nose of an animal appeared, first the nostrils and then the line of its mouth. Next came a sloped forehead and a single large eye. After more rubbing, Joe found what he was looking for—the curved shape of a ram’s horn depicted in profile. The whole image a stylized Art Deco design.
“The Golden Ram,” Joe said, looking up.
“The golden who?” Gamay asked.
“The Golden Ram,” Joe repeated. “This is Jake Melbourne’s plane. It vanished after he left New York on an attempt to cross the Atlantic in May of 1927. He was trying to win the Orteig Prize. The one Charles Lindbergh won a week later.”
Gamay shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
“People only remember the winners,” Joe said. “No one remembers those who come in second or don’t come in at all. Dozens of others tried to win the prize. At least six men died in the effort. Others vanished and were never heard from again. A French plane known as L’Oiseau Blanc disappeared trying to make the journey from Paris to New York. They were trying to win the prize flying to the west. Melbourne’s plane disappeared a week later, heading east.”
Kurt turned back to the plane, looking upon it with a newfound reverence. “Are you sure about this?”
“Positive,” Joe said.
Paul cocked his head to the side. “You said this plane disappeared a week before Lindbergh’s flight. Since it obviously made it to Europe, does that mean Melbourne deserved the prize instead of Lucky Lindy?”
“Technically, no,” Joe said. “You had to make it to Paris to win the prize and—”
“Still,” Kurt said, interrupting, “it would make Melbourne the first person to cross the Atlantic without stopping. That would make him a hero in his own right.”
“You would think that,” Joe said cautiously. “But not really.”
“Why not?”
Joe looked around sheepishly. “Because Jake Melbourne’s body was found in a Brooklyn icehouse weeks after his plane took off. He’d had a gunshot wound to the chest and had been dead for a while. No one knows how long since the ice kept him, well, on ice.”
Everyone’s eyes grew wide.
Paul asked the obvious. “If he was killed in New York, then how’d the plane get here?”
“Someone else flew it,” Joe said.
“The big question is, who?” Kurt asked.
Joe shrugged. “How should I know?”
Morgan joined the conversation next. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You’re telling me this man Melbourne was killed and then some other pilot—unknown to history—took his plane and disappeared, trying to fly it across the Atlantic, only to crash here in Spain, die anonymously and vanish from history?”
“That’s the only explanation that makes any sense,” Joe said.
“Talk about rotten luck,” Paul said.
“And you’re sure this is his plane?” Morgan said, repeating Kurt’s earlier question. “Not another one of the same kind?”
“There weren’t any others of the same kind,” Joe said. “Melbourne’s plane was designed and built specifically for the contest. The ram’s head embellishment proves it—that was Jake’s moniker, his persona. They called him the Golden Ram. He butted heads with everyone but always looked good doing it. Trust me, this is Melbourne’s plane even if Melbourne didn’t fly it.”
“Well, that’s a very strange tale indeed,” Morgan said.
“Stranger still,” Kurt pointed out, “whoever this pilot was, he had the Writings of Qsn with him. Which means those tablets made it all the way to the New World before coming back here to Europe.”
Morgan took the next step. “If we can figure out what happened to Melbourne and who replaced him, it might lead us to whoever really discovered the Writings of Qsn and where.”
The members of the group looked at one another soberly, each of them calculating the odds in their own way. “It’s a long shot,” Kurt said. “But at this point, it’s our only chance of beating the Bloodstone Group to the treasure.”
Chapter 40
MV Tunisian Wind, forty miles north of the Spanish coast
Solomon Barlow stood on the bridge wing of an aging forty-thousand-ton bulk carrier that was partially filled with grain. The Tunisian Wind was registered in Panama, owned by an Albanian corporation that existed only on paper and used by the Bloodstone Group to ferry arms around the world.
Upon purchasing the Handymax-sized vessel, Barlow had considered changing the name to something like Trojan Gift, but he figured that was too on the nose, considering how he and his people used the ship.
The vessel itself chartered out to carry grain, filling its hold in various countries and delivering its product on time and intact, in a perfectly legal manner. It was crewed by professional seamen and passed all safety inspections.
What the world’s authorities hadn’t put together was that the ship rarely made a delivery in the full amount of its cargo. Even when the holds were filled to the top, it routinely dropped off only half the total tonnage it was capable of hauling while down beneath all the remaining loose grain lay weapons wrapped in layers of protective plastic.
The Tunisian Wind had delivered mobile missile systems, tanks and helicopters from the former Soviet republics. Thousands of assault rifles, armor-piercing rockets and antipersonnel grenades had traveled in the bottom of the hold, along with enough plastic explosives to level a small city.
It had sailed this way for years. In all that time, the most anyone had ever done was open the hatch and test the grain for boll weevils.
Currently in between runs, the ship was anchored and awaiting an important arrival. Barlow checked his watch and scanned the horizon repeatedly, his patience fading. Finally, he spotted a helicopter approaching. “That has to be Kappa,” he said. “Signal them with the lights.”
The ship’s master, who had also been with Barlow for years, did as ordered without question. He wasn’t blind to the vessel’s purpose and knew they were maintaining radio silence for a reason. He aimed the high-powered lamp in the direction of the approaching helicopter and began opening and closing the shutter, sending a message that directed it to land on the forward hatch.
A moment went by before the landing light beneath the helicopter flashed in response.
“They confirm,” the captain said.
“Good,” Barlow replied. “Weigh anchor. I want to be under way the moment they touch down.”
As the captain made preparations to get under way, Barlow pulled on a jacket and left the bridge. It was quite a hike down the stairs to the main deck and then along to the bow. By the time Barlow reached the reinforced forward hatch, the chopper’s wheels were touching down.
Barlow waited as several of the ship’s crewmen secured the craft. While they worked, the side door slid open. Barlow was puzzled to see Robson standing there alone.
“Where’s Kappa?”
“He’s dead,” Robson announced bluntly.
“And the others?”
“They died before he did.”
Barlow’s eyes froze in a look of anger. “Explain this to me.”
Robson jumped down from the helicopter. “I didn’t kill him, in case that’s what you think. He got ambushed by the two operatives from NUMA and the woman from MI5.”
“What about his team?”
“They lost a firefight where they had the high ground,” Robson explained. “In their defense,” he added, “they got bounced at a bad time.”
Barlow didn’t bother with sentiment, but he was quick with figures and he was now down ten men thanks to
Austin, Zavala and Agent Manning. “You seem to have emerged unscathed,” he said. “I hope that means you’ve brought home what they dug up.”
Robson reached back into the helicopter, grabbed the straps of the duffel bag and heaved it onto the ship’s deck. “Unlike Kappa, I deliver what I’ve promised. Between that and the fact that there isn’t anyone else left, I’d say it’s time you put me back on point.”
Barlow ignored the request for the moment. He dropped down on one knee and unzipped the bag. It was filled with flat, tile-like sections of stone—dozens of them, maybe a hundred—all broken up like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
“They were like that when we found them,” Robson said.
Barlow pulled a palm-sized fragment from the lot, then looked over several more. There were hieroglyphics on every piece. All he had to do was put them back together.
He placed the stones back into the duffel and zipped it shut. “You’ve done well. The number one position is yours. Don’t screw it up like Kappa did.”
Because the Bloodstone Group operated like a pirate corporation, with the men earning their pay in percentages and shares, the simple promotion might add up to millions for Robson.
After giving Robson a moment to enjoy the news, Barlow gave a new order. “Take this to my cabin. We need to put it together and figure out its secrets.”
Chapter 41
Villa Ducal de Lerma, Spain
Arriving back in Lerma meant a parting of the ways. After saying good-bye to Father Torres, young Sofia and her aunt, the NUMA team headed toward a small airfield forty minutes away. There, they found two jet aircraft waiting. One bound for London, the other for Washington.
Kurt climbed into the NUMA Gulfstream and spoke briefly to the pilot before coming back down the stairs. He waited until Joe, Paul and Gamay had said their good-byes to Morgan before speaking to her himself.
“Why don’t you come with us?” he said. “I’ve already checked with the pilot. There’s plenty of fuel and an extra passenger won’t affect the flight.”
Morgan looked briefly at the NUMA jet before shaking her head. “It would ruffle a lot of feathers back in London if I didn’t show up now. Colonel Pembroke-Smythe and I will have to report to the Chief of Operations and most likely spend a few hours being grilled by members of Parliament. I’d also like to check in with Professor Cross and see if he’s thought of anything new. Once all that’s taken care of, I’ll think about making my way to America.”
“Something tells me that won’t take long,” Kurt said. “Let me know what flight you’re on. Austin Car Service is the best around.”
“Very well,” she said, her formal bearing firmly in place. “Until we meet again.”
There was no handshake, no hug, no kiss. Just a swift turn on her heels and a composed march to the Learjet on the far side of the ramp.
Kurt watched her board and then climbed back up the stairs into the NUMA Gulfstream.
“Five passengers?” the pilot asked.
“No,” Kurt said. “Just four.”
While the pilot secured the door and returned to the cockpit, Kurt moved toward the back of the plane. Finding a seat was no problem, the aircraft was spacious. It had been designed to let twelve passengers fly in comfort for long distances, but NUMA had modified it for smaller groups and added a few additional touches.
It had eight premium seats in two rows of four, then an area where comfortable couches offered retractable footrests and the option of reclining into beds, and a high-tech workstation with a computer terminal connected by satellite links directly to NUMA’s servers. Across from the sectionals lay a kitchenette, complete with wet bar, and behind that on the wall were a pair of fifty-inch flat-screen TVs connected to satellite.
Kurt took a seat on the aisle, one row ahead of Joe and directly across the aisle from Paul. Gamay sat next to him, gazing wistfully out the window at the Spanish countryside they were about to leave behind.
As the Gulfstream began to move, Kurt settled back. He had no doubt he would see Morgan again, but his mind had already switched lanes and was focused on the next steps in the search for the missing treasure. Figuring out who killed Jake Melbourne would be one avenue of investigation. Another would be the stone fragment in his jacket pocket.
Pulling the stone out, Kurt ran his thumb over the surface once more. It was soft and porous. Some of the red particles rubbed off on his skin as he brushed it. He turned to Paul and held the fragment out. “What do you make of that?”
Paul had a Ph.D. in Ocean Sciences and was a specialist in deepwater geology. He’d written a thesis on rock formation found on the seafloor. As far as Kurt was concerned, sea-based geology and land-based geology couldn’t be all that different.
Paul took the stone from Kurt, studied it for a second and then switched on the overhead light. “Sedimentary rock,” he said, “with a high level of iron content, which accounts for the red color. Reminds me of Navajo sandstone.”
“Navajo sandstone?”
Paul nodded. “The vermillion-colored rock you see so much of in Arizona, Utah and New Mexico.”
“Is that a unique color?”
Paul shook his head. “There are red sandstones all around the world. They come from similar formations, but that’s what first came to mind. Is this stone from a section of the hieroglyphics tablet?”
Kurt thought so. “It has no writing on it, but it’s the same color and has smooth edges.”
Paul dabbed a napkin in some water and gave the stone an additional cleaning. “It’s flat on three sides, with a ninety-degree angle at the point. Could be a corner piece. Might have broken off in the crash as the fragments were jostled around.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Kurt said. He glanced out the window as the Gulfstream pulled onto the runway and the engines began to ramp up. “Is there any way you could determine what part of the world this stone came from?”
A thoughtful look came over Paul’s face. “There are several ways to narrow it down.”
“Such as?”
“We could look for microscopic fossils embedded in the sandstone,” Paul said. “That could tell you when, geologically speaking, it formed. We could check its uranium content and radioactivity levels, we could grind it up and analyze its exact chemical makeup. Sandstones around the world are all slightly different. It depends on when, where and how they were laid down. But even if we narrow down the source area, I’m not going to be able to give you a latitude and longitude.”
As Paul finished speaking, the aircraft began its takeoff run. Kurt leaned back in his seat, relaxing, as they picked up speed. “Just name me a continent,” he said. “We’ll go from there.”
Chapter 42
Cambridge, England
Professor Henry Cross arrived home later than usual on a Wednesday night. A meeting at the university had run long and a minor traffic accident on the roundabout south of campus had held him up further.
He parked his Mini Cooper in the drive, pulled his briefcase off the passenger seat and walked around to a side door of the modest cottage-style home he’d lived in for two decades.
Unlocking the door and stepping through, he flipped a switch to ignite a gas fireplace in the living room. The flames gave the house a warm, cozy feel. They also lit the place in orange, illuminating a man sitting in one of the professor’s high-backed chairs.
“About bloody time you got here,” the man said.
Professor Cross studied the man the way he might examine an ancient scroll. He noted the prominent nose, the dark stubble on the man’s face and neck, the wool hat pulled down over the ears. He also noticed the pistol in his hand and the cylindrical tube screwed into the end of the barrel.
“Why do you have a silencer on your gun?”
The scruffy-looking man aimed the pistol at Professor Cross. “A respectable neighborhood, this. Wouldn’
t want to go disturbing the peace if I had to shoot you, now would I?”
The professor leaned against the wall. He was more annoyed than afraid. “What do you want, Robson?”
“Answers.”
“I would have given you the answers,” the professor began. “I would have sent you everything you needed, had you and those hooligans of yours not acted so clumsily when the Americans were here.”
Robson shifted in his chair and crossed his legs as if he owned the place. With practiced movements, he slid the pistol back into a shoulder holster and tucked it away. “Thought you’d appreciate us coming down on you like gangbusters. Keeps your impeccable name above suspicion.”
Professor Cross shook his head and glared at the man. The growing anger building inside him came out when he spoke next. “You’d just better hope they never wonder how you happened to arrive at Cambridge on the same exact day at the same exact moment they did.”
“Actually,” Robson said, grinning, “you’d better hope that. It’s not my name that’ll be dragged through the mud if they get suspicious.”
Robson stood up and walked toward the professor, passing him and stepping into the kitchen. Without asking permission, he pulled open the refrigerator and began pawing through its contents. “Blimey,” he said. “Half this stuff is out of date, Professor. I know you like old things, but, jeez, go shopping once in a while.”
The professor sighed. “I wasn’t expecting guests. Now what, exactly, do you want? I’ve already given you all the information I have.”
Robson’s head appeared above the refrigerator door. “You make it sound like a charity case. Like we never paid you. What are you doing with all of Barlow’s money anyway? Certainly haven’t spent it on this place.”
“I have my own pursuits,” the professor said.
“A little bit of crumpet on the side? That nice secretary of yours maybe?”
“Don’t be crass.”
Robson went back to foraging and finally settled on a bunch of grapes, pulling them out and closing the refrigerator door. Plucking several off, he began popping them into his mouth.
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