“You trust him?” Barlow asked.
“No,” Robson said. “But I know what he wants and we can trust him to act on that.”
Robson’s uncouth manner often rubbed Barlow the wrong way, but his uncultured upbringing brought with it street smarts that were an asset to be utilized. Robson came from a world of con men, petty thieves and scammers. He could sniff out half-truths and lies like a pig sniffs for truffles.
“All right,” Barlow said. “I’ll trust your judgment for now. But operating in America is going to be far more difficult than running around Europe or the Third World. We’ll be at a disadvantage. We’re going to need more men, especially with all the losses we’ve had lately.”
“You can get a small army from Omar Kai,” Robson said.
Kai was a mercenary they’d worked with before. Barlow considered him a little flamboyant, but he was the easiest sort to hire because he was fearless and always broke.
“Omar is a good choice,” Barlow admitted. “But I’m more interested in finding someone to deal with NUMA. And Kurt Austin in particular. He and his friends have a nasty habit of appearing where they are least wanted—or expected. At this very moment they’re on their way back to America. A few hours ago, I considered that a small victory, but it goes to the other side of the ledger now. It puts Austin on his home turf. It’ll make him even harder to deal with the next time he interferes.”
“You may want to get rid of him,” Robson suggested. “Hit him before he can gum up the works.”
Killing Austin would be a prudent step, but assassination was a different game, a different skill, than soldiering. Neither Robson nor Omar Kai were really suited for the task. Barlow would have to outsource the job.
“I’ll look into it,” Barlow said. “In the meantime, get yourself to America. And bring Professor Cross with you. We might need him. And we certainly don’t want him running his mouth to anyone.”
“Not to worry,” Robson said. “He’s already in my tender loving care.”
Barlow cut the link and stood there for a moment, pausing before making the next move. He knew at least a dozen people who would kill for money but very few who would take the job when they heard that the operation would take place in America and would involve eliminating a United States government employee.
One by one, he crossed potential candidates off the list until he ended up with a single name, the only person he could think of who might be both capable of pulling it off and willing to risk it. “The Toymaker,” he whispered to himself.
Tapping the screen on his phone, he scanned through a section of contacts. Under the cryptic heading TOYMAKER, he found an email address that existed only on the dark web—a section of the internet that required special software to access. This dark web was where the criminals of the cyberworld met, the equivalent of a shadow-filled alley in a lawless virtual city.
Using his own encryption software, Barlow sent a message. It would set up an anonymous link and allow him to make an offer to the Toymaker. If the job was accepted, details about the targets would be given and money transferred.
The Toymaker would get half up front and Barlow would wait for news of the kill before transferring the rest of the money. Theoretically, the Toymaker ran the risk of not being paid the second installment. But if there was one person in the world who never got shorted on the back end of a business deal, it was this anonymous assassin who killed with impunity.
Barlow typed out a message. A simple inquiry. He pressed SEND.
A response arrived in less than an hour.
The Toymaker was interested.
Chapter 44
NUMA headquarters, Washington, D.C.
After the long flight home and a few hours in his own bed, Kurt found himself wide awake at four in the morning. He’d grown accustomed to the European time and now on the East Coast it felt more like the middle of the day.
Never one to lie in bed if he wasn’t sleeping, Kurt got up, showered and drove to the NUMA headquarters, a modern glass and steel building overlooking the Potomac.
He used his key card to enter the parking garage beneath the building and rode the secured elevator up to the seventh floor. A short walk led to his office and a desk covered with studies, reports and proposals.
There was enough paperwork on his desk to have taken the lives of several trees. His in-box was stacked a foot high. “That’s what I get for going on vacation.”
Not interested in attacking the backlog of work, Kurt shut off the light, closed the door and made his way upstairs, arriving on the floor reserved for Hiram Yaeger and his computers.
Though it was still early, Kurt wasn’t surprised to find Hiram in the office. NUMA’s resident computer genius preferred to work in the quiet of the morning before everyone else arrived with questions and requests.
When Kurt arrived, Hiram was sitting at his console, working on intricate coding instructions. He was surrounded by three large computer screens, each one filled with numbers and symbols. It looked to Kurt like digital graffiti.
Kurt knocked softly on the wall to alert Hiram to his presence without startling him. “You’d be good enough to tell me if the whole world was a virtual reality simulation, right?”
Hiram swiveled in his chair and leaned back. “What makes you think I’d know? I couldn’t even find your missing plane.”
Kurt walked over beside Hiram’s desk, pulled a chair out and spun it around backward before sitting down. He leaned on the backrest as he spoke to Hiram. “No shame in that. The whole world assumed that plane fell into the Atlantic ninety years ago.”
“All the same,” Hiram said, “it’s our job to figure out things the rest of the world gets wrong. That’s why I’m working on this new program. I need to enable our computers to make leaps of logic that are actually illogical. It’s a more complicated task than you’d think.”
“You should have Joe help out. He’s a master of the illogical.”
Hiram nodded. “Maybe you’re right. He was the one who figured out it was Melbourne’s plane. Do you still think it might lead you to the Pharaoh’s treasure?”
“That depends,” Kurt said. “What can you and Max tell me about Jake Melbourne?”
Max was the supercomputer Hiram had built from scratch. A one-of-a-kind design that Hiram continually updated to incorporate all the latest advances, Max had the fastest processors, most advanced computer chips and most complex programming, all designed and created in-house by Hiram and funded by NUMA’s large technology budget.
Having built Max from the ground up, Hiram had become very attached to his creation. He’d named it Max but gave it a female persona and added a voice—and, at one point, a holographic body—that sounded a lot like his wife.
Leaning back, Hiram tilted his chin toward the ceiling. “Max,” he said, “give us a basic rundown on Jake Melbourne, the famous pilot.”
“Stand by,” a sultry voice replied via hidden speakers. “Also, please offer Kurt a complimentary beverage. Based on the thermal reading of his skin, he’s mildly dehydrated.”
Kurt glanced upward. “Thanks, Max, but I’m okay.”
Max was having none of it. “Dehydration leads to lethargy, inefficient thinking and irritability. If you intend to perform at optimal levels of functioning, I suggest a full liter of water to rebalance your system.”
Kurt’s brow wrinkled. He turned to Hiram. “When did Max become a doctor?”
Hiram started to reply, but Max interrupted. “I have the entire storehouse of Western medical knowledge in my data banks. I have optical and infrared sensors that see better than human eyes and have the ability to cross-reference symptoms at a speed of four-point-seven billion bits of information per second. By all rational standards, I’m far superior to any human doctor.”
“Except for her bedside manner,” Hiram joked.
Kurt laughed.
“In that case, I’m glad all I have is a little dehydration.”
The doctor wasn’t done. “You also seem to be favoring your right leg, suggesting injury to your knee or ankle. This is in addition to areas of raised surface temperature suggesting bruising and inflammation on multiple parts of your body. You really should learn to take better care of yourself, Kurt.”
“I took a bad step,” Kurt replied.
“More than one, I suspect.”
“Sorry,” Hiram said. “I’ve installed biometric sensors in Max’s camera grid. They were supposed to be for security purposes only, but Max put them to her own use.”
As Hiram finished explaining, he opened a small fridge at his feet and pulled out two bottles of purified water. He handed one to Kurt and put the other one on the desk. “Just take it. Otherwise, she’ll never stop.”
Kurt laughed, raising the water bottle. “To your health,” he said. “Or mine, apparently.”
Max seemed genuinely pleased. “Thank you, Kurt. Ready to report on Jake Melbourne.”
“Go ahead.”
“Jake Melbourne, pilot. Born March 5th, 1901, Louisville, Kentucky. Learned to fly by the time he was fifteen, ran away from home at sixteen and then lied about his age in order to enlist in the Army. He was sent to Europe in 1917 when the United States entered World War One on the side of France and the United Kingdom.
“Being a trained pilot, he was quickly transferred to the Army Air Corps. He flew in two different squadrons during his time in Europe, shooting down seven German planes during his first three weeks of deployment. This qualified him as the youngest ace pilot in the war. Melbourne was eventually given credit for nineteen kills and also survived being shot down twice himself.”
As Max spoke, photos of Jake with his squadron appeared on the screens in front of Kurt and Hiram. He looked older than his age, which probably helped him get through enlistment without getting caught. By the end of the war, his blond hair was already growing into a mane. Apparently, as an ace, he didn’t have to keep it high and tight.
Max continued her report. “Melbourne returned to the United States after the Armistice and became a barnstormer. After traveling all across the country and flying in shows, he was briefly connected with several Hollywood moguls. During the early twenties, he appeared in three movies and performed flying stunts in a total of seven. After being photographed with the wife of a well-known director, Melbourne moved away from Los Angeles and left the movie business behind.”
Max paused, not to take a breath but to allow the humans time to soak up the information. When she continued, a new photo appeared on the screen. It was an older, filled-out version of the same man. He wore a red leather jacket and ostrich-skin boots.
“After leaving California, Jake Melbourne began to perform internationally, flying in both Europe and South America. He developed a reputation for mischief. In particular, he was known for drinking, gambling and womanizing. In 1926, he publicly pledged to win the Orteig Prize. With the help of an East Coast aircraft builder, he designed and built a plane specifically for the contest, naming it after his own persona, the Golden Ram. Following several test flights proving it airworthy, Melbourne readied for his attempt.
“On May 12th, 1927, he took off from Roosevelt Field in New York. After crossing Long Island, the aircraft was last seen flying in a northeast direction out over the Atlantic. It was never seen again.”
“Apparently, you haven’t uploaded our discovery,” Kurt said. “Melbourne’s plane has been found. By us.”
“I’m aware of your discovery,” Max said. “It’s quite an accomplishment. I am merely restating the preexisting historic record.”
“Please continue,” Hiram said.
“An international search conducted in the weeks after the disappearance found no sign of wreckage. Melbourne and his aircraft were declared lost at sea. Controversy erupted several weeks later when Melbourne’s body was found in a Brooklyn icehouse. Because the cold temperatures acted to preserve his tissue, it was impossible to determine how long he’d been dead. This, combined with his reputation, led to speculation that Melbourne had been involved in a scheme to win the prize by hoax or to ditch his plane, fake his death and collect the insurance money. The second of these two schemes was presumed to include an unknown partner who subsequently killed Melbourne, hoping to keep all the proceeds for him- or herself.”
Max paused to allow for questions.
“Any truth to that?” Hiram asked.
“The evidence suggests insurance fraud was unlikely to be a motivating factor,” Max said. “A policy with New York Mutual paid out ten thousand dollars, but most of that was distributed among his creditors. No individual benefactor received more than two hundred dollars.”
“No point in faking your death for two hundred bucks,” Kurt said. “Even back then.”
“Not when landing in Paris would have given you twenty-five thousand,” Hiram added. “And a lifetime of fame to cash in on. Were there any other suspects in his death?”
“Melbourne had several enemies,” Max said, “including the husband of a prominent New England socialite with whom he was having an affair. In addition, Melbourne was known to have substantial gambling debts with the Irish Syndicate in New York, though he was photographed in public the week before his flight with a prominent member of the gang known as Bags Callahan.”
Max displayed the picture showing two men in period clothing having lunch outside a tavern. There appeared to be smiles on both faces.
“Looks pretty friendly to me,” Hiram said.
Kurt agreed. “More importantly, dead men don’t pay off markers. Even if he owed them money, Melbourne was worth more to the Syndicate alive than he was dead. Anyone else?”
“There are no other suspects listed in any official or speculative record.”
“Might be time to activate the illogical logic program,” Kurt said.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Max replied.
“What if there were two planes?” Hiram asked. “One in America and one shipped to Europe. Melbourne takes off in America, hides the plane somewhere and the next day—after allowing an appropriate amount of time to pass—the second plane takes off from Spain and lands in Paris. The idea being, Melbourne collects the prize, sells his famous aircraft to the Smithsonian and spends the rest of his life getting rich by endorsing products and giving commencement speeches, having never risked the dangerous flight.”
“It wouldn’t work,” Kurt said. “In 1927 there was no way for Melbourne to get from New York to Europe in time to appear in Paris. And considering all the pandemonium and press surrounding the prize, he couldn’t hope to keep the ruse a secret. Lindbergh was photographed repeatedly once he landed. He met all the dignitaries over there and appeared in multiple newsreels. Melbourne would have gotten the same treatment. Unless he had an identical twin, he could never pull off a stunt like that.”
Hiram raised an eyebrow. “Max, any chance Melbourne had a twin?”
“Melbourne had one sister eight years younger than him,” Max reported. “No medical or historical records suggest a twin or close-aged relative who could pass for him.”
“What if Melbourne was already in Europe,” Kurt suggested, “and the hoax was perpetrated on this side of the Atlantic? Easier to fake the takeoff than the landing.”
“In that case, his body would have wound up in Spain, not on ice in Brooklyn,” Hiram said.
“Good point,” Kurt replied. “Maybe I am dehydrated. I should have put that together.”
Kurt took another drink of water as Max gave them more information regarding the flight.
“All aircraft involved in attempts to win the Orteig Prize were required to carry a sealed barograph. This device recorded atmospheric pressure and altitude as the aircraft traveled, preventing any hidden landings, takeoffs or other interruptions of the flight.
The barograph also recorded duration of flight. The U.S. National Aeronautic Association and Aéro-Club of France were used to certify that all barographs were not tampered with. This precaution would preclude the type of hoax you’ve suggested.”
“I’m at a loss,” Hiram said.
“Because we’re focusing on the wrong pilot,” Kurt said. “It’s my fault. I came in here asking about Jake Melbourne, but he’s irrelevant.”
Hiram had found Kurt’s instincts to be sharper than most. Rather than disagree, he prodded Kurt to elaborate. “What are you suggesting?”
Kurt straightened up, sitting taller on the backward chair. “For ninety years, everyone thought Melbourne ditched his plane while trying to perpetrate some scam or because he chickened out. But we know that his plane was successfully flown to Europe even if it didn’t reach Paris. We know it crashed there and that whoever the pilot was, he died and got buried anonymously as a result of the crash. If Melbourne was trying to set up a hoax, he would have been the one in Europe. If he was going to collect insurance money, he wouldn’t have allowed that plane to go anywhere except into the depths of the Atlantic. The fact that the plane actually flew across the ocean without him means he wasn’t calling the shots, someone else was. And that means the Orteig Prize was no longer the goal of the flight. We keep looking at Melbourne when we should be trying to figure out who was actually flying the plane when it crashed.”
“You think the person flying the plane killed Melbourne and took his place,” Hiram said.
“It fits,” Kurt replied. “What do you say, Max? Is there any way to determine who was actually flying the plane when it went down?”
“Researching,” Max said, then added, “Photographic evidence of Jake Melbourne climbing into his aircraft on the day of the flight appears to show a man two or three inches shorter than Melbourne.”
“Well,” Hiram said, “that narrows it down to every living male in 1927 who was shorter than five feet nine inches.”
Journey of the Pharaohs Page 22
