Shrouded in Secrets

by Kim McMahill

  As she turned and reached over her left shoulder for the seat belt strap, purely out of habit, something in the dirt caught her eye. Her gaze fixed on the tiny divots in the fine dust next to the vehicle. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but she was certain where the marks had come from.

  Slowly stepping out of the 4 x 4, Marjorie quietly closed the door and retrieved the two bags she had just loaded. She took several steps away from the Jeep and stood still for a moment, torn as to what to do. A small nagging voice in her head warned her that turning the key would be a huge mistake, but she didn’t want to disobey Diego’s orders either. He was the professional and she had to trust him.

  Fear and her innate survival instinct won out. She shouldered her pack and slung Diego’s duffle over her other shoulder and jogged down the alley. As she turned the corner, she collided with two young men. Barely pulling in a scream before realizing the men were local, she bounced off one body, regained her balance, and kept moving.

  Once far enough away from the inn to hazard a look, Marjorie crept toward the street where she had seen Ahmed and the stranger, and stood with her back against the building for a moment, trying to catch her breath. After several seconds, she moved to peek around the corner of the closed tavern they had dined at the night before, but before she could make the turn, a loud explosion shattered the morning solitude and sent Marjorie cowering to the ground.

  Dogs barked, roosters crowed, gunshots rang out, and shouts echoed through the streets. Marjorie remained crouched down in the shadows until the sound of a vehicle roaring by forced her to look up. She glanced around just in time to see the black Land Rover speed by, dust billowing in its wake.

  Retracing her path to where their Jeep had been parked, Marjorie stopped short of the crowd gathered around the smoking remains of the vehicle. Her heart ached with the sudden realization that the two young men must have seen the keys she had left in the ignition and thought they had made an easy score.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she witnessed several villagers pull the limp, charred bodies from the wreckage. Women sobbed hysterically. The victims were someone’s sons, and now they were dead because she and Diego had driven into their town and had led an evil element in with them. She wanted to do something, but nothing could bring them back.

  As she took a step forward, a hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her back into the shadows. The fear lasted only an instant before she recognized Diego. She turned into his arms, buried her face in his chest, and both tears of relief that he was alive and of sorrow for the dead sons of the town slid down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  September 28, 7:00 A.M.

  Arizona

  CASH’S BACKSIDE HURT already, and they had only been on the trail for two hours. He had grown up riding horses on his grandfather’s ranch in Montana, utilized camels in Egypt, and elephants in Thailand, but nothing had prepared him for a mule. Gertrude’s gait made an elephant seem like the luxury model of four-legged transportation.

  Pete had never ridden anything rougher than a carousel at Coney Island, and Ian was desperately allergic to horses and any other animal even vaguely related, making them much more miserable, which Cash found sadistically consoling. Misery really did love company.

  Diane and Olivia rode behind Benny and seemed to be suffering none of the ills of the three agents comprising the rear of the pack. When Diane turned and grinned at him, Cash gritted his teeth, smiled back, and forced his mule into a painful trot to catch up to the women, refusing to allow them to sense his discomfort.

  “I forgot how much I love this place,” Diane said as Cash slowed Gertrude to a walk alongside.

  He scanned the harsh environment and couldn’t quite visualize what Diane was getting all misty-eyed about. Dry dirt, rocks, scraggly shrubs, and intimidating cacti dotted the unforgiving landscape. A man could thirst to death here nearly as easy as he could in the deserts of Africa, die from a snake bite, or possibly even shoot himself from the tedium of this lonely place, Cash thought, struggling to find the beauty in the vast expanse.

  “I know what you mean,” Olivia added. “This wide open space offers limitless freedom, solace, and peace. You can’t help but feel at one with nature and our ancestral spirits.”

  Diane rolled her eyes. “Not quite what I was thinking. Sorry I brought it up.” She kicked her mule and trotted off to catch up to Benny.

  Olivia nudged her ride up next to Cash and leaned over in her saddle.

  “I just said that to ruffle her feathers,” Olivia grinned.

  “Needling her is a lot of fun. In fact, I’ve kind of made tormenting her my hobby at work.”

  Olivia laughed as she reached down and patted her mule’s neck. She could see why her sister liked Cash so much. He was charming and funny. His eyes peered into her soul, and when she talked, he made her feel like the only woman on the planet. He hung on her every word and seemed to care about what she said. Olivia tried to avoid men as handsome as Cash, since most were well aware of their appeal and usually used their assets to their advantage when it came to women. From what Diane had said earlier, she feared Cash was no exception. For some reason, she desperately wanted to be proven wrong, but until then, she’d try to keep her distance as much as possible. Unfortunately, she suspected resisting him would be easier said than done.

  “I’d better check on Ian and Pete. Ian may need another antihistamine and neither man seems to be faring well with their mules,” Olivia said as she pulled back on the reins and stopped to wait.

  She watched Cash’s broad shoulders sway to the rhythm of Gertrude’s gait, appreciating the view. His long muscular legs gripped the mule’s sides, keeping his tight butt firmly in the saddle. His brimmed hat sat cocked on his head and short curls of dark hair peeked out from underneath its slightly down-turned brim. A sigh escaped her lips before she forced herself to look away.

  “How are you two doing?”

  “Is it possible to bruise your bum?” Ian asked.

  “I’d laugh, but I fear the action might hurt too much. My insides have been shaken up until I’m sure nothing is in the right place anymore. In fact, I think my bladder is in my throat, because I have to pee so bad I can taste it,” Pete added.

  “Well stop and go,” Olivia replied.

  “I’m waiting for the next rest area.”

  “I assume you’re joking. Restrooms out here are a rise in the terrain or a tall clump of brush.”

  Pete’s expression warned her he wasn’t kidding and she couldn’t suppress the giggles as she studied the comical pair. Ian sported rubber-toed black Converse high-tops in full view as his jeans rode halfway up his calf. A dude’s cowboy hat to ward off the sun during the ride, complete with chinstrap, and a western shirt with a yoke and snaps for buttons, completed his absurd outfit. Pete hadn’t even tried to cowboy up. His Hawaiian shirt stood out like a waterfall in the desert, and his Miami Dolphins cap clashed with the bright colors of his aloha wear. She was surprised when Cash didn’t explode. He shrugged Pete’s outfit off, stating no one would guess he was an agent dressed like that and would probably assume he was a tourist paying Benny to show him the reservation.

  “Okay, Ian, stop and hold my mule, and Olivia keep riding and don’t look back, or I’ll get stage fright,” Pete replied as he pulled up hard on the bridle’s leather rein.

  With one quick glance over her shoulder, Olivia saw Pete hobbling away from his mount, cursing and rubbing his rear with both hands. If so much wasn’t at stake, she would be enjoying herself. This was the first time she had experienced her sister’s world, and she found Diane’s colleagues delightful.

  Olivia wanted to be closer to her sister and hoped working together might help bridge the gap that had grown between them ever since they graduated from high school and left home. For years, she waited patiently for the common ground they needed to rebuild their relationship. Fate supplied the opportunity, but then there was Cash. He figured into her future whether she wante
d him to or not. She was unsure how or to what degree—would he serve as a catalyst to reunite the sisters or tear them further apart?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  September 28, 11:50 A.M.

  Langley, Virginia

  OWEN WASHBURN SAT in his car in the parking lot of the CIA headquarters with his phone on the seat next to him, logged onto the secure wireless network and downloading his email. He had taken an early lunch in order to find a quiet place to think through his optionsnone good. Time was running out, and he had to act. How many lives was he willing to risk…this go round?

  “Tick-tock, it’s almost twelve o’clock.” The text message on his phone read, reinforcing his dire predicament.

  In defeat, Owen’s forehead fell forward, resting on the steering wheel as he fought the urge to cry. He knew what had to be done, but that didn’t make the decision any easier. He popped the glove box open and retrieved the small bottle of whiskey he kept stashed for such an occasion. He unscrewed the cap and downed a long swig of the fiery liquid. When his throat quit burning, he took a second drink, and then another, until less than an inch remained in the pint, and his limbs began to numb.

  Owen picked up his phone, hands shaking on the tiny keyboard, and drafted a brief message to Elizabeth Ryan, the Director of the CIA. Once completed, he stared at the screen, regretting all the mistakes he had made in his life.

  He laughed. Nothing was funny, but he didn’t know what else to do as he contemplated the message he keyed in, and how the words would destroy his reputation and career. He only hoped his proactive approach might spare the ones he loved from the disappointment the truth would bring if publically revealed.

  He placed the phone on the seat and drank the last sip of whiskey. Hurling the bottle at the back window of his car, sending shards of glass over the plush leather of the interior, did nothing to relieve the tension. He forced his focus back to the task at hand and, for a moment, he stared at the contents of the open glove box, before his hand slowly reached for his service weapon. He hadn’t shot it in several years, except to qualify for work, but the butt of the pistol still felt familiar in his hand. Checking the load, he set the gun on his thigh and rubbed a shaky hand over his face.

  Owen looked at the digital clock on the dash. The time had come. The illuminated numbers read 11:58 A.M. He couldn’t delay any longerZara would be waiting and not patiently. He stared at the small screen, hoping for last minute inspiration or an alternative solution to his dilemma, but nothing came. Fingers hovering over the send icon, he took a deep breath and tapped down. The message disappeared, and there was no turning back.

  As he contemplated what he had just done and planned to do next, a feeling of peace sifted through his mind. He hated to leave his wife and children, but he had to do this for them, as much as for his colleagues and his country. They would survive and be better off without him, even if they didn’t recognize the fact. His death would make his beautiful wife a wealthy woman, so he doubted she would be lonely for long.

  His family and the community would be given an honorable explanation about how he had died in the line of duty. The CIA never admitted to having any knowledge of the Hong Kong fireworks factory explosion, and an agent’s suicide reflected poorly on the organization. He had lived with the secrets, occasional guilt, and fear that his past would catch up to him for far too long. Now it was over.

  His fingers closed over the grip of his pistol. He calmly raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  September 28, 12:00 P.M.

  Argentina

  DIEGO PAID THE farmer six times what the old motorbike was probably worth, but at least it was transportation that put them back on the road. Marjorie sat behind him with her backpack on and her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and tried to force the images of the hysterical mothers out of her mind. She didn’t understand the words they wailed, but she shared their pain.

  Marjorie couldn’t shake the guilt over their deaths, even though Ahmed and his partner rigged the Jeep with explosives, and the locals had been in the process of stealing the vehicle when the bomb detonated. If she and Diego hadn’t stopped in the village for the night, or if she had thought to remove the keys from the ignition, the two young men would still be alive.

  She nearly lost her balance as Diego veered off the paved road. He drove behind an abandoned shack and killed the motor.

  “This looks like a good place to take a break,” he said as he pulled his duffle out of the wire basket mounted on the front of the bike.

  Marjorie watched in silence as Diego fished the canteen out of his bag and handed it to her. She took the water and drank heartily before handing it back, her mind still replaying the tragedy.

  “The young men’s deaths are not your fault.” Diego placed his hand under her chin and tilted her head up, forcing her to look into his sympathetic eyes.

  Marjorie jerked around to avoid his gaze. She didn’t want him to see how close she was to losing control. Despite the fact that the men were trying to steal their vehicle, she doubted they planned to do more than take the Jeep for a joy ride. With the small village located so far from any substantial city, selling stolen goods likely required more resources than available. The villagers were probably just looking for a little fun, and now they were dead.

  She took a few steps away from Diego, but he followed her. He grabbed her arm and forced her to turn to face him. Pulling her to him, he wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair until she could no longer hold back the tears. Marjorie sobbed as quietly as possible for several minutes before she was able to check her emotions. Placing her palm against Diego’s muscular chest, she pushed away and threw her shoulders back.

  “I wasn’t going to cry. I’m not weak, and you’re not forcing me to return home. I’m seeing this through,” she hissed.

  “I am not sending you anywhere. You continue to amaze me. Always trust yourself, Marjorie, because you possess a gift. If you had not seen something out of the ordinary and obeyed your instincts, you would be dead, making me very sad,” he said as he smiled down into her eyes while wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

  “I always hated those shoes.”

  “But I paid a great deal of money for these. They are constructed of high quality Italian leather,” Diego replied with confusion etched on his face.

  “Not yours—those are quite nice. I was talking about Ahmed’s. The little divots the soles made in the sand all over our work area in Egypt reminded me of spider traps, and they drove me crazy.”

  “But at least the familiar indentations saved your life, so I must say I like his shoes very much.”

  “Well, I still hate them.”

  “Let’s go. I believe we are only a few hours away from Salta. Hopefully we will easily locate Miguel de San Martin, and he can point us in the right direction.”

  Marjorie was more than happy to end the conversation and get back on the road. With the purr of the motor bike’s small engine, and her arms wrapped tightly around Diego, she was able to push the horrible events out of her mind. She had to believe they could stay alive and find the next relic before Ahmed and his accomplices killed anyone else, or destroyed any more historic treasures.

  For several hours, they hummed down the narrow road, encountering little traffic. The scenery was spectacular in a desolate, alien kind of way. The stark yet peaceful landscape gave Marjorie plenty of time to put everything back into perspective and focus on the severity of their mission. As sad as she was at the death of the local men, she was relieved to be alive and more determined than ever to see Ahmed and his accomplices brought to justice.

  As they approached the outskirts of Salta, anxiety welled up inside Marjorie. She assumed the men in the Land Rover were already in the city, which terrified her. With a population of nearly half a million, Ahmed and his cohort would have no problem moving about the city in their expens
ive vehicle without drawing attention, as they had in the rural villages. But, at least they didn’t know she and Diego survived the explosion, or the make of their current mode of transportation.

  They wove in and out of heavy traffic, blending in well with the hundreds of others riding double on similar beat-up motorbikes laden with their possessions. Marjorie was thankful the chaotic trip passed quickly as Diego eased the bike off the street and into the police department lot. He had worked with the Salta authorities many times in the past and felt confident he could count on them for assistance. They needed to report the incident at the village as soon as possible.

  Once inside the station, Marjorie was escorted to a vacant office to wait while Diego met with Hernando, an officer he had known for many years. She set up her equipment and logged into the Internet. After the last major breakthrough in discovering one of the Smithsonian relics had originally been located on Easter Island, and that the British Museum crystal had been found in Guinea, Africa, most of Marjorie’s colleagues spent all of their free time pouring over data, trying to solve the riddle of where the remaining known relics originated from.

  First, she opened the message forwarded from Diego’s office. The note stated that Cash’s team received a tip on a relic on the Navajo reservation in Arizona. Marjorie plotted a red dot in the closest proximity she could, not knowing exactly where in the vast area the crystal might be located, if at all. She thanked Diego’s assistant, relayed their position, and clicked on the next message.

  The second one, from a colleague at the museum, made her giggle as she read the enthusiastic curator’s explanation of how many people had worked until midnight the night before on a lead a staff member uncovered the previous evening. They weren’t one hundred percent positive, but they believed another one of the Smithsonian heads traced back to Necochea, Argentina. Marjorie made a dot on the map and gasped.