Wheeler stifled a yawn. “Why was he running?”
“I don’t know. He had a priority file in his hands, so I guess he was making a delivery.”
“Do you know what was in the file?”
“No, but I do know it was covered in coffee when I last saw it.” Rachel blew her nose. “I think he changed the folder though because when I came out of the bathroom I saw him leaving the supply room.”
“Do you know who the file was addressed to?” asked Wheeler, suddenly waking up.
“No, but that hallway leads directly to the President’s office.”
Control Actual slammed his fist on the desk. This is getting out of hand! He watched on the screen as the two detectives excitedly talked to each other about what they had just discovered. This needs to be stopped, now! He called Dawson.
The Dorchester, Park Lane, London
As they pulled up in front of The Dorchester hotel, a porter in a crisp white uniform opened the door and the Frenchman, whom Acton had learned was named Serge, jumped out of the cab as if freed from a cage. Acton was still talking and the cabbie was still trying to keep a straight face as he climbed out to help with the luggage.
“Do you have dinner plans tonight, Surge?” asked Acton.
“Non, I mean, yes, I do. I am sorree, but I already have ze plans!” yelped Serge, wincing at the massacred pronunciation of his name.
“That’s too bad.” Acton was enjoying himself thoroughly. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Per-aps,” answered the Frenchman who followed the porter into the hotel lobby with his luggage. Carrying his three shopping bags, Acton entered the hotel behind him. No way I can afford this place! He gaped at the intricate woodwork and marble that ran throughout, everything in immaculate condition, only its 1930’s architecture revealing the true age of the hotel.
He walked up to the check-in counter with Serge and interrupted him talking to the concierge. “Excuse me, where are your bathrooms?”
“Over there, to your right, sir,” replied the concierge, pointing.
“See you in a few minutes Surge, nature’s callin’ again!” Acton flashed Serge a grin then raced off toward the bathroom.
“You said you have a reservation, Monsieur Savard?” asked the concierge. “One moment while I look that up for you.”
Serge looked after the departing American, then turned to the concierge. “I’m sorree, but there ’as been a terrible mistake. I am at dee wrong ’otel!” He motioned to the porter to bring his luggage and walked toward the exit as fast as he could, muttering, “Je déteste les Americains!”
Atlas had just handed over his boarding pass for a flight to London when his cellphone vibrated. He snapped it off his belt, flipped it open and put it to his ear while nodding to the attendant who had just returned his pass.
“Where are you?”
“Just heading for our rendezvous.”
“Change of plans, we have two more problems that need to be taken care of. Details have been sent to your phone.”
With that the conversation ended. Atlas turned around and walked out of the jet-way he had just entered. He tossed his boarding pass to the surprised attendant and said, “Sorry, I just remembered I hate England.”
Acton entered the washroom and laughed for the first time in almost a week. Now that was fun. I can’t stand the French, bunch of cheese-eating surrender monkeys. He checked himself in the mirror then reached for his Blackberry. Turning it on, he looked up the number for the British Museum. As he scrolled through the list it vibrated in his hand. A text message. He pressed the button to read it.
they got me tell wife daughter i love them bye old frnd
Acton’s chest tightened as he collapsed backward against the wall and fell to his knees in shock. The Blackberry slid from his hand and onto the floor as he put his head in his hands and sobbed, his shoulders shaking as his stomach hollowed itself out. His best friend was dead, and it was his fault, of that there was no doubt.
I never should have brought him into this.
As he sucked in ragged breaths between sobs, he recalled meeting Milton for the first time in college. Milton had been working on his PhD when they met at a cross-country meet. Even with “Corky” settling down, getting married, and having a kid, and Acton gallivanting around the world on one archeological dig after another, they had always remained close. He had even been named godfather of their daughter.
Those bastards. They have to pay!
His sorrow soon turned to anger, a warm rage building inside him as his breathing came under control, the salty tears slowing as he became consumed with the thought of bringing those responsible to justice—and death. He was now determined to find out what was going on. With nothing left to lose except his life, which at the moment didn’t feel much worth living, he picked himself up off the floor, retrieved his Blackberry, then washed the tears from his face.
The White House, Washington, DC
“Glad I caught you gentlemen before you left.”
Wheeler and Schultz had just signed out and were still filling their pockets and holsters with the various accoutrements of their trade they had been forced to check upon their arrival, when Darbinger jogged up to them.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Darbinger?” asked Wheeler.
“Just wondering if you found out anything? Any leads as to who may have killed our Billy?”
Schultz nodded and opened his mouth to speak when Wheeler cut him off. “No, dead end for now, I’m afraid. But we’ll keep looking.”
Darbinger frowned. “That’s too bad. Well, I’m sure no one from here is involved,” he said as he opened the door for them. “You gentlemen have yourselves a great day!”
Schultz watched Darbinger head toward his office then turned to Wheeler. “What do you think?”
“I think,” said Wheeler as they headed to the visitor’s parking lot, “that he knows more than he’s telling.”
Schultz nodded. “But how the hell do we accuse the Chief of Staff of the President of the United States of holding out on us?”
Wheeler shook his head. “I don’t know, but I do know who to call next.”
“Guthrie?”
Wheeler nodded as he reached for his phone.
Triarii Headquarters, London, England
Over the intercom system the collection of members sitting around the table listened intently.
“The subject was identified leaving his flight, but was lost when he went into the toilet,” related the voice on the other end of the line. “Review of the security tapes show that he left the bathroom in disguise with another man, then got into a taxi with him.”
“So he has a contact here already?” asked one of those around the table.
“It would appear so, sir,” agreed the voice. “We’re trying to track the cab to see where they went. We’ll also backtrack the contact to see what flight he came off and get his name. We should have that information shortly.”
“Contact us when you do.”
“Roger, out.”
The room fell silent. Everyone looked to the man at the head of the table, Derrick Kennedy, Proconsul of the Triarii. He tapped the ashes off the end of his cigar, a frown spreading across his face. “This is the first time that two skulls have been in the same city since that BBC cock-up,” he finally said, recalling their closest call in years.
In 1996 the BBC had done a documentary on the skulls, bringing two of them to England for scientific study. The Triarii had managed to replace the London and Smithsonian skulls with fakes before they were shipped. The resulting embarrassment had forced the British Museum to remove the skull from display. Unbeknownst to them, the skulls had been switched back to the real ones upon their return.
“A bullet was definitely dodged there,” agreed a woman to his right responsible for the Paris skull. “We’ve always relied on the holders of the skulls to either jealously guard their secret or be considered barmy. Now we have a professor in London with the fina
l missing skull, far too close to another genuine skull, and we don’t know what his intentions or that of his accomplice are.”
“We should take immediate action to remove the British Museum skull,” said another. “Since it’s my responsibility to protect, I’ll put my plan into action to have it removed, tonight. Agreed?”
There were nods around the table then all looked at the Proconsul. Unlike the others, he wasn’t convinced there was foul play afoot. He had no doubt as to what President Jackson and his Special Forces were up to, but not so when it came to the Professor. And as long as the Professor had the skull, he felt they were safe, at least for the moment.
He shook his head. “Not yet. Let’s wait and see what our centurii find out.”
“Yes, Proconsul.”
Institute of Archeology, University College London, Gordon Square, London
Acton entered the lobby of the Institute of Archeology at the University College London campus, still carrying his shopping bags, and walked up to one of the students milling about.
“Can you tell me where Professor Laura Palmer is?”
“Yes, sir, she’s lecturing right now, I believe. Room two-twelve, up those stairs, to the right.”
Acton thanked the young man then headed toward the stairs and quickly found room 212. His heart was pounding as the final part of his plan was hopefully about to come together. And the fear in knowing that either way, he had no idea what to do next. He looked through the window and was taken aback when he saw her, realizing she was much more attractive than she had appeared in the desert. She was holding up an old earthenware jar with a slender, alabaster arm partially revealed by a cardigan that had slipped up to her elbow. He followed the arm to her hand and noticed with a satisfaction that surprised him at a time like this that there was no ring on the finger.
Finally he tore his gaze away to look at the jar. It looked Babylonian, about 2000 BC. Impressive. He knocked on the door.
She looked over and saw him through the window. An immediate light of recognition showed on her face, along with a smile that could stop hearts—and it did. She rushed over, opened the door, and stepped into the hall.
“Professor Acton, I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for you!” she gushed.
“You received the package?”
“Yes, this morning,” she replied. “I was gobsmacked to receive something from you. I had just finished reading your article on surviving Incan culture in Archeology magazine last week. And the spread they did on you in National Geographic, last year, when you were on the Yucatan peninsula, is still one of my favorites. When your parcel arrived I was so excited, but then when I read your note not to open it until you arrived…I was gutted!”
Slightly embarrassed but also flattered, Acton lowered his voice. “I need your help.”
“You need my help?” she asked. “I’d be happy to, but first I must introduce you to the class.” She started to turn back toward them, but he grabbed her arm. Startled, she swung around and stared at him.
“Nobody can know I was here. I need to show you what was in that package. Is there a place we can talk?”
“Yes, my office. But what is this about? I’m in the middle of a lecture.”
He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I found another skull.”
“Class dismissed, I’ll see you all next week!” she yelled through the open door as she grabbed his arm and rushed him toward her office in another wing of the building. Not a word was said between them until they reached her office where she closed the door behind them, locking it. He pulled down the blind to cover the door’s window then they both closed the horizontal blinds on the other windows. He looked around for any other exits or windows passersby could see through as she went to a filing cabinet, unlocked it and lifted a box out. Satisfied no prying eyes could see them, he joined her at the large oak desk that occupied the back of her office.
“Show me!” she said, her voice quivering with excitement as she placed the package on her desk and pushed it toward him.
He unlocked the case and carefully unwrapped the skull. She cooed in awe as he held it up in the light. “It’s brilliant!” He hadn’t had time to look at it closely since he’d been on the ship and nodded in agreement. It was beautiful in an almost eerie way. Completely translucent, it was a life-size, heavy solid piece of crystal that took both hands to hold.
“The jaw’s moveable.” He moved the fingers that supported it to demonstrate to Laura. As he turned the skull, light from the room shimmered and reflected off it, sending a kaleidoscope of patterns onto the walls and ceilings, surrounding them much like a prism. The skull itself had a myriad of strange lines within it, giving it a vein-like appearance, whereas the facial structure and jaw were perfectly clear. It was as if the sculptor had wanted to give the appearance of a brain, of intelligence. The veins in the crystal distorted objects on the other side like an eerily beautiful fun-house mirror. The hollowed out eyes and grinning face made him shiver.
“Where did you find it?” she asked as he handed it to her.
“At a dig in the Andes in Peru.”
She ran her expert fingers over the smooth cranium. Acton knew she was trying to feel the telltale marks of a carver’s tool, and equally knew she would find none. She adjusted a desk lamp to get more light and continued her inspection as he related the story of the dig in the mountains.
“They were ancient Incan ruins, a fairly large community from what we had unearthed so far. Everything was pretty routine, but fascinating nonetheless.” He sat down in one of the guest chairs as she examined the skull. “The first unusual thing we found was evidence of thirteenth century European nobility.”
She looked up from the skull. “What? That’s impossible! That area wasn’t discovered until early sixteenth century!”
“I know, that’s what didn’t make sense, but there was no doubt about it. First we found clothing and some trinkets that clearly dated from that era. If it weren’t for the clothing I could have believed that the other items were just heirlooms that some Spaniard had left, but nobody in sixteenth century Spain would wear thirteenth century British garb.”
Palmer sat in her leather chair, apparently momentarily distracted from the skull. “How could this be? We’ve known for years now that Columbus wasn’t the first to discover America. The Vikings had discovered Newfoundland five hundred years before.”
“And we know that European fisherman for at least a couple of hundred years fished the Grand Banks in secret, not wanting people to know where they got their easy catches from,” added Acton.
“But we’ve never had evidence that Europeans had gone to South America, certainly not Pacific coast South America.”
“I know, which is why I thought maybe this was some fluke, some shipwreck or something that had washed up on shore and they found the items and brought them back to their city,” explained Acton. “But then we found the skeleton.”
London, England, 1212 AD
Lord Richard Baxter surveyed the curious scene in front of him. The four walls of what was once the council’s strongest and most secure building were flattened, but all outward, as if some great force from within had knocked them all down as it tried to escape. The night sky was filled with smoke as fires still burned in the distance, but this particular area had been so devastated that not much remained to burn. As he looked about him it became evident that whatever had caused this disaster had originated here hours earlier.
He had been in the council chambers, the celebration of the skull’s arrival still going strong, when word had come of the strange noise it emitted when placed on a pedestal with its companions. He had thought little of it when their most learned scholars were dispatched to investigate. Minutes after this report the explosion had occurred.
The skulls in their charge had already been recovered and taken to their backup location under heavy guard. He had ordered them kept separate upon their arrival at their new location
in case their union had somehow caused the terrible event. At first he couldn’t believe it, but seeing how the walls had been knocked down as if from within, and the skulls had remained untouched in the center of the chamber, he realized it must somehow be.
He shook his head and spun on his heel, heading to a meeting with the surviving members of the council. The memories of his fallen wife and daughter’s screams were still fresh in his mind but his mourning would have to wait. He knew what must be done, but it would be hard to convince the others.
He entered the room, the others—the few that remained—already seated. He took his regular seat and when the meeting was brought to order, he immediately rose to be recognized.
“My fellow council members, this is a difficult time. We have all lost loved ones, but more, we are directly responsible for the destruction of our beloved city of London, and nearly half its loyal, innocent residents.” Heads bobbed around the table, the faces long with shame and anguish at the knowledge. “There is nothing that can be done to undo what has happened, however there is a way to prevent this from ever occurring again.”
“What is it you propose?” asked his good friend Jonathan.
“I propose that this new arrival, the third skull, be taken away, and permanently disposed of.” Protests erupted from around the table and Richard held up his hand to quiet them, if only for a moment. “And any future skulls that may be found.”
“And just how would you dispose of them?” asked Jonathan, their friendship being tested.
“I propose that this third skull, and any further skull, be sailed to the west and over the edge of the Earth, so it may never harm another living sole.”
“Absolutely not!” Jonathan’s fist slammed into the table. “We have been protecting the skulls for over a thousand years! What you propose is preposterous! Blasphemous!”
Richard shook his head. “No, Jonathan, it is the only way.” He looked around at the others sitting at the long table. Some still bore injuries from the previous week’s fire. The reports now indicated thousands had died with most of London wiped out. His was not the only family devastated and he was determined to prevent it from ever occurring again.
The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Page 12
