by Tom Wilde
The woman gave me a quick but encompassing glance. “I was speaking of your friend, as you call him. You don’t look much like the Galahad type.”
I made a small bow of acknowledgement, seeing how I was dressed in my habitual black sports coat and slacks. I noted that the woman, in a white tailored jacket and skirt with silver necklace and earrings, made a contrast to me—a White Queen to my Black Knight. “Actually,” I said, “that little dent in the breastplate was an important selling point.”
“Selling point?”
“Certainly. That piece was made back in the day when firearms were starting to come into fashion. Armorers, when they finished making a breastplate, would shoot a gun at it. If the bullet was deflected, then the armorer declared the plate as bulletproof.”
She arched a delicate eyebrow. “And if the bullet happened to go through the plate?”
“Then it was back to the forge, or I suppose the armorer could sell it at a discount: ‘On sale, semi-bulletproof,’ that sort of thing. By the way, I’m—”
“Late,” she interrupted me.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re late. For your meeting.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “So that makes you…?”
“The woman who was sent to round you up. Are you coming quietly, or do we continue discussing how things get dented?”
I half-raised my hands in surrender, and she gave me the “after you” gesture, which in turn put her diamond wedding ring set on display. Ah, well. The flirtation was fun while it lasted.
We walked together through the grand halls, traveling past the remnants of human history as we made our way up to the Rose Room. As usual for a summoning to the Inner Circle of the Argo Foundation, I hadn’t been given any advance information—we just don’t trust any modern communication system, not even our own. But whatever the reason that made me drop everything to fly to New York, if the enchanting creature walking beside me was involved, I was glad I came.
The Rose Room is the smallest of the private dining areas in the Metropolitan. The museum lets us have it whenever we need an out-of-the-way place to conduct private business, in consideration of all the “donations” of art and antiques the Argo Foundation has made over the years. The room is appointed with a single long oval table and a slanted floor-to-ceiling window that offered a magnificent view overlooking Central Park on this spring afternoon. A view that was currently eclipsed as Nicholas Riley, the founder of the Argo Foundation, rose to greet me. “Blake!” he roared, the prelude to the traditional bone-crushing hug.
Nicholas Riley is a man of six foot six, compacted down into a globular five-foot-eight body. With the face of a charming, blue-eyed gnome king wreathed with a fringe of snow-white hair, Old Nick looked like he’d be everyone’s favorite jolly uncle. Having seen him angry, I knew better. I once again had to marvel at Nick Riley’s tailors—making those expensive suits look good on his frame must have been like trying to dress a weather balloon. Standing behind Nick was the ever-present Mr. Singh in his never-varied black Nehru jacket and blue turban, which, along with the circular steel kara bracelet, silently proclaimed his Sikh faith. His razor-sharp Kirpan he kept carefully out of sight. When Nicholas let me up for air he stood back and proclaimed, “Damn, boy! We had to send a search party, but it’s good to see you! C’mon over and meet our guests.”
The woman in white who’d come for me went up to a man of advanced years, stooped with the weight of time and leaning upon a slender black cane. His face was like old parchment and of a distinctly vulpine cast. He was dressed in an expensive black suit that would have befitted an upscale undertaker, even though he looked more inclined to be a customer of that profession in the very near future. Nicholas did the introductions:
“Mr. Jonas, this here is Jonathan Blake, the young man you’re so interested in.”
Mr. Jonas nodded his head in a brief bow as Nick finished up by saying, “Mr. Jonas here is with the government intelligence services.”
I felt my smile freeze into place at that piece of news and hoped the shock didn’t show on my face. Because while to the world at large the Argo Foundation is a nonprofit corporation that champions the cause of preserving the past and expanding the boundaries of man’s knowledge of his own history upon planet Earth, there’s a secret about us we keep hidden as deeply as the location of Plato’s Atlantis.
To put it simply, we’re pirates.
But the madness in our method is that we only prey upon the smugglers, tomb robbers, and thieves who traffic in the treasures of the past. So even though our methods are unlawful, our cause is just. The relics that remain of mankind’s history on earth are rare and often delicate, and it’s an unfortunate fact that criminals will steal and smuggle artifacts with no more thought than they use when smuggling drugs or guns. So we just make like modern-day pirates and steal from the thieves and looters and then make certain that whatever treasures we recover find a good home. Although I can’t say we’re all that altruistic; we usually make a pretty good dishonest dollar or two on the transaction.
But historically speaking, pirates and governments were deadly enemies of long standing, so I was torn between curiosity and caution in regard to what Mr. Jonas would want with me.
I tried to keep my poker face intact as Mr. Jonas said with a deep, sepulchral voice, “You’ve already met my associate, Caitlin Street.” I just nodded to the woman who was now doubly scratched off my list of potential mates. Married was one thing, but a married government agent? To Jonas, I said, “So what is it I can do for you? And why the interest in little ol’ me?”
We all took our seats at the table as Jonas said, “Mr. Blake, we have received information concerning you from an associate of yours. You know Mr. Yusef Mohammad, of course?”
So there it was—after all the trouble I took to keep from having to kill that drug-peddling, motherless little demon, he goes and rats me out to my own government. So much for honor among thieves. I kept myself in neutral as I replied, “So, how is dear old Yusef the Storyteller these days? Doing time in a Turkish prison, I hope?”
Mr. Jonas was unmoved. “Mr. Mohammad is what we call an ‘intelligence asset’; he supplies us with information regarding the Middle East.”
“Is that all he supplies?” I asked. “You know he’s a drug smuggler and illegal arms merchant, right?”
My announcement had no apparent effect on Mr. Jonas’s frozen features as he said, “I shall start from the beginning.”
“For those who came in late,” Nicholas rumbled, looking pointedly at me.
Caitlin Street lifted an armored briefcase from the floor to the table and popped it open, revealing a compact laptop inside. The built-in screen fired up at the touch of a button, and I saw Mr. Singh, Argo’s technical guru, lean toward the machine with interest lighting his dark eyes.
The display revealed a close-up photograph of a man’s face, broad featured and framed with long, wavy, snow-white hair and beard. In stark contrast, the man’s large, dark eyes held a hypnotic stare.
“This is James Phillip Vanya,” Mr. Jonas explained. “Almost thirty years ago he was an American citizen living in the San Francisco area, a college student and self-published poet. Shortly after he dropped out of college he ran into some trouble with the law and had arrest warrants for drug possession issued for him. His parents had money, so they shipped him off to Europe to avoid prosecution. No one heard or cared about him until the 1980s. Now, does anyone here know anything about a group called the Children of Cronos?”
“They have any hit singles make it on the charts?” I asked.
Mr. Jonas was not amused, but the lovely Caitlin smiled as she said, “Not that kind of group. The Children of Cronos are a religious cult. And Vanya is their founder and leader.”
“Cronos was the father of Zeus, Poseidon, and Pluto, among others in the Greek pantheon,” Nicholas added. “Until his children killed him.”
Mr. Jonas took back control of the conversation. “
In this example, Vanya published some books proclaiming that ages ago, primitive humans were visited by the gods, who were actually visitors from other worlds, and they created modern humans by meddling with our DNA. He cites several examples of ancient texts that he claims are the proof of his theory.”
“Wait,” I said. “That’s the old ‘Chariots of the Gods’ routine. It’s hardly original.”
“Agreed,” said Jonas. “But be that as it may, today Vanya has a group of followers that number in the hundreds of thousands, with branches in America, Europe, Canada, and Japan. And they’re spreading. Vanya’s followers believe that they must prepare themselves mentally and physically for the time when the ‘Progenitors from the Stars,’ as they call them, return to Earth. With one exception, the cult members are expected to abstain from the vices of the physical world.”
“What exception is that?” I asked.
Jonas stated, deadpan, “They advocate total sexual freedom.”
Nick barked a laugh. “That puts a new spin on the concept of communion. You ever manage to get any of your agents on the inside, so to speak? That must have been a popular assignment.”
“One,” Jonas said seriously. “He met with a fatal accident, and we couldn’t prove otherwise. But what we were able to discover is that Vanya has been quietly investing millions of dollars into genetics research. He’s been taking pains to keep his connection to these investments secret. Over the years, the contributions from Vanya’s followers, along with the sales of his books and recorded lectures, have made him very wealthy. According to our sources, Vanya’s personal financial fortune should be somewhere in the tens of millions, and with that he’s bought his own private Greek island in the Ionian Sea and built a complex upon it using Egyptian construction companies and manpower. On top of that he owns a two-hundred-foot motor yacht and a couple of private jets.”
I saw Old Nick stir at this last piece of news. The Argo Foundation had a yacht too—the hundred-foot Queen Neva, a reconverted military cargo vessel that had been outfitted for exploration, research, and, on occasion, smuggling. Nicholas loved that old boat more than anything in this world, and I think he was feeling a bit of “ship envy” at the moment. I was brought back to the discussion at hand when Caitlin said, “On the face of it, it appears that Vanya’s investments in genetics research are in line with his philosophy. He preaches that we humans are the result of genetic engineering and that with scientific research we can prove this theory. But we’ve found traces of something frightening.”
Mr. Jonas took over. “Back in 1995, a Japanese death cult, the Aum Shinrikyo sect, released sarin nerve gas in the Tokyo subways. What was never revealed to the public was a potential connection between the cult in Japan and the Children of Cronos, but it was very shortly after that attack that Vanya became an absolute recluse. Over the last several years, he’s only addressed his followers via satellite broadcast and computer webcast. So here we are today, faced with a man who not only has an army of fanatical followers, but also has access to laboratories, via his financial contributions, that could be used to produce deadly chemical and biological weapons.”
Mr. Jonas fixed me with a cold stare as he said, “Now here’s where you come in, Mr. Blake. In 1990, the Gardner Museum in Boston was robbed of several priceless works of art. Two thieves disguised as policemen overpowered the guards and made off with three Rembrandts, five sketches by Degas, and four other pieces.”
“I know that case,” Nicholas said. “The thieves also made off with a twelve-hundred-year-old Sheng Dynasty bronze.”
Jonas was unfazed by Nick Riley’s knowledge of criminal matters. “Yes, exactly. But there was one item that didn’t fit in with the rest.” He tapped a key on his laptop with a skeletal finger and the picture was replaced by a statue of a gold-colored eagle. “The thieves also took a gilded bronze flag top, from a standard once belonging to the army of Napoleon Bonaparte. Its intrinsic value, even to a collector of such things, is very small when compared to all the other items stolen. But whoever pulled off the robbery took precious time to steal this item as well. All of the stolen valuables have remained unrecovered, but two days ago we received word that an antiques dealer in Paris may have found the Napoleonic eagle. And more importantly, we learned that James Phillip Vanya wants to buy it. At any cost.”
Caitlin then said, “We applied some pressure on the antiques dealer, a man named Marcel Troyon, and he’s willing to cooperate with us in exchange for the fact that we keep his involvement with stolen art trafficking a secret. He’s been instructed to tell all potential buyers that before he can sell the eagle, he’ll need to consult an expert to verify the eagle’s authenticity.”
I couldn’t help but notice the way both Caitlin and Mr. Jonas were focusing on me as Jonas said, “We took the names of people we could use to pose as an expert in rare antiques and ran them through our data sources. Because of your involvement with Mr. Yusef Mohammad, our agency was provided with information about you: Jonathan Blake, an employee of the Argo Foundation and an expert in historical artifacts.” Jonas leaned forward like a bird of prey as he said earnestly, “We need you to go to France as our antiques expert. Once you’ve verified that the eagle is indeed the one stolen from the Gardner Museum, and Vanya or one of his people take possession of it, we can make a move against Vanya on criminal charges of trafficking in international stolen antiquities. Then we’ll have him.”
“Hah!” Old Nick barked. “Like getting Capone for tax evasion.”
“Precisely,” Jonas stated. “This may be the only chance we have to get to Vanya. With his resources, he’d be capable of producing a terrorist act that would make the sarin gas attack in Tokyo pale in comparison, and we cannot risk the chance of an event like that.”
“And speaking of danger,” I said quickly. “Let me get this straight—you want me to go and deal with people who may have stuff like nerve gas?”
Mr. Jonas leaned back in his chair. “Don’t concern yourself on that score, Mr. Blake. We’ve taken steps to see that you’ll be protected around the clock on this mission. Which is why you’ll be taking your wife to Paris with you.”
“Wife? What wife, I don’t have a…” My words ran as dry as my throat as it hit me, while Caitlin Street slowly raised her left hand, displaying her wedding set.
Before I could utter another word, Nicholas roared with thunderous laughter and slapped his hand to his knee, making a pistol-like report. “Oh, good for you, boy,” he laughed. “And here I was afraid I’d never see you walk down the aisle.”
CHAPTER THREE
I pushed myself away from the table and stood up before Nicholas’s laughter ground to a halt, and said, “Okay, you’ve told me what you want me to do, but you haven’t explained just why I’m the guy who should do it.”
Mr. Jonas looked as stern as ever. “Really, Mr. Blake? From what Mr. Mohammad told us, I’d have thought that this kind of deal was right up your alley. Tell me, what is it exactly that you do for the Argo Foundation?”
I was about to reply, but Nicholas beat me to it. “The Argo Foundation is dedicated to the preservation of mankind’s history. The foundation arranges for and provides funding for archeological recovery efforts all over the world. I employ Blake here, among others, to go and visit the various sites where the Argo Foundation has provided financial support, to oversee the projects and see how well our money is spent.”
“My title is field researcher,” I added. Although I always thought that in the interest of truth in advertising my business cards should read “Executive Ninja.”
“Field researcher,” Jonas repeated with a voice as dry as old leaves. “According to Yusef Mohammad, you are a criminal and terrorist who attacked him and his men with military explosives and then stole a priceless antique scroll that belonged to the Afghani people.”
I laughed. “Really? And he gave his word as a drug dealer this was all true? Come on, Jonas; Scheherazade told more believable stories.”
; If Mr. Jonas was puzzled by my One Thousand and One Nights reference, he gave no sign. “But what of the allegation that you removed an artifact from Afghanistan?”
“That, Mr. Jonas, is what we do here,” Nicholas Riley proclaimed. “The Argo Foundation is dedicated to saving the past. Had Blake here not recovered the scroll, it most likely could have either been deliberately destroyed as an affront to the current national religion of Afghanistan, or lost like several other treasures, like when the Kabul Museum was all shot to hell in the last brouhaha.”
Mr. Singh added, “Not to mention the evidence shows that the scrolls were originally created in India. Therefore, if any country could lay a claim, I would have to say that it would be my own.”
I kept my thoughts to myself, knowing that in this particular instance, a certain wealthy popular music icon and recent convert to Buddhism had paid the Argo Foundation handsomely to recover the scroll. I understood that, after the fragile parchment underwent restoration, she intended to present it as a gift to the current Dalai Lama.
Jones bent his head and fixed us with a glare shot from under his wrinkled brow. “This is how it will be: You help your government, and your government promises to not look too closely at what you and your foundation have been doing all around the world.”
That got another rise of laughter out of Nicholas. Jonas just sat there, tight-jawed, and waited for Nick to finally wind down. Wiping away the trace of a tear, Nick said, “Forgive me, Mr. Jonas, but your threats don’t mean squat to me. You’d have a worldwide uproar on your hands if you made a move on the Argo Foundation. But before you go and get your knickers in a twist, just relax. We’re going to help you.”
The elderly Mr. Jonas was leaning forward and ready to return fire against Old Nick’s verbal broadside when he stopped suddenly and said, “What? You agree you’ll help?”
I was as surprised as Jonas. “We will?”
Nicholas swiveled his head toward me. “Yes, you will.” Back to Jonas he said, “Blake will be happy to assist in any way. Call it the Argo Foundation’s contribution to our patriotic duty.”
