“Without belief,” Ahmed said, “redemption is hollow.”
Stubb slapped Ahmed on the back. “Enough of that. We found the bloody ship, the San Salvador, sunk in a storm in this very spot 429 years ago. We’ve got the conquistador’s treasure now. After all these centuries, it will be Captain Bertoni who returns in triumph to Europe with the New World’s bounty.”
Ahmed could almost believe it. He could almost picture Captain Bertoni returning to his father, opening wide the strongbox brimming with gold, silver, emeralds and turquoise. But he knew Mishad and his bloodthirsty pirates were out there, just beyond sight, waiting greedily to rip his captain’s dream from his grasp.
Ahmed couldn’t fathom how Mishad had learned the secret of the Emerald. When Ahmed was deep inside the medina on their last supply run, he had been pulled aside by the pirate. The cat’s eye Emerald, Mishad had said in his hiss of a voice, was of special interest to his “patron.” When the Emerald had been recovered, Ahmed was to press this button, signaling them to attack. Mishad, with his dirty hand, shook Ambar’s favorite doll. It was so easy to get it, he had hissed, just as it would be to get her if you don’t do as I command.
Stubb bounded down the stairs to the deck, jovially greeting the men. He tightened the lashing on one of the crates.
Ahmed had devised a plan. He had pictured himself saving his family, the men of the Aquila, and, most daring of all, the Tear of the Moon Emerald. But now that it was time to take action, an almost incapacitating dread crept over him. The risks were great. His plan could save them, or lead them all into a bloody, painful death. All this, like a poison vine sprouting from a single seed, a gemstone which was better left nascent on the bottom of the Atlantic.
Time had run out. Ahmed saw in his mind’s eye little Ambar’s smile when she invited him to tea. He felt the silk of Leila’s black hair, smelled her lavender perfume. Ahmed fingered the device in his pocket. He flipped it open. He pressed the button.
CHAPTER 3
Christa pawed around for the next notch that the ancient ones carved out of this vertical slab of a sandstone cliff 1,000 years ago. They called this a toe and hand trail; each notch was only big enough to fit the toe of her hiking boot and the tips of her fingers. Back in their heyday, the Anasazi, or ancient ones, had climbed down to the river valley every morning to hunt and gather. Every evening, they had climbed back up so they wouldn’t be hunted and gathered.
After centuries of erosion, the notches were more like dares. Climbing in the middle of the night was crazy. She and Joseph had no choice. Using only the feeble beams of their two headlamps, Joseph had followed Samuel’s blood trail from their camp to the river, and then picked it up again after they forded the frigid waters. At the base of the cliff, they didn’t find a body, only the crushed creosote bush where Samuel’s assailant had fallen. A trail of blood and broken branches led upriver, most likely to his back-up. The tenacious bastard wouldn’t be coming back to haunt them. He’d be coming back to kill them. She and Joseph had to reach that cliff dwelling first or all would be lost.
Every loose rock looked like a notch in the shadows cast by her headlamp. She relied more on touch than sight. They had to be about ninety feet above the valley floor, but it was so dark below that it looked bottomless. About ten feet above her, she could just make out the lip of the plateau.
The bang of a rifle split the night. The bullet drilled into the rock three feet above and to the right of her. She snapped back her hand. Slipped. Scrabbled to regain a foothold. Oh God, she was going to fall. She pancaked herself against the cliff. Her heart hammered.
“Headlights,” Joseph said. “Opposite rim of the canyon. Quarter mile.” He turned off his headlamp.
Her hands shook. She fumbled with trembling fingers for her headlamp switch and turned it off.
“Hurry,” he said. As if being shot at wasn’t motivation enough. Joseph scrambled upwards, as sure-footed as a mountain goat.
Christa was no mountain goat. The only time her footing was sure was on the fencing strip with a foil in hand. She had fenced blindfolded once, a coaching strategy. It hadn’t gone well. She looked back. Alongside the headlights, a glow rimmed the high canyon wall. The moon was rising. She and Joseph wouldn’t have the cover of dark for long. The headlights swung around, towards the dirt road that zigzagged down into the valley.
“He’s coming into closer range,” Joseph said.
“He can’t get a bead on us in the dark,” she said, based more on desperate hope than experience. The barking howl of a coyote punctuated the drone of a car engine. She felt for the next notch, clamped on and heaved herself up.
Joseph’s moccasin disappeared over the rim.
She clambered up behind him, rolling onto the flat, dusty plateau. The moon breached the horizon. It was full and bright. Its light flooded the cave in a timeless silver. She crouched, too stunned to be sensible and run for the nearest cover. The cliff dwelling was magnificent. It wasn’t in ruins. Its architecture had been perfectly preserved from being buried in sand for five hundred years.
Joseph grabbed her hand. Keeping low, they ran away from the edge of the plateau and deeper into the eyebrow-shaped cave. The cave had to be at least seventy feet wide and thirty feet high, eroded out of the sandstone cliff eons ago. The pueblos clawed into the recesses of the cave, crammed into its shelter like a child’s jumble of building blocks, crafted from crude stone bricks and plastered together with adobe clay. Many didn’t have doorways, and only a few had windows; the ancient ones accessed their pueblos via ladders through the ceiling.
Joseph pulled her behind the ruin of the outermost wall. He was breathing hard. Sweat beaded around the faded red bandana tied around his forehead beneath his headlamp. He corralled his salt and pepper braid back over his shoulder. “This place is not right,” he said.
“I agree. No potsherds. Not even the charred remains of a cooking fire.” She fished the Mayan knife out of her pack. “But Samuel said he found this knife here. Did you ever know Samuel to carry a knife like this?”
“As he told us, the ancient ones, the Anasazi, left it for him, here in this cliff dwelling.”
“Samuel was dying, possibly delirious. How could the ancient ones foresee a catastrophic sandstorm burying the dwelling in their time, and then, in the future, another windstorm revealing their dwelling, but choose to leave behind only one mysterious knife?”
He turned his dark eyes on her. “It is a useful perspective, to see what waits beyond that which is visible.”
“If you’re alluding to the Breastplate, that’s not why I’m here,” she said. “I’m no longer a believer, like my father.”
“You will be.”
“I don’t need the Breastplate to know trouble’s coming.” She peered over the wall. The headlights bounced jaggedly, halfway down the opposite side of the canyon. “The Breastplate is Dad’s Holy Grail, not mine. Or, as I like to think of it, his Moby Dick.”
“We seek a piece of the Breastplate, once worn by Aaron, brother of Moses,” he said. “Its power destroyed entire villages. It is not to be taken lightly.”
“And it’s dragging my father to his death,” she said. “Throughout history, people have sacrificed their lives for quests for religious artifacts, thinking some divine power will create a happy ending, when it only leads to disaster and ruin.” Like in her recurring dream. In it, she held the sacred Breastplate, its gold heavy and warm, sparkling with twelve precious gemstones. The diamond, ruby, Emerald, and sapphire engulfed her in a prism of brilliant, seductive light. But the more she tightened her grasp, the faster the Breastplate disintegrated, falling to her feet as black ash. Somehow, that black ash was Dad.
She pointed to a round building, the size of a large silo. “That could be the kiva,” she said. Like the ones she’d studied at other cliff dwellings, a kind of temple, a place for men to sweat and pray. Early kivas were dug out of the ground, a dark respite to the desert sun. Later, the Anasazi built them on the surf
ace, which was less atmospheric, but more elaborate; some were even keyhole shaped. “Let’s go.”
“That is not the kiva,” Joseph said. He scrutinized the dwelling, his eyes squinting with eager fear. “Keep low.” He crept along the wall. His moccasin clad feet barely made a whisper as he approached the circular structure. Christa followed, each footfall of her heavy tread hiking boot sounding like thunder awaking echoes in the dead, muted air of the cave. He traced his fingers across the lintel topping the T-shaped portal. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck to the collar of his plaid flannel shirt. His hands trembled. “The ancients who lived here practiced the witchery way,” he said.
Cursed. Dad’s kind of place. “You really think the Turquoise is hidden inside?” She peered inside the circular chamber. It was dark, and felt like a trap.
“The Turquoise is close. I can sense it,” said Joseph. “One of the seven gemstones taken from the Breastplate.”
“Right,” she said, “by a priest in the sixteenth century, Dad’s favorite bedtime story.”
“A conquistador found the Breastplate. He brought it to the new world to begin a new empire with its divine power.” Joseph gestured to the night sky, as if recounting the tale around the campfire. “A priest saw that the conquistador had used its power for evil. The priest ripped away seven of the twelve sacred stones from the Breastplate and scattered them around the world. No man could ever again use its power for evil.”
“And the gems and Breastplate were lost to history and humankind,” she said, trying to tame her skepticism. “Listen, I’ve searched for years for historical evidence to support this story. Didn’t find anything.” We will find it, Christa, Dad would say. We will write the ending to this story. She should know by now. There are no happy endings. Only last chances.
An eerie call wafted up to them from below. It began softly, almost like a hungry infant’s pitiful keen. It quickly intensified in pitch and volume. A monstrous, primeval howl pierced the night air. Christa peered over the wall towards the plateau rim. A sudden breeze sliced through the stubborn scrub that crept between the rocks and scratched cool fingers down the back of her neck. “What the hell is that?” she whispered. The yowl spiraled around them. It was close, very close. And it wasn’t a lone coyote.
Joseph fingered the cowhide pouch strung around his neck, his medicine bag. “The yee naaldlooshii,” he said. “Protectors of what we seek. We have awoken them. They will not sleep again until they kill.”
CHAPTER 4
Viscillus ruins, southern coast of Morocco
Thaddeus Devlin twisted off his neckerchief and rubbed the fine red sand from his Sig Sauer pistol. It had been a long, cold night, waiting, hidden behind the ruins of the Roman wall. He had watched the full moon rise and set while he listened to the waves beat relentlessly against the shore. His back ached, pressed against the rough granite block. He could feel it, like the damp sea air, seeping into his bones. They were coming for the letter. He might have to kill them. He might be damned either way.
“I tell you, Professor Thaddeus,” Muktar whispered, “no bad men come. Nothing is here. Nothing for them.” Muktar’s stomach growled. He tossed the long tail of his turban over his shoulder. Muktar was a good head digger, but too trusting.
“That worker who deserted last night,” said Thaddeus, “he overheard my phone call to my daughter about the ancient cliff dwelling revealed in America.” The connection had been terrible. The entire nearby village could have heard him shout over the static through the still desert air. “He was a spy.”
“Not a spy. Lazy.” Muktar spat with disgust.
“Nobody quits a dig as remote as this one in the middle of the night,” Thaddeus said, “unless he has a very good reason.” Like a lot more money than an archeologist could pay. The location wasn’t just isolated. It was forgotten, a rocky patch of Atlantic coastline in southernmost Morocco. Even the locals abandoned it, only leaving behind foundation stones too cumbersome to steal, a ragged reminder of arrogant Roman city planning.
He stretched his right leg to pre-empt the threatening cramp. He couldn’t abide these tedious aches and pains. His dimming eyesight was the worst of it. It might affect his aim, especially in low light. He wasn’t ready to be old.
Three long years had passed since he had explored this isolated coast, dragging Christa along with him, hoping to mend their father-daughter bond. Christa was so much like Angeline, beautiful, smart and feisty. God, he missed her. He had conducted a cursory search, and found nothing. It wasn’t the time. But the events of the past two days couldn’t be coincidence. In Arizona, a windstorm revealed the lost cliff dwelling that he was sure concealed the Turquoise. One hundred miles west in the Atlantic, they had found the wreck of the San Salvador. By now, they may even have salvaged the Tear of the Moon Emerald. These two of the seven sacred stones stolen from the Breastplate of Aaron had resurfaced against seemingly impossible odds.
“Your loyal friend, Ahmed Battar.” Muktar pointed to the vast Atlantic, its eternal waves clawing the gravelly sand down the slope from their perch. “He is close to treasure. Out there, from the wreck of the ship. Not here. No gold and Emerald from across the ocean is here. If this deserter was a spy, then what secret does he know?”
“That it is all happening now,” Thaddeus said. “It took me years, Muktar, and miles of searching, but I finally found the clue to Salvatierra’s fate buried deep in the Vatican archives. It was nothing more than a soldier’s log entry, filed away since the sixteenth century. I could have overlooked it, but the page fell to the floor, as if it is destiny.” He was certainly no prophet, but these signs didn’t take a prophet to interpret.
Salvatierra had known the enormity of his responsibility, that the power of the Breastplate spanned time. In 1586, Pope Sixtus V sent Salvatierra to the new world to recover the Breastplate of Aaron and stop the conquistador who brought it there to create a new empire with its power. Even then, Salvatierra knew that the Vatican’s command was not his destiny, but his story had been lost to time, unless he recorded it in his letter. “That soldier’s log entry leads to this place, Muktar. Salvatierra died here, in these ruins. He must have left something behind. I must find the letter he had hoped would reach his brother in the Vatican.”
Shouts pierced the silence. Thaddeus yanked Muktar down. The marauders attacked from the east, the rising sun at their backs. “Stealth clearly isn’t their strong suit.” Thaddeus kept his voice low. “Which means they’re ready to kill.” He glanced around the side of the wall. They were hungry and lean in faded sweatshirts and dirty cutoffs,. They headed straight for the huddle of three tents in the old Roman plaza. He leaned in close to Muktar. “Only three of them. One machete. Two with pistols.”
They ran into the tents, weapons first, shouting. A camp stool flew out of Thaddeus’s tent. A prayer rug was tossed out of Muktar’s. They came out again, wide-eyed, scanning the ruins. They had clearly expected to have the advantage of surprise, attacking a presumably sleeping camp at sunrise. They thought it was going to be easy.
Thaddeus put his fingers to his lips and blew. His sharp whistle was the signal. The diggers revealed themselves from their hiding places behind the Roman ruins. Thaddeus and Muktar were positioned on one side of the plaza. The four diggers stood opposite them. Thaddeus had given pistols to four of them, including Muktar, along with a quick lesson in how to shoot them. They had flanked their attackers, but left them a way to retreat. With any luck, the outgunned attackers would simply turn back the way they came. This was a strictly pay for hire operation. This attack was supposed to secure the camp until the trained operatives had time to get here.
The guy in the sunbleached University of Southern California sweatshirt strafed the diggers with his gaze, not bullets. But Thaddeus knew his type. He was calculating odds, forming a plan, figuring out how many diggers he could take down and which of his men it would cost him.
The ruins took on a sudden, unnatural stillness. Above the clawi
ng of the waves, Thaddeus could just make out the soft singing. He picked up the scent of the fresh baked bread. Damn it, it was Ambar, Ahmed’s mother. He hadn’t warned her. He had been too obsessed with protecting the letter, the letter he hadn’t even found yet. She came every morning from the village with fresh baked bread for the camp. She came for any news about Ahmed and to scowl at him for sending her son to work on a boat instead of at home with his wife and her granddaughter.
The guy in the USC shirt swiveled to target her. He’d found his advantage.
Thaddeus swung himself over the Roman wall, landing hard on his stiff legs. Ambar clutched her bundle of loaves closer to her flowing kaftan. He raced towards her. She dropped the loaves to the ground, raised her hands to her mouth in fear. She screamed.
Thaddeus leapt towards her. He spread his arms to create as large a human shield as possible. A force struck him from behind, propelling him forward. A burning pain seared into his shoulder. He reached towards her, shoving her behind the toppled discs of a Roman column.
The Seventh Stone Page 2
