The Artifact: Natasha Burrows Series Book One

by Phillips, Michelle

  MICHELLE PHILLIPS

  The Artifact

  Natasha Burrows: Book One

  Also by Michelle Phillips:

  The Blood Rising

  For everyone who thinks the Universe is a place, exactly as big as your imagination makes it, this book is dedicated to you.

  © Kindle Direct Publishing 2017 Michelle Phillips

  Terms and Conditions:

  The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.

  All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  We all hate typo’s but sometimes they slip through. In the interests of building a better read for everyone, if you find any please email us at:

  michellephillpsbooks@gmail.com

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Call to Arms

  The rainforest was steaming hot. Water vapor evaporating from the last heavy downpour was making it unbearably sticky. Tasha wiped the sweat from her face with a once stiff white cotton handkerchief she had tied around her neck.

  The sweltering heat made her skin glisten, her army green singlet soaked through with sweat. She flung her machete into the wet earth underfoot and it stood erect vibrating like a cell phone set to vibrate as she bent to retie her shoe lace.

  “Come on!” shouted her guide, Xavier. “You’re getting left behind.” She jumped up, grabbing the deadly blade and followed the trail of his onslaught, mutilated leaves, bruised and broken bushes bowing to his sheer will, as he carved a rugged path through the dense undergrowth.

  She caught up with him, her breath ragged, chest heaving, following behind his macho silhouette thrashing at the dense undergrowth, beating a path through the jungle whether it was agreeable to it or not.

  “You really, don’t want to get left behind,” he growled “too much in this jungle to be worried about.”

  Amen to that. The jungle was alive with insects, stinging ones, and if you stood still long enough they caught up with you. She was an entire universe away in juxtaposition to her cozy Victorian conservatory, that only days before she had been sitting in, the sun streaming through the conservatory windows bathing the room in warmth and light.

  She was reading ‘The Last Days of The Incas’ with her tortoiseshell Persian cat Biggles curled comfy on her lap, when the doorbell rang over and again, repeatedly and impatiently.

  She wrinkled her freckled nose, partially peeved by the interruption and jumped up displacing Biggles who scattered to a spot under the couch.

  She scurried to the door, her socks sliding slightly on the smooth Carrera marble, placing her hand carefully on her walnut side table to steady herself, careful not to tip her favourite wooden sculpture of Yakshi, the Indian fertility goddess.

  Peeking through the stained glass she saw the courier, expectantly holding a white envelope for her in his yellow leather gloved hand. She sighed slightly opening the heavy creaking door as she blew a wisp of curly blonde hair from her face.

  “Natasha” he said, gleefully waving the envelope at her, all she could see was the dirt beneath his fingernails. “I have an envelope for you today,” he stated the obvious.

  She smiled at him, “Thanks Brian, do I need to sign?”

  “No digits needed today, but you could always sign an autograph for me?” She blushed as he produced her book, ‘Ancient Myths of the Mesopotamians.’

  “You are probably the only one who has read it.” She smiled uncomfortably as he fawned over her unashamedly. He pushed his helmet back off his forehead, the sweaty hair underneath sticking to his head in the shape of the helmet, tendrils curling outwards at the ends.

  “I’m only doing this until I get my degree you know.” She nodded, his story was familiar, she heard it every time he came with a letter or parcel.

  He couldn’t leave them in her mailbox like every other mailman, he had to take the long trip up her winding driveway, past the weeping willow trees and to her porch, and press repeatedly on her doorbell.

  This time it was to get her to sign his book like a groupie. The next time there would be another excuse. She didn’t really like the intrusion, but she was bound by her own set of social conventions that were constructed in her youth.

  Conventions which told you to always be polite, which resulted in hardly ever speaking the truth. That’s what it meant to grow up in middle to upper-class Britain.

  His scooter putted away as he sat astride it, the dirty fumes lingering at her doorstep whilst he waved her mail at her front door, like a large white handkerchief to a train.

  She hurriedly signed the book, thanking him as she quickly closed the door leaning back against it, and surveyed the crinkled and stained white envelope in her hand.

  The postmarks on it showed that it had come from Venezuela, and written in the faint hand of a calligrapher on the back, she could barely make out her uncle's name, Dr Eugene Barrow PhD from water stains which had blotted and smudged the black ink. She folded the envelope over in her hands, bringing it to her nose. It had a faint musty smell to it.

  She knew her uncle liked to travel, and generally he was in one place after the other, attending archeological digs, museum openings and presentation nights. He made his money from the authentication and trade of rare artifacts, and this took him to some wild and woolly places.

  It got him into trouble sometimes, which often required her to come to his assistance, so it was with a small amount of trepidation that she walked back to her couch, sitting with one leg under her, looking at the envelope wondering what Uncle Eugene had gotten himself embroiled in now.

  Tasha was a University Professor, at the Department of Anthropology, lecturing in Ancient History and Classical Archaeology. She wrote books, lectured to students and enjoyed nothing better than a nice bottle of Merlot and a great book.

  Despite her academic prowess, she was however, no slouch. She kept herself toned and fit with a combination of Pilates and yoga, a staunch vegetarian and clean eating fanatic she was slender and toned.

  None of this meant she enjoyed trekking across the wilderness, combating mosquitoes, dengue fever and miscellaneous rashes. Some may have called her borderline agoraphobic, she called it common sense.

  She sighed looking at Biggles. “What do you think Sir Biggles?” she asked the cat. He looked at her in the disinterested way, now draped over his favourite chair in front of his favourite window, his brilliant copper eyes struggling to stay open with every heave of his chest, his head lifting and gently lolling like a butterfly tumbling in the wind. “Some help you are” she scoffed.

  She gently tore open the dirty white envelope careful not to damage whatever was inside. She tipped the contents out gingerly on her lap. There was what appeared to be a short letter inside along with an aged map, like the rusted patina of a weathered metal sign, it was fragile with holes in places and some parts were hard to decipher. It was clear to her that the writing was Egyptian in origin, the use of hieroglyphs gave that one away.

  She opened the letter gingerly, holding the folds of paper open cau
tiously with her fingertips, not sure what microbes or bacteria might be lurking on what looked like sweat stained pages. The letter from her uncle was inordinately brief, not like his usual convoluted epic sagas, purple prose written in a perfectly penned hand.

  The hand that wrote this letter was shaking and unsure, large ink blots indicating a hesitant hand, where he had paused for an excessive amount of time, contemplating his next words. He wrote:

  My Dear Niece,

  I must dispense quickly with pleasantries, as I find myself in dire and immediate trouble. I fear that I have been followed, and by the most malicious sorts. I’m in Venezuela, and I believe I have stumbled across a very significant find. This map was found by myself, an artifact that I unearthed under the Falicon Pyramid in France on a recent visit.

  Unbelievably it has led me here. However, I do not believe I’m alone. Last night I was followed by two men, unsavoury sorts who I barely managed to escape. I have to continue on, I am of the opinion this discovery is extremely significant, I cannot explain in this letter why, however you must believe me my dearest Niece.

  I have made a copy of the map and I send you the original. If anything should happen to me I will seek to destroy the copy, please I need your help, dear Niece, please come and join me. I’m staying at the Marriott Hotel in Caracas, please come quickly.

  Yours always & truly

  Eugene Barrow

  Tasha let out another involuntary sigh not even noticing that she kept doing it. Uncle Eugene had a flair for the poetic, a gift of the gab so to speak and could over dramatise any situation. This time it was different however, the unsteady penmanship was not like him, and his turn of phrase was rushed, more colloquial. She decided it might be prudent to call the Hotel he was staying in.

  The voice on the other line was thick with an accent, but she still understood what he was saying. He remembered her uncle, he was a well dressed elderly man, a little unwell when he had checked in. He told her that her uncle had checked out a day ago, accompanied by two men.

  Tasha looked across at Mr. Biggles, envious of his complete obliviousness to anything but his special spot in the sun. “Well Mr. Biggles” she said feeling both concern and trepidation. “It looks as though I need a new wardrobe, and a first-class ticket to Caracas.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Bush Boss

  The plane hit the tarmac with a rattle and a thump. She unconsciously grabbed at the armrests looking around for the emergency exits for what might have been the 20th time. She had arrived at Simon Bolivar International Airport in Venezuela, around 21km from the capital city Caracas.

  She didn’t particularly like flying, logically she knew it was fairly safe, but then logically you wouldn’t expect a roughly 400 tonne piece of metal would be able to fly through the air at 1000 kilometres an hour either.

  Her nerves were on edge, further fueled by the fact that she had done a little light reading on the plane, hoping it would quell her nerves. Sadly, it only served to exacerbate them. Caracas had just been listed as the world's most dangerous city, probably if she had the foresight to buy her ticket through a travel agent instead of online they would have told her that. She was flying in blind, a veritable lamb to the slaughter.

  She needed to pee desperately. She wished she had used the ‘blue room’ on the plane, but the thought of it disgusted her. Her mind ranged between repulsed, from snotty dribbly toddlers and people with travel sickness and jet lag, to revolted by the mile-high club. She pretty much couldn’t think of a worse place to have sex. But each to his own, she thought, as long as they really did keep it to their own.

  She had arranged pick up by the hotel, but honestly that didn’t help much to quash her fears. Her hands were wrapped around her carry-on luggage until her fingers went white. She made it through customs and into the airport and was immediately hit by a barrage of people asking to carry her bag for her, and offering take her where she needed to go, all in broken English.

  She tried to push her way through the clammy hands, ignoring their insistent cries, smiling at them slightly and shaking her head no, as she made her way to her designated pick up. It was probably as close to feeling like a pop star as she would ever get. She plunked herself down hurriedly in the taxi as the door slammed shut blocking out the noise.

  Overwhelmed, she let out a large sigh of relief and tried to rearrange herself, feeling more than slightly molested from being man-handled by strangers. She pulled out a large pack of sanitizing hand wipes and started wiping herself wherever she thought she may have been touched. You could never be too careful, that was her motto and crowded places were a cesspit of disease and bacterial infection.

  Caracas the capital of Venezuela, was a sprawling modern city with big office buildings, and beautiful modern hotels which dominated the skyline, well for the most part anyway. If you remained inside the city confines you would be blissfully unaware of the chaos lying just outside the city like it’s dirty little secret.

  Piled chaotically, tiny box upon rickety box, were the slums of Caracas, the Ranchos or Barrios as they were called, where thousands of people eked out a living in extreme poverty. Their existence made Caracas one of the most dangerous cities in the world. The stark contrast between the rich and the poor, the have and the have nots creating an uneasy dissension.

  You didn’t enter the Barrios if you weren’t a local, not unless you had a death wish. There were many stories of people being robbed by gunpoint on the trip from the airport to the city, she prayed that she would not be one of them.

  The moment she arrived at the Marriott she breathed an instant sigh of relief. It was 6pm and she could not wait to get to her comfortable presidential suit and organise herself for the following day. She had it all planned out already. Her plan was simple, first she would lodge a police report for her missing uncle. Then she would hire a local investigator to retrace his last steps and try to determine the identity of the two mysterious men.

  It had started to rain outside. First lightly hitting the car windscreen with a gentle tap, but now more insistent, practically pelting down, knocking persistently like a screen door in a cyclone. She stepped out of the car and straight into a large murky beaver brown puddle, her Gucci Marmont fringed metallic cracked-leather pumps sinking into the oily mucky sludge.

  She squealed, slamming the door behind her with a decided thud and racing for cover, with every step submerging deeper into a pool of anonymous muck. She wrinkled her nose in disdain as she entered the hotel, her shoes squishing, exuding brown water with every step, practically ruined.

  She was greeted by a friendly receptionist, a young man who asked for her check-in details. She sniffed, her curly hair hanging limply, damp and dripping around her face.

  “Did you say your name was Natasha Barrow?” he asked looking up at her his brow furrowing with wrinkles.

  “Yes, why?” she was slightly concerned that he was about to tell her she didn’t have a booking.

  “This was left for you,” he pulled a brown envelope out of the counter drawer. She looked at the envelope curiously, recognising the flowing cursive immediately, realising that it had to be another letter from her uncle.

  She waited nervously until she reached her room, and plunked herself on the edge of the king size orthopedic bed, oblivious to the ring of water that started feathering out from around her backside, unfurling like tendrils from a vine, soaking into the silk covered feather duvet underneath her. Her fingers shook as she ripped the envelope open, devoid of her usual care. In her uncle's writing was the following note:

  Dear Natasha,

  If you are reading this, then I’m so glad you have come. I’m leaving for Ciudad Bolivar, accompanied by two seasoned guides. I longer feel safe in Caracus, please come and join me here. I believe the map leads to a place where an ancient and important artifact has been hidden, and I can’t find it without you.

  I have been in contact with a man, an American. He’s a bit rough around the edges, but o
ne of the best Guides in Venezuela. You’ll find him at a bar called the El Mani Es Asi, the locals know him as the Bush Boss. It's a Salsa bar, he’s apparently there most evenings. Make sure you take a taxi. He will help you and keep you safe.

  Please hurry, time is of the essence.

  Yours Truly

  UnGene

  She looked at the note partially frustrated, partially relieved. She saw he used the name she called him when she was just a child struggling with Uncle Eugene, she had melded the two together of sorts into a hybrid. He used this name as a code word to assure her that it was him and he was safe. That was the source of her relief, but the source of her frustration flowed deeper. She realised that he was roping her into what he termed an ‘adventure’ because in the note he stated that he needed her help.

  She thought of her uncle, as a little girl she adored him, by all accounts he was quite the character. He always wore a tan derby hat, white suit, and crazy bowtie with matching pocket square. He looked like a Southern Gentleman attending the Kentucky Derby, decidedly flamboyant, only with a strong posh British accent instead of a low southern drawl.

  He was the one who introduced her to archeology and ancient history when he brought her the first book she had ever read on archeology, “The 5,000 Year Old Puzzle,” when she was twelve years old. She became embroiled in the mystery of finding the missing mummy, and after that she was hooked.

  Delighted by her avid interest in all things archeological, he never missed a birthday or Christmas, fuelling her ever growing interest in the secrets of the past with more and more books.

  Archaeologists were the detectives of the past, the cowboys of science, and it sounded exciting being a cowboy, that's how she imagined him, galavanting around the countryside, rustling up mayhem and mischief, living life on the edge. It wasn’t until later she realised it was actually more of an insult.