by David Wood
“These guys are organized. Ten-to-one there will be more of them waiting down the road.”
“And this changes things how?”
“They’ll be looking for our car. I’m hoping our new ride will give us a chance to slip past them, at least long enough to get to the main road.” Dane looked back at Alex who sat on the floor of the rear cargo area. “Then we’re going to have a long talk with our passenger. I think she might know more about this than even she realizes.”
CHAPTER 10
London, England
“I want to go with you,” Alex announced. “I want to help you find the medallion.”
The request surprised Dane. “A few hours ago, you said you didn’t want to be involved. Why the change of heart?”
Before she could answer, their server, and attractive young blonde, arrived to greet them
“Ever had Scurvy?” the girl asked.
They had settled into a corner table at The Mayflower, a cozy riverside public house built in 1550, reputedly the oldest on the River Thames. According to local lore, in 1620 the famous ship which had brought the Puritans across the Atlantic to their new home in the Americas, had pulled up to the dock and taken on some of its passengers who were waiting at the pub, before sailing on to its more noteworthy homeport at Plymouth. Dane was fascinated with the nautical décor and the historic theme, but his primary reason for choosing the pub was that it was the kind of place where three Americans could lay low for a while without attracting too much attention. During the train ride from Hertfordshire to London, and subsequently as they traversed the city looking for a refuge, there had been no sign of pursuit. Nevertheless, Dane was not about to relax his vigilance.
“Scurvy?” Dane feigned a look of horror as he considered the server’s question, but knew from a glance at the pub’s listing in London A to Z, that Scurvy was the name of The Mayflower’s signature house bitter ale.
“I take Vitamin C everyday just to prevent it,” deadpanned Professor.
The girl rolled her eyes, but before she could launch into her well-rehearsed explanation, Dane said, “Let’s have three pints of Scurvy, and a plate of chips.”
As she departed, Dane turned to Alex and repeated his question. “So, what’s changed?”
“Nothing. I wanted in all along. What I said back there, that was just the panic talking back there. Everything was happening so fast, and people were shooting at us.”
It was an adequate explanation but Dane sensed that she was holding something back. “You know, we sort of skipped over the proper introductions earlier.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Kind of seemed like there were more important things to take care of.” She stuck her hand out. “Alex Vaccaro.”
Dane took her hand and gave it a gentle shake. “And you’re a historian? But you said the Templars aren’t your area of expertise.”
“Not even close. I’m getting my Master’s in Twentieth Century history, specifically military history, World War II.”
“So that’s how you got involved in all of this. Researching the Nagata Maru led you to Hancock.”
The server arrived with three tankards, each brimming with foam and dripping brown ale onto the table surface. They all took long drinks. Dane found the flavor interesting—mellow, bitter, and slightly fruity. It wasn’t Dos Equis, but it wasn’t bad.
“I was working with a writer,” Alex continued. “Don Riddell, doing research on a book about the hell ships. Are you familiar with the term?”
Professor couldn’t resist a chance to show off his encyclopedic knowledge. “The Imperial Japanese Navy commandeered ocean liners and cargo freighters to transport their POWs to forced labor camps. The conditions for the prisoners were deplorable. They crammed hundreds, even thousands of men onto those ships—stacked them like cordwood. No food, no water, barely even any fresh air. Disease was rampant.”
Alex nodded. “But the worst part was that the ships themselves were often targeted by American forces, who didn’t realize that they were carrying Allied prisoners. It’s estimated that over 18,000 Allied personnel were killed that way.”
“From what I’ve heard of the Japanese labor camps,” Dane remarked. “That might have been a kinder fate.”
“Perhaps. But that wouldn’t have been much comfort to the crews of the ships and torpedo planes responsible for sinking them. And it didn’t play well in the news back home; it still doesn’t. That was going to be the subject of Don’s book; examining the impacts of the deaths these POWs.”
“Was?”
“Don is dead. Murdered.” The admission seemed to take something out of her. She took a deep draught of the ale before attempting to continue. “He…they…whoever…tried to kill me, too. That’s why I ran.”
“You’re safe now.” Dane reached out and took her hand again. “How did you make the connection to Lord Hancock?”
“This all started when Don requested some material from the National Archives; recently declassified documents pertaining to the sinking of several hell ships.”
“Why would those documents be classified in the first place?”
Professor cleared his throat. “I know a little about the hell ships. There were several instances where Allied command knew ahead of time that the ships were carrying POWs. They had broken the Japanese codes, knew the routes and cargos, but if they had let those ships pass, the Japanese would have realized their codes were compromised, and it would have been back to square one.”
“They did their best to cover it up,” Alex added. “The truth came out of course, but it’s one of those ugly subjects that no one likes to talk about. That’s the subject of Don’s book…or would have been.”
Dane waved his hand as if trying to wipe a chalkboard clean. “Focus. Declassified documents. What next?”
“Someone killed Don and tried to kill me.” Her voice had become loud and strident enough that a few heads in the pub turned to look in their direction. She took another sip of ale, and then continued in a more subdued tone. “I ran. Hid out for a while until I could figure out what was so important in those records. That’s when I discovered the discrepancy about the Nagata Maru. And this message.”
She took a folder from her backpack and shuffled out a sheet of paper. Dane read it and handed it back to her. “So you decided to play Nancy Drew? Follow this clue and see where it leads?”
“If I’m Nancy Drew, then you two are the Hardy Boys. We ended up in the same place.”
“Fair enough.” Dane savored a sip from his tankard.
“How do the Templars fit in?” asked Professor.
Dane gave a quick synopsis of what he had overheard in the chapel.
Professor considered this for a moment. “Templars are the bogeymen of conspiracy theories. They’re believed to be involved in everything from controlling the world economy to hiding the Lost Ark of the Covenant.”
“Is any of it true?”
Professor spread his hands. “The Templars were real. We know that much for sure. They fought in the Crusades, established what was probably the world’s first international bank, and were for a time, more powerful than any of the European kingdoms of the day. Incidentally, there are long-standing rumors of a Templar presence in Hertfordshire, so there’s that. But a lot of the rest is gossip, innuendo, or just plain crazy.
“They may have discovered the holy relics of the Temple of Solomon. Maybe they found the Holy Grail. Maybe they possessed the lost Gospel of Jesus Christ or were the guardians of the secret bloodline of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. Or maybe those are all just rumors, spread by the Templars to increase their power, or by their enemies to make them seem more dangerous. Again, all we really know for certain is that they did exist for about two hundred years, and that they were destroyed by the church in early 1300’s.”
“Hancock talked about a secret treasure that survived the destruction of the order. Could that be that true?”
Professor shrugged. “Anything could be true. The Templa
rs were very wealthy before their dissolution, and not all of that wealth has been accounted for. There is a rather persistent story about a hay wagon that left the Templars’ Paris headquarters shortly before their leaders were arrested, so it is possible that that some of that wealth might have been spirited away. But I’m skeptical about a secret society of underground Templars lurking in the shadows for six hundred years.”
“That chapel looked awfully authentic,” said Alex.
“Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s entirely possible that this guy Hancock believes he is a real Templar. Everything he says might be true, up to a point. Trevor Hancock might really have a medallion screwed to his skull. Maybe this thing has been in their family for several generations. Secret societies were all the rage in the eighteenth and nineteenth century, especially among nobility. They were easy pickings for con artists.”
“But no treasure?”
“If you knew how to find a treasure like that, would you just sit on the information? Keep it a secret as part of some big mythical plan?” Professor shook his head. “I wouldn’t. And I don’t think the old Templars would have either. They would have either invested it in a comeback, or more likely spent it all just trying to stay one step ahead of their enemies.”
Dane wasn’t ready to give up until he’d turned over every rock. “What if it’s more than just treasure? What if we are talking about the Holy Grail or the Ark? Or some source of power that can change the world?”
“Or destroy it,” added Alex.
“Hey, I’m just the trivia expert. Like I said, I don’t know what’s true. But if I had to bet money on it, I’d say that if there was a Templar treasure, it’s long gone.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, drinking their Scurvy and munching on chips sprinkled with salt and malt vinegar. Finally Alex spoke up. “Someone in Allied Command was a Templar. Had to be. That’s the only explanation. They knew what Hancock was carrying and couldn’t risk the Japanese finding it. Don’t you think that’s significant?”
Dane looked at Professor. “She makes a good point.”
He didn’t add that there was also the matter of their bogus search for the Awa Maru, personally ordered by the current Secretary of the Navy. It wasn’t hard to dismiss Edward Hancock and his cronies as a group of self-deluded dilettantes, playacting at being Templars, but that didn’t explain why the United States Navy had been so intent on making Trevor Hancock disappear during World War II, or why they wanted him found now.
“So what’s our next move?”
There was only one answer. “We head back to that shipwreck. This won’t be over until we find the mysterious missing Lord Hancock.”
CHAPTER 11
Nagata Maru wreck site
It didn’t take long at all for Bones to determine that allowing Gabby to join the crew had been the right decision, and not just because she was a lot more fun to hang out with than Willis. Her skill with the ROV meant that the two men would be able to focus their attention on watching both the radar screen and the horizon for the approach of hostiles, although, after two days on the site, without so much as a blip, he was beginning to wonder if he had misjudged the opposition.
He had expected them to show up in greater force—more shooters and bigger guns—and had planned accordingly by procuring a small arsenal, enough to fend off anything short of a guided missile frigate. Now, he was wondering if they had decided instead to let the crew of the Jacinta do the heavy lifting, hit them on the way back when they had the prize in hand.
They’ll be waiting a while, he thought irritably. The search of the wreck had been equally uneventful.
He stretched, working the stiffness of inactivity from his muscles and joints, and swiveled his chair to look over Gabby’s shoulder. Her pixie face was lit up by the glow from the small color monitor screen, her eyes moving back and forth as she used a joystick controller to manipulate the ROV’s utility arm to gently pick through the nest of crumbling bones in what had once been the ballroom of a small ocean liner.
They had cleared hundreds of skeletons, retrieving dog tags as they checked each skull for the metal plate Scalpel had described. So far nothing, and with each set of remains they cleared, the likelihood of finding anything seemed to diminish.
“You know,” Gabby said, without looking away from her task. “He might not have been in the ballroom. There could be other compartments. Or he might have jumped overboard before she went down.”
“I thought all the pessimism left with Maddock. Are you saying we’re out of luck?”
“Not necessarily. We can search the area around the wreck with the metal detector.”
He frowned. Two days of searching this haystack, and now he was being told that the needle might be in another field. “How long will that take?”
“As long as it takes.”
“You wouldn’t just be trying to run up the meter?”
She laughed and brought her gaze up to meet his. “Not on your life. The sooner we find this guy that you’re looking for, the sooner I get that celebration you promised.”
Bones had to admit that he was in need of a good celebration, but before he could tell her that, a familiar electronic chirp cut him off.
Gabby’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve got cell phone service out here?”
“It’s an Iridium satellite phone. It works everywhere.” He didn’t add that the service was almost prohibitively expensive, and he only had it because it had been provided for him, but simply hit a button to receive the call. “Bones, here.”
There was an unusually long delay. “It’s Maddock. Sitrep?”
“Not much sit to rep. We’ve almost cleared the wreck. After that, we’ll start sweeping the surrounding area. Got to say though, it’s not looking good.”
There was a long silence, far too long for simple satellite lag, and Bones thought the call might have dropped, but finally Maddock spoke again. “Keep at it. We’ve got to find him. Anything else worth mentioning? Any unwanted visitors?”
“Nope. Of course, they might be watching and waiting to see what we turn up.”
“Could be. Watch your six. We’re on our way back there. Should be on the ground in Manila by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Want us to come collect you?”
“Negative. I’ll charter another boat and meet you on site. I’ll call again with ETA.”
“Roger.”
“Also, try and stay out of trouble until I get there, Bones. Maddock, out.”
Bones clicked off and returned the phone to his pocket.
“Who was that?” asked Gabby.
“My boss.”
She stuck out her lower lip in a fake pout. “I thought you were the boss.”
Bones grinned. “Well, we’re more like partners really. Business partners, that is. Maddock’s a great guy…well, actually he’s kind of a stick-in-the-mud. Not much of a sense of humor. You’ll see when you meet him.”
“When will that be?”
“Day after tomorrow, maybe. He’s coming here.”
“No fair,” she said, pouting again. “I don’t want to work for anyone but you.”
“Well then, what do you say we find what we’re looking for before he gets here?”
CHAPTER 12
Manila, Philippines
Scalpel gripped the padded armrests of the wheelchair and pushed off, standing erect on his own for the first time in three days. Although the doctor has assured him that two days in hyperbaric oxygen chamber had purged every trace of nitrogen from his tissues, he could still feel it. His joints felt as if they were about to burst.
“That’s more like it,” cheered the man standing behind the wheelchair. “When the horse throws you, you’ve got to get back on.”
Scalpel grimaced. His first impulse was to tell the man what he could do with his horse, but it didn’t pay to aggravate the boss, especially not when the boss was someone like John Lee Ray.
Ray was a handsome man, with the physique of an
athlete and the face of a movie star. The first attribute was the product of an almost religious regimen of physical conditioning, the second was the result of a lot of cosmetic surgery. He was in his early-fifties, but was often told that he looked like he was in his late twenties, which pleased him tremendously. Ray cared a great deal about such things; he had not been born into wealth and power, but he was ambitious, and knew that appearances mattered a great deal to the wealthy and powerful men whom he served.
John Lee Ray was in the security business, providing personal protection, investigative services and “threat management,” which was his euphemism for pre-emptive assassinations, only to the wealthiest of the wealthy—men who could afford to hire their own army, which was exactly what Ray’s organization was. A former US Army Special Forces officer, Ray had the training, experience, and most importantly, the international contacts to be very good at his chosen profession. He had started out as a single operator, but had quickly gathered a cadre of professionals with a similar background in black ops, to form a multi-million dollar agency. Scalpel, who had been a member of Ray’s SF team—it had been Ray that had given him his operational nickname—had been one of the first to sign up.
“Steady now.” Ray’s voice was accented by a faint South Carolina drawl, which only seemed to add to his charisma. “I can wheel you closer.”
“No,” Scalpel gritted his teeth. “I’ve got this.”
Ray nodded and stepped aside to let a hospital orderly take the wheelchair back into the main lobby. He said nothing more until they were both in the back seat of a heavily armored SUV, one of a fleet of such vehicles that Ray had at his disposal.
When they were on the move, Ray turned to him. “If you’re not ready for duty, I need to know.”
“I can handle it,” said Scalpel, mustering as much confidence as he could. “I need to be in on this, John Lee.”
“You need? Oh, yes. Payback.”
