by David Meyer
“I doubt you could, even if you wanted to. We believe that ODESSA supplied Hartek with nearly half a ton of gold.”
The staggering figure swirled in my brain. “How do you plan to conduct a treasure hunt under New York anyways? The moment the news gets out…and it will…you’ll have a full-fledged riot on your hands.”
“A solution is already in place. Now, will you take the assignment?”
A breeze passed through the room, chilling me to the bone. I tried to return Chase’s stare, but the cocky smile that adorned his face was too much to bear. He was pushing all the right buttons with ease, playing me like a stupid keyboard. Instead, I looked over his head and for the first time noticed a window on the opposite side of the room.
A window covered with bars.
I needed the money. And a blank slate would go a long ways toward putting the incident in the past. But something about Chase bothered me, even beyond the fact that he’d kidnapped me. “You don’t need me for this kind of work. Why don’t you call in some locals? I can give you a few names if you like.”
Chase looked uncomfortable. “We already tried that. Unfortunately, there was, well, an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Two of the people we hired vanished into thin air. At last contact, they were venturing toward Grand Central Terminal on the Lexington Avenue Line. They never reached the rendezvous point and a subsequent search failed to locate them.”
“Did you call the police?”
“They filed a report and conducted a routine examination of the area. But they found nothing.”
He folded his hands and placed them on the desk. “We tried an internal manhunt. We tried the police. The only option left remaining to us is to bring in an outsider. Someone who holds a deep knowledge of New York’s underworld. Someone like you.”
I rose to my feet. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not interested. Now, how the hell do I get out of here?”
“You’re free to leave of course.” He thrust one more picture into my hands. “But before you do, please take a look at this.”
Annoyed, I quickly examined the photograph. Then, my fingers flexed, crumpling the sharp edges of the picture. “That’s…”
“Yes,” he said sadly. “Javier Kolen is one of the two men who disappeared.”
The realization bathed me in its chilling waters. Kolen had worked with me on my final excavation. I didn’t know him well, but I’d always considered him a rock-solid friend.
Something changed inside me. For three years, I’d buried my past. Three long, miserable years. Confronting it wouldn’t be easy. But I couldn’t just turn my back on Kolen. I needed to help him. Even if it meant a return to the one place on earth that I truly feared.
I cleared my throat. “How soon can you get me to Manhattan?”
Chapter 5
Everywhere I looked, I saw historical genocide. The quaint, elegant buildings from my previous life were long gone, replaced by skyscrapers and fancy new high-rises. Stores that I once frequented had shut their doors, making way for new retailers who would soon be replaced as well. The never-ending, so-called progress grated my nerves. In New York City, no one gave a damn about preservation.
“Are you okay, Mr. Reed?” the driver said over his shoulder. “Do you need anything? There should be a bottle of water at your side if you want it.”
I looked into the rear view mirror of the Lincoln Town Car. Chase’s personal driver, a skinny kid named Jim Walker, stared back at me. His face looked pale and his eyes seemed glassy. He looked like he might pass out at any second.
“I’m fine,” I replied for the thousandth time. “Don’t worry about me.”
Walker nodded. As he turned to face the road, I allowed my mind to drift for a few moments. Many hours had passed since my encounter with Ryan Standish. Since my meeting with Beverly Ginger. Since my agreement with Jack Chase.
Many long hours.
I still felt in the dark. Chase flew me to Manhattan on his corporate jet. However, he spent the entire flight making business calls, shut away in a private compartment. After we landed, I tried to get a few minutes alone with him, to ask him some questions. But he sent me with Walker instead, claiming we’d meet later in the day.
His caginess made me leery. But my apprehension melted away the moment I climbed into the back of the Town Car. First, a ride in a private jet. Now, a ride in a private car, complete with personal driver. I never really yearned for wealth or power, but I found myself enjoying it, much to my dismay.
Something buzzed. Walker reached to his ear and began speaking in a muted tone.
A surge of nervous energy flowed through me. Three years ago, I abandoned my old life. I put it, along with New York City, behind me.
Forever.
But of course, I’d never forgotten it. And as I entered the city limits, I found myself growing increasingly restless.
My eyes drifted to the seat next to me, landing squarely on my beat-up canvas satchel. All my worldly possessions, a few changes of clothes, my holster and gun, my sheathed machete, and some odds and ends, were contained within it. It was remarkably old-fashioned, kind of like me.
I didn’t have a laptop. I didn’t possess a cell phone. In fact, I didn’t own a single piece of electronic equipment. Walker, on the other hand, was more machine than man. He kept a cell phone in his hand, a headset in one ear, an iPod bud in the other, an iPad on his lap, and a GPS device in front of him. As I watched him juggle the devices with ease, I couldn’t help but feel a little outdated.
I was an anachronism.
A man out of place.
A man out of time.
Walker coughed. “Sorry about this, Mr. Reed.”
I shook my head, freeing myself from my thoughts. “What’s that?”
“I was just apologizing for the wait. This traffic’s a nightmare.”
Leaning to the side, I glanced out the front window. Just ahead of us, cars lined up for blocks on end, noisy yet unmoving. It was the worst traffic jam I’d ever seen. “What’s going on?”
“The MTA declared a lockout. Until further notice, all forms of public transportation are closed.”
It had to be a coincidence. Chase wouldn’t shut down New York’s subway system just to conduct a clandestine treasure hunt. Such a blatant misuse of power was unthinkable.
I tried to drum up another explanation. But the truth blazed its way into my mind. Chase had knowingly endangered my life. He’d kidnapped me and manipulated me. There was no telling how far he’d go to get what he wanted.
“When did this happen?”
“Late last night,” he replied. “But the conflict’s been brewing for weeks now, ever since Mr. Chase took over as acting Chairman.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
He shrugged. “The MTA’s got a big deficit. Mr. Chase needed to draw the line somewhere. He’s asking for cuts across the board, with heavy emphasis on pensions and healthcare benefits.”
“Let me guess. They refused to budge?”
He nodded. “Did you know that public workers in this town make more dough than private ones? Mr. Chase just wants to bring them back into line and save the city some money, that’s all.”
“He’s a real altruist.”
Walker fell silent. I sat back in my seat, feeling less comfortable by the minute. Chase was prone to abrupt, egocentric action. I didn’t like working for him. Only thoughts of Kolen kept me from demanding a ride back to the airport.
Kolen was a grumpy, tough old man. But he’d been a faithful friend to me ever since we met. He was one of the few people who stood by me after the incident. I couldn’t turn my back on him, not now, not in the moment of his greatest need.
The minutes ticked by and I grew increasingly stir-crazy. I felt smothered by memories of Kolen, memories of my old life. I needed to move, to experience life. I wanted to leave the safety and comfort of the Town Car. I wanted – no, I needed – to see Manhattan again, on my own
terms. I needed to reconnect with it, to understand it.
Tentatively, my fingers reached for the door.
I jiggled the handle.
Locked.
Walker shot me a disapproving look. “Thinking of going somewhere?”
“I’m just bored. We’ve only gone five blocks in the last thirty minutes.”
“Traffic will pick up soon. Once people get sick of waiting, they’ll clear out of here.”
“And go where? As far as I can see, every road is packed and every parking space is filled.”
“It’ll clear out. Just give it time.”
“If I give it anymore of my time, I’m going to be filing for Social Security.”
“Want me to put on the radio?” he asked. “Or if you like, there’s a television set in front of you. Just pull down the panel on the back of my seat.”
I pulled down the panel. Sure enough, a television screen appeared before my eyes. For a brief second, I considered turning it on, checking for news on the lockout. But the thought of watching a bunch of talking heads debate its merits made me queasy.
A large sign outside the window, posted at a bus stop, caught my attention. It read, “Last Year, 2,678 New Yorkers Saw Something and Said Something.” A line of smaller text read, “If You See Something, Say Something.”
Well, at least one thing about Manhattan hadn’t changed. It still brimmed with fear. Tiny video cameras poked out of every nook, recording everyone at all times. Parents darted down the sidewalks, holding their children with iron grips, afraid of bogeymen around every corner. And now, even the public service ads were advising people to spy on their neighbors.
But where did all of the fear come from? The terrorist attacks of 9/11? A hyper-vigilant media? Politicians seeking re-election? No, those were just manifestations of a pre-existing emotion. The truth was that fear lived in everyone, at all times, just waiting to emerge.
Fear of pain. Fear of loss. Fear of death.
Fear of the past.
Traffic moved and we drove forward a couple of inches. As we jerked to a stop, I heard tiny splashes of water. Looking up at the sunroof, I noticed raindrops splattering on the glass, growing bigger and increasingly frequent.
A light mist settled over the streets, dimming visibility. With every passing second, the city outside my window grew more and more distant.
I needed to do something. Lifting my hand to my mouth, I coughed loudly. Walker, consumed with his music, didn’t raise an eyebrow.
I grabbed my satchel. Then I reached up and unhinged the sunroof. As it opened, large raindrops engulfed me, splashing my shirt and jeans. I couldn’t see anything outside, but I longed to be a part of it anyway.
Walker whirled around. “What are you doing?”
His fingers brushed against my ankle as I hoisted myself onto the roof. The cool air and powerful mist contrasted sharply with the car’s warm and muggy interior. With one quick move, I leapt onto the street.
My boots touched the hard black pavement and I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. A smile curled upon my lips as I darted toward the sidewalk. Many things had changed since I’d left Manhattan. But the energy remained the same. It was still there, pumping overtime.
I knew Walker was furious. Soon, Chase would be just as angry. But that didn’t matter, not at the moment.
At long last, I was back in Manhattan.
I was home.
Chapter 6
The tall building didn’t belong on the island of Manhattan. It belonged on Mount Olympus.
Thick, ornate columns rose high into the air, creating a false sense of grandeur. Stained glass windows, mounted at uneven intervals, stole the few rays of available light, casting strange color schemes over parts of the white marble exterior. Creepy, colossal faces of famous explorers stared out over the street, their dull eyes forever watching the unworthy.
Most people loved the Explorer’s Society’s headquarters. But I detested the place.
It was so damn pretentious.
For five minutes, I stared at the towering structure, nearly oblivious to the cold rain attacking my face, knit shirt, and jeans. A fierce wind plugged my ears. I smelled rotten milk, urine, and mothballs wafting from the trash bags piled nearby. But despite my discomfort, I remained rooted to the sidewalk.
Back in my youth, I’d sprinted up the exterior staircase every single day of every single week. I’d slip past the enormous doors and find myself in a whole other world. A world of adventure. A world of danger.
Sometimes, I’d stay past dinnertime. Curling up in the lecture hall, I’d drift off to sleep, dreaming of far off, exotic places. Inevitably, I’d wake up back at home, tucked under the covers. My mother, God bless her soul, never complained. I don’t know why. Maybe she just liked seeing a smile on my face.
The building held many fine memories for me. I still felt pride when I recalled the day I finally received one of its exclusive memberships.
But much had changed over the last three years. The Society was different now and so was I. And as I examined every inch of the imposing edifice, it no longer seemed like a second home. Rather, it felt aloof and hostile.
Gritting my teeth, I tossed my satchel around my neck. No one knew where to find me. Not Walker, not anyone. And even if they did, gridlock would slow them down.
Although I felt in sync with the energy around me, I still felt out of place. I wanted to reconnect with my surroundings and there was only one person who could help me do that.
Lowering my head, I marched up the staircase to a pair of heavy oak doors. I traced my finger along the grooves for a moment, trying to recall the magic I felt as a child. But it wasn’t the same. Emitting a deep sigh, I shoved the door open and stepped into the building.
My heart soared as I walked into the Great Hall of the Explorer’s Society. Tall ornamental columns rose from the ground to the ceiling, forming elevated arches high above. Dark wood paneling covered the walls and floor. Crisp oriental carpets lay in several locations, their unique colors blending together to create a seamless fit. Centuries old stuffed heads hung from the walls, displaying animals that no longer existed.
A little smile crossed my face. Even after three years, the Great Hall still took my breath away.
My gaze swept the room, taking in the familiar wood and glass display cases. The extraordinary objects they held caused excitement to boil within me.
I saw Lewis and Clark’s journals. A frozen case of liquor recovered from Ernest Shackleton’s Nimrod Expedition. A hat that belonged to Ponce de León.
But the longer I studied the objects, the more my enthusiasm waned. As a kid, they inspired me. Now, they served as painful reminders of a life gone far off the rails.
I turned toward the back of the Great Hall. For the first time, I noticed a crowd of well-dressed men and women standing in tight groups. They laughed and chatted, oblivious to my presence.
I recognized some of the faces. Dale Hearns, the world-renowned anthropologist. Betsy Reese, the mountaineer. Mitch Lander, the ethnographer and writer.
My palms began to sweat. I hadn’t talked to a single one of them since the incident. The thought of being surrounded by all of them was disconcerting, to say the least.
I saw a large sign behind the crowd. It advertised the lecture for that day, “Treasure Hunters: The Scourge of Archaeology.”
A jolt of annoyance shot through my body.
Can this possibly get any more awkward?
Blocking my face, I forged through the crowd. I felt ashamed of myself and yet annoyed with my shame.
After jostling my way to the back of the room, I turned right and strode down a long hallway. Framed paintings adorned the walls, displaying the annual winners of the prestigious Explorer of the Year award. Once upon a time, I’d imagined that my visage would someday adorn those walls.
A painting came into view and my feet slid to a stop in front of it. Surprise filled me as I stared at the 2010 winner. It depicted a woman
standing on a red carpet against a plain brown backdrop. She displayed a pretty face, perfect posture, a beautiful curvy body, and long, luxurious blonde hair. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief and I found myself momentarily transfixed by them. I knew her.
I knew her well.
Ignoring my bubbling emotions, I continued walking down the corridor. At the end, I turned to face the door on the left. A nameplate, mounted at eye level, read, “Dutch Graham – Chairman.”
As I slipped into the room, the stale aroma of musty books greeted my nose. It reminded me of a library. A very old library.
Two-hundred-year-old paintings, part of the Society’s Hudson River School collection, hung crooked on the walls. Antique pieces of furniture, drowning under a sea of papers and books, were strewn haphazardly across the floor.
On the far end of the room sat a large oak desk and a fancy office chair. A man sat in the chair, facing the other direction. His legs angled upward and his feet rested on the fifth shelf of a large bookcase. His right hand glimmered and I caught a glimpse of a magnifying glass clenched in his fingers.
I cleared my throat. “Here’s to us and those like us.”
The man whirled around in his chair. A wicked grin spread across his face. “Damn few of us left,” he replied in a harsh, gritty tone.
“You’re looking good, Dutch.”
“I look like hell and you know it.”
Slowly, Dutch Graham rose from his seat and hobbled around his desk. He was from an earlier generation of explorers, more adventurer than scientist. Ever since we’d met, he’d viewed me as a kindred spirit, a sentiment I shared.
A lifetime of adventure had taken its toll on his body and he carried a myriad of battle scars, including a patch over his right eye and a mechanical left leg. Yet, I sensed that his ageless soul remained full of deviousness, exemplified by his timeless love for women, wine, and poker. It was little wonder that the other members used to call him El Diablo behind his back.
