by David Meyer
I grabbed Graham and bear-hugged him. “How are you?”
He returned the hug with surprising strength. “Same as always. Thanks for drying off before you barged in here.”
“It’s not my fault. It’s raining outside.”
“Ever heard of an umbrella?”
“Is this how you greet all your old friends?”
“Old friend, my ass. You haven’t visited in years. And if you really were my friend, you wouldn’t have left me alone with these pompous windbags.”
“Someone has to keep them in their places.”
“I’ll say. So, when do I get to meet the wife?”
“I’m not married.”
“Why not? It’s not like you’re getting any younger.”
“I guess I just haven’t found the right girl yet.”
He nodded. “So, how long has it been since I last saw you? Two years?”
“More like three.”
“Where do you live?”
“A bunch of places,” I replied. “I haven’t really settled down.”
He studied me closely. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to see you. But what are you doing here?”
“I’m back in town for a week or so. A guy by the name of Jack Chase hired me to do something for him.”
“That jerk? Why are you working for him?”
“You know him?”
“Not personally. But he runs an outfit called ShadowFire. Let’s just say they’re no stranger to controversy.”
“He told me it was a security consulting company.”
Graham snorted. “That’s just corporate speak for a PMC. You know, a private military corporation. They’re in the news every other week, fighting in one place, buying weapons in another. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them.”
“I don’t read much news these days.”
“Well, watch your back. Chase is a snake, plain and simple.”
“I see you’re still judging people you haven’t met.”
He grinned and clapped me on the back. “Some things never change.”
I returned the grin. “I was hoping to treat you to a couple of slices, give us a chance to catch up for a bit. If you want, I can come back later, after the lecture.”
“Are you kidding? I hate those things. The other board members tell me I’m supposed to go but they don’t really care. Frankly, I think I’m an embarrassment to them. No big deal. They share a shot glass worth of brains between the whole lot of them. No, I’m up for some food. Let’s blow this joint.”
Graham limped through the door and started walking down the hallway. I followed him out and then fell into step with him.
As we passed by the lecture hall, I happened to glance inside. My eyes were immediately drawn to a young woman with long blonde hair. She stood behind the podium, surrounded by fawning sycophants. An overhead fixture cast a soft glow upon her, lighting her up like an angel. A black dress and black boots covered her slim, curvy body. Her facial features were attractive and well proportioned, highlighted by a cute nose and big blue eyes.
It was Diane Blair, the girl from the painting.
She looked so different, yet so similar. I felt emotions stirring inside of me, emotions I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I glanced at Graham. “Change of plans. Let’s go to the lecture.”
“I thought you wanted to skip the lecture.”
“I do. But the lecturer, well, that’s another matter altogether.”
Chapter 7
“Not only do treasure hunters steal artifacts,” Diane announced. “They steal history as well.”
She spoke in a cool, clear tone. I hadn’t heard her voice in three years. Yet, it sounded so familiar to my ears.
She stood behind a podium at the front of the Lindbergh Auditorium. Although it was a bit on the small side, the Auditorium put more than a few Broadway theatres to shame. Once upon a time, I’d found it magical and awe-inspiring. But now, I viewed it with a measure of distaste instead.
The walls and ceiling that surrounded the stage were painted gold and inlaid with dizzying designs and flamboyant stones. The stage itself, framed by rows of billowing burgundy curtains, practically screamed for attention.
Glass and wood cases, similar to those in the Great Hall, sat at various positions around the stage. The exhibits themselves – a pipe, a tattered book, and dull rocks – seemed innocuous enough until one realized that they came from Christopher Columbus’s voyage to the Americas, the Pancho Villa expedition, and the Apollo 11 moon landing, respectively.
I wondered how those famous explorers would feel about their personal belongings being showcased in such a pompous manner. Somehow, I doubted they’d approve.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. A couple dozen rows of soft velvet stadium seats stretched between Diane and me. Most of them were filled with haughty, hobnobbing scientists.
It was an impressive turnout, especially considering the traffic issues. I wasn’t terribly surprised though. As 2010 Explorer of the Year, Diane was apparently quite the hot ticket.
And the fact that she’s beautiful doesn’t hurt either.
I looked at Diane. The rows of seats were like a gulf between us, a gulf that grew with every word she said to the audience. She stood on the respectable side of exploration, shoulder-to-shoulder with archaeologists, scientists and other academics. I used to stand with her. But these days, I increasingly found myself on the other side, in solidarity with the treasure hunters, the smugglers, and the black market dealers.
Still, I wanted to talk to her. I wasn’t sure if she’d feel the same, not after the way I’d left her all those years ago. But I needed to try anyway. I checked the clock and decided to keep a low profile until the break. Then I’d find a way to get some alone time with her.
Of course, it was one thing to plan a conversation, another thing to actually follow through with it.
“We face an uphill battle,” Diane said. “Interpol estimates that the black market antiquities trade is a four billion dollar business on an annual basis. Advances in ground-penetrating radar and other forms of technology have made it easier for treasure hunters to operate. Also, on-line auction sites now provide dealers with a safe and secure method of distribution. The authorities are stretched to the limit and fight an increasingly sophisticated enemy, driven solely by unfettered greed.”
My eyes narrowed. One of the common fallacies of archaeology, one that I used to believe, was that archaeologists were selfless public servants. According to this line of thought, they eschew financial rewards and other baubles in order to unearth and understand history.
But archaeologists were just people and as such, subject to the same impulses as everyone else. Every treasure hunter I’d ever known exhibited greed. But so did every archaeologist as well. It was just a different type of greed. Greed for grant money. Greed for fame. Greed for professional respect. And most of all, greed for the power to control history.
Her eyes traced the crowd. Instinctively, I slouched into my seat, avoiding her gaze.
“…and people like us,” she said as I returned my full attention to her speech. “The road is a long one. Wealthy collectors in particular must be convinced not to purchase artifacts with uncertain or fabricated provenances. Governments must be convinced to treat artifact smuggling as a serious crime, with punishments that deter would-be offenders. And finally, the media and groups such as ours must educate the public on the line between archaeologists who seek to preserve heritage and treasure hunters who seek to destroy it.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a furtive look in my direction. Twisting my head to the side, I saw a woman whispering to the man next to her. Then they both looked at me. Gritting my teeth, I sank even lower into my seat, until I was practically lying in it.
“…in Egypt,” Diane’s unwavering voice continued. “It was one of the most resilient rings of black market smugglers that…”
The whispers in the room grew an
d the stares from the audience became increasingly frequent. I glanced over my shoulder, marking the door’s position. It was time to leave before Diane noticed the disturbance. I’d go outside, melt into the shadows, and wait for the break. Placing my palms on the armrests, I started to stand up.
“Ms. Blair?”
I froze as the voice rang out above the crowd. I couldn’t believe it. But there was no mistaking that arrogant, cocky tone.
She stopped in mid-sentence and peered into the audience. “Yes?”
Standish stood up and slowly turned to the side, forming an awkward triangle between him, Diane, and me. “It’s my understanding that there’s a treasure hunter in the audience today. His name is Cyclone Reed. I wonder if he’d be so kind as to provide us with his point of view on the subject?”
The audience shifted their positions to look at me. I sensed their dirty looks, their scornful expressions. My ears heated up until they were piping hot, like a forger’s fire. Part of me wanted to look at Diane. The other part of me wanted to hop over a few rows of seats and coldcock Standish.
How the hell did he get back to Manhattan so quickly anyway? And why?
Slowly, I rose in my seat and looked at Diane. She stared back at me with a shocked face. I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt parched. There was no escaping the situation. I had to tough it out. “I’m not the only treasure hunter around here.” I turned toward Standish. “Speaking of which, have you appropriated anyone else’s dig sites lately?”
He raised an eyebrow. “There’s no need to wage false accusations.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I just wanted to hear your opinion on the subject. I’m not trying to bruise your ego.”
“Maybe not, but I sure as hell enjoyed bruising your jaw.”
His forehead cinched and his fingers curled into fists.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the large wall clock. The hands seemed to fly by, moving way too fast. Everything was spinning out of control.
I glanced at the stage. Diane’s eyes clouded over and in an instant I felt three years of her anger and pain. I’d expected a little shock, a little surprise. Maybe even a little disgruntlement. But nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw in her eyes.
She hates me.
After a long moment, she turned toward the audience. “I’m sorry for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen. However, this is as good a time as any to take a break. Please enjoy the refreshments outside and we’ll reconvene in here in ten minutes. Thank you.”
A murmur rose from the audience as Diane stepped away from the podium and strolled confidently through the doors to the Great Hall. With a quick nod to Graham, I tried to follow her.
But Standish blocked my path. “It’s good to see you again so soon, Cyclone. I thought I’d have to wait months to pummel your face, but it looks like I got lucky.”
“Get out of my way.”
“Make me.”
He was bigger than me, meaner too. I’d gotten the drop on him in Colombia, but this time I lacked the advantage of surprise.
I looked to the stage. Diane was gone. It took me only a second to make up my mind. Swinging to the side, I vaulted over a couple of rows.
“You’re a coward, Cyclone,” he called out. “You’re a damn coward.”
Ignoring him, I darted down the stairs and through the double doors. As I slid into the Great Hall, I saw Diane walking toward the exit. I tried to run after her, but the crowd gathered around me, peppering me with questions.
“Diane,” I shouted. “Wait.”
I pushed through the members, splitting the crowd. Precious seconds passed. Finally, I managed to break free.
“Hold on just a second.” The new voice caught me off guard.
Twisting to the side, I saw Walker. His face betrayed his aggravation.
I shoved him out of the way and moved forward. But the crowd expanded, trapping me inside. Straining my neck, I managed to get one final glimpse of the exit.
But she was already gone.
Chapter 8
The small skyscraper at the corner of 52nd Street and 2nd Avenue didn’t project importance. Even the light coating of raindrops that covered its exterior couldn’t shine its dull granite blocks, its curiously short columns, and its large, unadorned windows. But despite its unimpressive looks, the building somehow managed to command respect.
Walker stopped the Town Car in front of the façade. Twisting around, he stared at me. We hadn’t exchanged a single word for almost two hours. Not that I cared. I didn’t feel much like talking.
“Do I need to escort you inside?”
I shrugged. “Sorry Jim, I didn’t mean to waste your time.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Mr. Chase.”
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, rain poured down from above, stinging my face. Quickly, I maneuvered past some large planters and strode into the building.
At first glance, the lobby looked simple and elegant. The walls consisted of large granite blocks. Tall glass windows provided the space with a sense of openness. A stone fountain gurgled pleasantly from the middle of the room, pouring streams of water into a waiting pool below. The pool itself was brightly lit and I could see colorful fish swimming around inside.
But the lobby carried a darker side as well. Multiple cameras, whirring softly, scanned the room. Men and women, sporting hard, lined faces, milled about the area.
Looking around, I spotted a small circular desk. I hoofed my way across the marble floor and stopped in front of it.
A young woman looked up at me with a broad, confident smile. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Jack Chase.”
Her smile slipped away. Behind her, I saw two heavies straighten up and glance in my direction. Apparently, it wasn’t everyday that someone off the street came looking for the boss.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I see. Well, if you leave your name and number with me, I’ll be sure –”
“He’s expecting me. My name’s Cy Reed.”
The heavies took a few steps forward, positioning themselves on both sides of the desk.
Frowning, the woman checked her screen. “I’m not seeing anything here. Perhaps you have the wrong date?”
“Not a chance.”
Her frown deepened. “Well, I’m not seeing…”
I noticed the heavies moving behind me. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. “Maybe he used my full name. Cyclone Reed.”
Abruptly, her smile returned. “Ah yes, Mr. Reed. I’m sorry about the confusion. Do you have your driver’s license with you?”
“I don’t drive. And before you ask, I don’t have any other identification either.”
The frown returned. She picked up a phone, punched in a number, and spoke softly into the receiver for a moment. Then she gave me a surprised look. “Mr. Chase will see you now.”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the heavies drifted away. As they returned to their original positions, the woman printed out a visitor’s nametag and instructed me where to go.
I left the desk and walked through a guarded waist-high turnstile. Instantly, lights flashed and a loud buzzing noise burst into the air.
A third heavy stepped in front of me. “Sir, are you carrying any metal items?”
I looked down at my satchel and realized my gun and machete were inside of it. “Uh, yeah.”
“I’ll have to take them from you.”
“That’s not happening.”
He started to reach for me and then pulled his hand back. The heavy listened to his earpiece for a moment and then shot me a curious glance. “My mistake, sir. You’re free to go.”
I walked ahead and entered an elevator. The panel consisted of just two buttons, Up and Down. I pressed Up.
I rode the elevator for a full minute before it eased to a halt. The doors opened silently and I stepped out into a corridor. Following it, I walked through a pair of clouded glass
doors and into a small reception area that had all the personality of a dentist’s office.
A middle-aged man peered up at me from behind a pair of thick glasses. He appeared to guard access to a single metal door located on the other side of his desk. “Good afternoon, Mr. Reed. Please take a seat. Mr. Chase is just finishing up an appointment.”
I noticed plenty of magazines lying about the room. Small Wars Journal. Jane’s Intelligence Review. Soldier of Fortune.
My eyes shifted to the walls, which were covered with plaques, certificates, and framed newspaper articles. I walked over to the largest of the frames. The piece, a front page article for the Washington Post, was entitled “ShadowFire: Mercenaries or Heroes?”
The accompanying photograph showed Chase standing casually in front of a compound, staring into the sky. I skimmed through the text, skipping the parts about the company’s ongoing operations in the Middle East and its efforts to enter the anti-sea piracy market. One section in particular caught my attention and I leaned in for a closer look.
When confronted with their accusations, Mr. Chase laughed heartily. “My critics like to call me a death merchant,” he said. “But the truth is I’m just a businessman with a product, no more and no less. I don’t create the demand for it. I merely provide a service that attempts to satisfy that demand with as little…”
“I won’t give an inch.”
The muffled words drifted into the reception area, breaking my concentration. I pretended to keep reading, but the burgeoning fight behind the metal door occupied my full attention.
“We don’t need this kind of publicity,” replied an unfamiliar feminine voice. “ShadowFire’s in enough hot water as it is. Just make a deal with them.”
“Not a chance. Those leeches have bled this city dry for too long. I’m not going to stand by and let them continue to rip off the taxpayers.”
The metal door flew open and a short, stocky woman strode into the reception area, clenching her fists. Moments later, Chase poked his head out of the door and flashed me a smile. “Come on in.”
I stood up and followed him into his office. The room was small and sparsely decorated. Several oil paintings hung from the walls, depicting famous battles of American history. The solid wood floor looked dull and unpolished. A desk, completely lacking in papers of any kind, sat in the middle of the room, its singular prominent feature being an antique lamp. Behind the desk, I saw a bookshelf, a small refrigerator, and an old office chair.
