Ancient Echoes

by Joanne Pence

  They planned to eat enough to stop their stomachs from growling, and then pick the rest for the others. Huckleberries weren’t usually found this late in the year, but they guessed the berries hadn’t ripened by August as normal due to the high elevation.

  A strange snort sounded nearby, causing them to stop and listen, but then all went silent again. “Probably just something small,” Devlin said.

  “Yeah.” Brian plopped two more berries in his mouth. “Something very small.”

  They kept eating even though the sense of being watched grew stronger.

  “Do you trust Rempart?” Brian asked quietly after a long silence.

  “Hell, no! He’s an asshole,” Devlin said.

  “That’s right,” Brian chuckled, then took another mouthful. “The dumb fuck’s going get us all killed!”

  “We should forget about the place Rempart wants to find and get the hell back home,” Devlin said. “Stupid berries don’t do it for me. I’m a meat eater.” He pointed to his teeth. “I don’t have these incisors for nothing.”

  They both laughed, trying to dispel the odd tension in the air.

  “I think I ate too many of these.” Brian made a face and began to rub his stomach. The berries had stained his hands and mouth purple. He’d been so hungry that he shoveled them in as fast as he could pick them. Now, though, he stopped and looked at the berry bushes carefully. “Are you sure these are huckleberries?”

  “Didn't you say they are?” Devlin noticed his stomach started to ache, too.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” Brian stumbled away.

  “Don’t you dare get sick anywhere where I can hear, see, or smell it!” Devlin said. “I want to keep my belly full, no matter what the hell I’ve just eaten.”

  Brian would have laughed, but he felt too queasy. He didn’t want to look like a baby in front of Devlin. When his stomach started to heave, he clamped his hand over his mouth and ran behind the bushes, back towards the ledge.

  Devlin stood alone. He looked around him. He didn’t like being here. They probably shouldn’t have wandered so far from the others. But then, if they hadn’t, they wouldn’t have found the huckleberries. The berries were fine, he decided; they’d simply eaten too many, too fast.

  “Brian?” he called. “Brian, are you okay?”

  No answer.

  “Brian?”

  Devlin ran in the direction Brian had headed. He got there, but didn’t see any sign of his friend. “Brian? Come on, is this a joke? It’s not funny, Bri!”

  He couldn’t imagine Brian going to the edge of the hill they climbed earlier. Nevertheless, he went there and looked down. The bottom lay far below. He scanned the creek and the land along its banks. He didn’t see Brian. He called over and over.

  Brian wouldn’t joke. He had never gone far from Devlin’s side on this trip, and there was no reason to think he’d start now.

  Devlin called and searched another couple of minutes. When he heard that same, strange, animal snorting sound as he’d heard earlier, he scurried like a scared rabbit back to the area Rempart had designated as their camp.

  Chapter 17

  Mongolia

  MICHAEL OPENED THE closet door and peeked out onto an empty, dimly lit corridor. Electricity was an expensive and valuable commodity in Mongolia, and the state didn't waste it.

  He made his way to the laboratories and picked the old-fashioned door lock. He stepped inside when the overhead lights came on, bright and harsh.

  Two men, one on each side, lunged at him. Instinctively, he crouched, deflected the outstretched arm of the first one, caught and twisted it so the man went head over heels. Simultaneously, he swung his leg around, bent the knee, and then straightened it, jabbing into the second man’s solar plexus. The opponent was lifted into the air, and then sprawled across the floor.

  In a shao-lin stance, knees bent, hands guarding his heart and chest with fingers pointed upward, Michael poised for another attack.

  “Stop, please!” a voice called. “We are not here to arrest you, Doctor Rempart, but to see you safely from this country. Although with your martial arts knowledge, my men may be the ones who need protection.” With that he barked orders in Mandarin to the two attackers, who struggled to their feet and backed away.

  Michael remained on guard as a tall, lean Chinese, his head shaved, walked toward him from a side room. “I knew you would come here,” he said, self-assured and impressive, “seeking your treasure.”

  “Who are you?” Michael demanded.

  “Zhao Yin, Director of the Fourth Chinese Institute for the Preservation of Cultural Heritage under China’s Ministry of Culture.” He gave a slight nod of his head.

  Michael knew the top archeologists and historians in China staffed the Ministry of Culture, and its directors possessed serious pull in the nine-member Politburo Standing Committee, the CCP’s inner circle. But right now, he didn’t care. “Under international law, and agreed to by Mongolia, any archeological discovery becomes the property of—”

  “None of that matters, Doctor Rempart,” Zhao snapped. “The contents of a Chinese tomb are not Mongolia’s to give away. I am here to assure their safe return to my homeland.”

  “You have them?” Michael asked.

  Zhao’s expression turned arch.

  “Are they so valuable to China that they were worth taking two men’s lives?” Michael practically spat the question out.

  Zhao didn’t react, didn’t flinch. “My task was to be sure nothing happened to the artifacts.” He withdrew papers from his breast pocket. Michael saw that he wore Buddhist prayer beads on his wrist. He also recognized that Zhao neither confirmed nor denied murdering Michael’s assistants. “I have passage for you and Li Jianjun, nonstop, from Beijing to San Francisco.” He handed the papers plus Air China tickets to Michael.

  “Beijing? But how—”

  “You will travel there on one of our planes.” Zhao led Michael from the room toward an exit at the end of a corridor. “No questions will be asked. The Mongolians want you out of their country as much as we do. They don’t want the mysterious death or disappearance of a famous archeologist to cause the foreign press to descend on their country. People have been watching you, Michael Rempart, since you began your excavation. In fact, they helped pave the way.”

  “What do you mean? Who are ‘they’?” Michael demanded.

  Zhao’s gaze was frigid. “Batbaatar was not who you thought. If you were successful, he was to make contact with people who wanted the contents of that tomb. He set up the skull and candles that made the workers run off. He wanted you alone, unprotected, so that his bosses could come and steal the findings in the tomb.”

  “I don’t believe it. Batbaatar was loyal to a fault!” Michael said.

  Zhao shrugged. “The radio equipment he used did more than pick up NESDIS. The Chinese government has been monitoring it for some time. But the sandstorm made everything go wrong for those he worked for, which gave me and my men time to mobilize.”

  “It makes no sense,” Michael said. “Who did he contact?”

  “Someone who had enough money to bribe his way into Mongolia, find Batbaatar and others to do his bidding, and then plan to steal the contents of the tomb and remove them from Mongolia. That person has remained well-hidden...perhaps by your own government.”

  “The U.S. government has no interest in ancient Han tombs,” Michael said, furious now. “Besides, why should I trust you to tell me the truth? Especially when you’ve all but admitted your men killed Batbaatar and Acemgul!”

  Zhao smiled. “You really don’t know what happened out there, do you? We believe someone from your country wanted to study Lady Hsieh. To determine if alchemy worked. They were the ones who raided the tombs, killed your men and should have killed you. After Batbaatar finished his part of the assignment, he needed to be eliminated, and Acemgul was merely an unwanted witness. The mercenaries were to take the contents of the tomb. We stopped them as they were removi
ng sand from the tomb, and they fled. We then continued the job. We didn’t open the coffins until they were in a safe environment in the museum laboratory.”

  Michael sucked in his breath. “You must have some idea who was behind all this.”

  “My answer would only be speculation,” Zhao said, then stepped out to the loading dock.

  Michael followed. A truck stood at the end of the dock. As the doors shut, he saw large crates inside, crates the size of the coffins he had found.

  Past the dock, a limousine waited for them. Michael saw Jianjun inside, his face scrunched with worry and fear.

  Michael, Zhao, and his two bodyguards got into the limo. As soon as it drove off, Zhao said, “Now it is time for you to answer my questions. What was in the coffins?”

  Michael wondered if this was some sort of trap. How could Zhao not know? “Lord Hsieh’s skeleton and the beautiful Lady Hsieh,” he said cautiously.

  Zhao’s dark eyes flashed with suspicion. “You saw Lady Hsieh?”

  “Yes. Perfectly, incredibly preserved.” When Zhao said nothing, a chill pulsated through Michael. “Didn’t you see her? What was in her coffin?”

  “Nothing but ash.” Zhao’s calm tone made his words all the more jarring. “She was gone. As she would have wanted. The symbol outside Lady Hsieh’s coffin proved she was an alchemist.”

  “You’re talking about the circle-and-triangular symbol?” Michael asked.

  “Yes.” Zhao drew in his breath. “Archeologists and historians laugh about alchemy. I wonder if they’ll laugh now.”

  “You and I both know alchemy is no more than superstition. Whatever happened out there, wasn’t supernatural. Someone opened the coffin and stole her body. We’ve got to find whoever did it.”

  As the limousine drove through Ulaanbaatar to a small, private airport on its outskirts, Zhao waited until Michael’s anger quieted a bit, and then said softly, “History is filled with proof of alchemy working. It is we who refuse to accept what others saw with their own eyes.” His fingers touched the prayer beads, one by one, as he continued. “During the Han dynasty of Lady Hsieh’s time, a great warrior named Bo Yi Kao fought the barbarian hordes of the north, the Mongols. He possessed an invincible body that no spear, arrow, or sword could penetrate. A Chinese Achilles, if you will. He bore a mark on his chest which became his crest, the same symbol as on Lady Hsieh’s coffin. We call it the symbol of immortality. One day, an enemy archer struck him in the chest, on the black circle. Only then did Bo Yi Kao die. That was the only vulnerable spot on his immortal body.”

  “That’s nothing but a folk tale.” Michael had no patience for stories now.

  “Yet someone paved the way for you to come here, to find Lady Hsieh’s body.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It was my idea to come to Mongolia,” Michael said.

  “Oh? Are you so sure your brother didn’t begin it all?” The limousine stopped, and the driver opened the door for Michael and Jianjun to leave. Zhao didn’t get out. “Remember that your government could have stopped you, or stopped the people watching you. They are more involved than you know. And so are others. The reason for their involvement is something you might ponder, if you want to stay alive.” His gaze shifted to the runway. “That small plane is yours. Once in Beijing, simply show the papers I gave you, and you will be granted passage. I suggest you do not tell anyone about any of this. Also, do not deviate from the plans you have been given and attempt to stay in Beijing. Such actions will not be healthy for you or”—cold eyes leaped to Jianjun—”your cohort.”

  The driver shut the door.

  As Michael walked to the Cessna 172, he noticed Mongolian soldiers holding Russian Dragunov rifles with bayonets attached watched him. He decided not to argue about leaving the country.

  But as he got into the Cessna, Zhao’s words about his brother reverberated in his head.

  Chapter 18

  Washington D.C.

  CHARLOTTE’S CAR WAS in the parking lot at Dulles International Airport. Only four days had passed since she’d left home, full of anxiety but also anticipation, to board a flight to Israel. As she got into the familiar old Taurus and started the engine, the mental and physical toll of the last few days hit her. She bent forward, her forehead against the steering wheel as unbidden tears fell. She felt alone, numb. Whoever was behind this had more money, pull, and knowledge than she. She should keep her head down, slink into the nearest corner, and fade into the background, just as she’d done for the last thirteen years.

  She sat back, lit a cigarette and indulged in self-pity a moment longer. But as she did, thoughts of the men who had lost their lives filled her. And of Dennis. His death wasn’t an accident. She knew it in her heart. Perhaps she had always known it.

  Angrily, she stubbed out the cigarette. One person, right here in Washington, might be able to help her: Professor Lionel Rempart, George Washington University. She wanted to know more, lots more, about those visits.

  She used her cell phone to call the Anthropology Department at George Washington and asked for the professor, only to learn he was teaching that year at Boise State University.

  She ended the call and stared at the cell phone as the adrenaline-and-emotion fueled burst of energy drained from her. She needed to reach Rempart, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She would go home first. Recharge. Call from there.

  Home, what a comforting word.

  Home was an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia. When she had returned to D.C. after Dennis’ death, she sold their Dupont Circle co-op and found a place in the country. She wanted quiet and couldn’t bear the idea of living where she and Dennis had been happy together.

  Being honest, she wanted more than quiet. She wanted to hibernate, unbothered by anyone. Thinking about the way she'd been living her life gave her pause. Where had the young carefree, gutsy woman gone? The one who married a man she hardly knew and had followed him half-way around the globe? The one who wanted to explore the world—both modern and ancient? How had she lost herself? Had she buried herself along with her husband?

  When she walked into the house she stopped a moment in the hallway, feeling as alien and incomplete as she’d ever felt since Dennis’ death. She took a deep breath, then went straight to the closet where she had stored his papers.

  The boxes were neatly stacked. She hadn’t wanted to throw them away, nor had she ever gone through them. They were his life’s work, all she had left of the fabulous mind of the man she loved.

  She placed the top box on the floor, and sat. Inside, she found a pile of small leather bound notebooks rubber-banded together. Dennis took notes about everything and would go through two or three such notebooks a year. With shaking fingers she pulled out the top one, the last he had used.

  The dried blood on the cover and along the edges of the pages caused several to stick together. Dennis had carried it the day he’d been killed.

  Black and purple spots danced before her eyes. She took several deep, ragged breaths before she opened it and looked at the familiar hard-to-read scrawl. A couple of pages had dates and times, appointments perhaps?

  But a page near the end of the notebook, near the last words Dennis wrote, stopped her short.

  This page was easier to read then most, set up as a checklist. It said:

  Thomas Jefferson—OK

  Lewis & Clark—OK

  Others—OK

  PLP—OK

  —OK

  Idaho—??

  She sat leaning back against the wall, needing to catch her breath, to think what it all meant. A dark shadow passed outside the sheers that covered the living room window and then disappeared.

  She put down the notebook and crawled to her purse for her Glock.

  The sound of breaking glass came from the back of the house, then the side, then the living room. A device landed on the floor where she had been sitting a moment before, and burst into flame with a loud whoosh!

  It caught the box of Dennis�
�� papers, and quickly moved to the draperies. An accelerant caused them to burn hot and fast.

  Fire leaped around her. Whoever did this must have been watching the house, saw her drive up, saw her enter. She wanted to run outside, but didn’t dare. More than one person was surely out there, surrounding the house, waiting to kill her as she tried to escape. If she stayed, she would die in the fire.

  The farmhouse had a root cellar under the pantry. She threw her jacket over her head, clutched her handbag and gun, and ran to it. The smoke was growing thick, and she had trouble breathing. She pulled open the cellar’s trap door and fled down the stairs, shutting it tight behind her.

  Aiming her Glock at the trap door in case anyone came after her, she used her cell phone to call 911. The crackle of flames told her the entire house was burning. All Dennis’ papers were being destroyed. She couldn’t help but wonder if she or those papers had been the primary target. Or both. She sat on the ground, keeping her head low as the ceiling slowly filled with smoke. Two minutes. Four. Five. Then the loud wail of sirens.

  She waited until she heard shouts of firemen, then crept through the spiders and other insects to a wooden ladder that led to the cellar door that opened directly to the garden, the one farmers used when loading the cellar with produce.

  She slid back the heavy bolt lock and pushed upward. The door didn’t budge. Years of non-use, plus dirt, leaves and grass covered it on the outside. Fear of being stuck here, of dying from smoke inhalation, nearly caused her to panic. She put her back to the door, and used every ounce of strength to lift. It creaked, snapped, then opened.

  Still gripping the Glock, she peered out.

  Chapter 19

  Beijing

  JIANJUN WAVED THE papers from Director Zhao as he dealt with PRC customs and immigration. His face grew red, and his voice higher and louder as the discussion continued. It wasn’t nearly as straightforward as Zhao had led them to believe, but Jianjun’s background along with his Beijing accent, the same as used by the governing Communist Party, served him and Michael well.