by David Cline
Wood stood and placed both of Wilkin’s feet under his armpits and leaned backward. With the help of Wood’s weight, gravity, and the incline of the beach, Wood dragged Wilkin’s body to the water’s edge. With one final heave, Wood submerged Wilkin’s into the water up to his neck.
Soon, a content grin spread across Wilkin’s face. The cool water must have had the same rejuvenating effect on him. His eyelids began to flutter like an infant attempting to wake up. After a minute, their eyes met.
“You find any women yet?” Wilkins wheezed. “Look at this place. It’s paradise. They have to be around here somewhere.” His lips had deep cracks like they had been cut on barbed wire. They filled with fresh blood every time they moved to form a syllable.
Wood almost laughed before clutching his sides as he began to cough. “Even if I had,” Wood finally said, “One look at you and they would run and hide in those mountains. You look like a lizard that fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”
Wilkins chuckled. “That’s funny,” he said in a weak whisper. “That’s the same thing your mom told me when she saw you for the first time.”
Wood smiled and patted Wilkins on the chest. “It’s good to have you back my friend.”
“What’s the plan boss?” Wilkins asked. He had shut his eyes again and looked as comfortable in the water as a cat lounging in the sun on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Wood spat blood out of his mouth and looked up the steep sand. “We need to find shade and water.”
“Sounds good,” Wilkins said. “I’ll wait for you here.”
“You would be nothing but dehydrated beef jerky if you stayed here much longer.” Wood looked up and down the barren coast. “How about this,” he said, after a quick survey. “The current is pushing hard this way.” He pointed with a sunburned finger. “What if we let the undertow carry us to fresh fruit, cold water and beautiful company?”
Wilkins licked his lips. “Now you are talking my language. After you good sir.”
They turned on their stomachs and let their wetsuits keep them afloat. The powerful current swept them down the coast faster than they could have walked in the blazing sun. Wood tried to keep the distance to the sea bottom below him no more than an arm’s length away. The short distance made it easy to skirt around rocks and other obstacles without having to swim. Neither of them had the energy for that.
The taste of saltwater made Wood so sick, whenever an unexpected wave hit his face, he began to dry heave. The convulsions made his entire body shudder.
The sun above them arched over the sky as the pair of them continued down the coast searching for any sign of life. After they rounded a big bend and saw nothing but barren sun scorched rocks, Wood let out a despairing moan. Wilkins floated up next to him with a stoic expression on his face.
“This may be it old boy,” Wood gasped. His mouth was dry as cotton. His tongue felt bloated and putrid. It was a good thing he could not smell anything because he was sure his breath must have smelt like a decomposing animal on the side of a busy highway.
Wilkins washed some of the white salt off his forehead. “Hope is a strange thing,” he said. His voice sounded like someone walking on gravel. “If we knew there was fresh water somewhere ahead of us, I don’t doubt we could survive two more days out here.” His shoulders sagged. “But because we have no idea if such a place even exists, all hope fades. Our spirit to press on dwindles.”
Wood nodded. “One more bend,” he said. “What if we push on until we round those cliffs up ahead?”
Wilkins looked in their direction. His eyes were distant. After a short pause, he focused his gaze and sunk himself deeper into the water. “Let’s do it. I ain’t dying on this God forsaken spit of land.”
As they floated, Wood searched inside of himself for strength. He thought of the beautiful lush mountains that surrounded his hometown of Salt Lake City. He remembered how some years the snow remained on their peaks until late into the summer. He thought of Ruby Falls, a hidden waterfall near his home where he and Wilkins would take dates to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July, high up on the cliffs overlooking the entire valley. He thought back to his old dog, Caesar, a golden retriever who thought he was royalty and was treated as such by the entire family. The thought of the old pooch made him smile as they neared the uneven cliffs ahead. He hoped Caesar was one of the first things to greet him when he entered Heaven.
Such vivid pleasant thoughts began to mess with his mind. He thought he could hear laughter. He had heard about lonely travelers in the desert slowly going insane. With nothing for company but the hot desert sun, the senses begin to create what one yearns for most. People see distant water on the horizon. They can taste their favorite cold beverages. They hear the voices of those they love most.
From behind, Wilkins suddenly grabbed Wood’s foot causing his head to dip into the water right as he was taking a breath. His gag reflex activated, and his abs seethed as he began to dry heave, once again. When the episode had passed, he flipped around and was about to lay into Wilkins when the expression on his face caused him to hesitate.
“Listen,” Wilkins whispered.
Wood cocked his ear and waited. After a short silence, laughter could be heard over the sound of the water lapping against the nearby cliffs. Wood’s eyes widened when he realized Wilkins could hear it too. The laughter was not his mind trying to ease the process of death. It was real.
Together, they let the current carry them the last 100 feet around a rocky outcrop. When they finally reached a location where they could see ahead, they paused and attempted to make sense of it all. They steadied themselves against the cliffs and saw a sandy beach extending for a considerable distance down the coast. Scattered along the waterfront were large circular hatch roofs made of dried palm leaves. Lounging in the shade beneath them were people enjoying a beautiful sunny day at the beach.
Children played in the small waves crashing onto the hot sand. Women dressed in long black clothes waded through the water, monitoring the children. Only their eyes were visible.
After a minute of stunned silence, Wilkins looked over at Wood. Some of the sores on his face had opened and were frothy white. The diameter and placement of the wounds reminded Wood of leprosy. “Not exactly Coco Cabana,” Wilkins wheezed. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”
Wood looked up toward the cloudless sky and closed his eyes. A feeling of overpowering gratitude overcame him. Tears fell from his bloodshot eyes. After a moment of stillness, he motioned toward Wilkins. “Let’s do this thing.”
Screams from nearby children filled the air as Wood and Wilkins were spotted floating in the current toward them. Wood could only imagine what these people must have thought seeing two grotesque looking monsters materialize out of the sea. The women hurried to gather the children like mother hens and rush them a safe distance up the beach. The shirtless men lounging in the shade stood up in unison to investigate what the commotion was all about.
Wood’s vision was blurry, but he thought one of the men closest to them was unusually hairy. His chest and back were covered with thick carpet-like hair. Wood wondered if he shampooed and combed it. Maybe someone even braided his back occasionally. He was about to say something to Wilkins but decided the energy it would have required wasn’t worth it.
Wood propelled himself up onto the beach with his arms like a sea turtle. He gasped for air as his body began to shut down. His mind went hazy and for a moment he had a vision from his childhood.
His family had vacationed at a ranch near a remote lake in Wyoming. Wood had spent most of the days exploring a small stream that fed the lake. Beavers had built dams every couple hundred yards, which he soared over in his canoe.
One afternoon, everyone had decided to hike up a steep horse trail. Wood had stubbornly followed on a mountain bike. The trail was far too technical for bikes. After a couple hours without locating the group, he had turned back toward camp. On his journey down the mountain, he
had soared over the front handlebars and sustained multiple serious injuries. As adrenaline pumped through his body, he managed to get within sight of camp. The moment he and his dad had locked eyes, he’d fainted.
Wood felt the same way now. He had pushed his body to the limit and then over the edge. His head began to spin, and a strong dizziness overcame him. The last thing he heard was Wilkins whisper, “what’s the word for water in Arabic?”
“Ma’an,” Wood exhaled, before he blacked out.
Chapter 17
Danville watched an oval ring of smoke drift lazily up toward the state-of-the-art filtration system on the third floor of S.A.T.R.A. headquarters in southern California. Stalbridge gave him an inpatient glance before he took another long puff on one of his private cigars. Jim Stalbridge was one of the fittest and most health-conscious men on the planet. His only vice being his collection of custom-made cigars. Without deviation, Stalbridge rose every morning at 4:30. He would run five miles, shower and then arrive at work with breakfast and a hot cup of coffee.
Over the last several years, Danville had observed a pattern of behavior with the old colonel. The rate of cigar consumption increased with levels of stress. Danville smiled. If the old man did experience any ailment from the habit, it could likely be traced back to the antics of Wood and Wilkins.
“When did they last make contact?” Stalbridge asked across the donut shaped table.
“Nick called a few days ago when they landed in Cairo. I couldn’t hear much over Adam haggling over the price of a vehicle they were attempting to purchase.”
“Don’t know if they made it to the banks of the Red Sea?”
Danville shook his head. “Radio silence since then.”
Stalbridge ground his teeth. “Those two are going to be the death of me. I should have put the pair of them behind a desk years ago.”
Danville smiled. Stalbridge considered the two of them the sons he never had, though the man would never admit anything of the sort. Even now, from across the room, Danville saw the worry etched throughout the colonel’s face. Wood and Wilkins thought it was all a game. They would probably never know how much they meant to the old man.
From a business perspective, Wood and Wilkins had been the best thing for S.A.T.R.A. since its inception. Every high-profile disaster or plot they had foiled since they were hired increased name recognition and interest, many times over. The publicity alone from some of their past exploits had caused so much attention, S.A.T.R.A. had tripled in size overnight because of all the job requests coming in from an exploding client base.
“Damn it,” Stalbridge growled. “Where is she? The meeting was meant to start seven minutes ago.” He finished his cigar and placed it on the holster of the brass ashtray. Even irate, the colonel maintained gentlemanly cigar etiquette.
“She’ll be here,” Danville replied. “Civilians don’t adhere to timekeeping as religiously as you do Jim.”
Stalbridge scoffed. “Punctuality is one of the only things keeping our society from devolving into complete anarchy.”
The double oak doors opened across the room and two women appeared. Danville recognized the intelligent face of Natalie Workman. She worked for S.A.T.R.A. as a secretary. The other was an elegant, middle-aged woman. She carried a purse under an arm that could not have fit more than a couple pieces of gum.
“Do you need anything else?” the secretary asked from the doorway.
“No, thank you, Natalie.” Stalbridge stood to greet their new guest. The doors shut behind them.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Stalbridge said as he shook the woman’s free hand. He gestured across the room. “That is Chris Danville, perhaps the smartest person in the Pacific time zone.”
Danville nodded toward her and returned his attention to the computer monitor in front of him. He felt much more comfortable with raw data and complex algorithms than the paradox of human interaction.
“This is Vitalia Moretti,” Stalbridge said. “She is one of the most renowned art historians in the world.” He made his way around the table and sat back down. “We were lucky she happened to be in Los Angeles this week and was willing to make the short drive down the coast.”
Danville mumbled under his breath. He knew exactly who she was. When he had approached Stalbridge with the footage Wilkins had recorded in Ciudad del Este, along with his analysis, Stalbridge had insisted on bringing in an expert for verification. “When I want advice on Star Wars memorabilia, I will take your word for it,” Stalbridge had said. “I just want to get a second opinion.” This whole meeting was a waste of time in Danville’s estimation. They had a lot to do and time was running short. Stalbridge, however, refused to dedicate any resources until he was convinced.
“This is quite the conference room,” Vitalia said, in a thick Italian accent. “I was expecting more people to be here. Why only the two of you?”
“Did you sign the non-disclosure agreement?” Stalbridge asked. The tone in his voice indicated he was still annoyed about starting late.
Vitalia hesitated, as if reluctant to answer. “I did,” she said after a long pause. “Although, I must confess to a certain level of confusion. I do not understand what all the secrecy is about. The only reason I agreed to meet with you was because of your stellar reputation and the fact that everyone I asked about you said I should.”
Danville rolled his eyes. He just wanted to get through this charade so Stalbridge would get on board and begin to take the situation more seriously. Danville had spent the last few weeks analyzing that footage and had no doubt of the content’s authenticity. He was still trying to translate and catalogue the treasure trove of information that Amara had recently sent him and was itching to get back into the lab where the real work was being done.
“Only the two of us have seen what we are about to show you,” Stalbridge said. “All we want is to get your professional opinion on the art shown in the video. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“I can do that,” Vitalia said. She rested her elbows on the table and interlocked her fingers together.
Stalbridge nodded toward Danville who dimmed the lights and began to type commands into the computer. The empty space in the middle of the circular table began to flash with 3 dimensional images. After a second, Danville hit one more button with his middle finger and the video Wilkins had recorded began to play before them like a Broadway production. The only edits Danville had done to the raw file was to stabilize the footage, as well as clean it up a bit. He wanted to show Vitalia the footage at only 75% of normal speed to give her time to take it all in.
“This technology is amazing,” Vitalia exclaimed. “I feel like I am there in person.” She watched for a minute with her mouth open. Danville paused the footage.
“Remember to look at the artwork,” he said before pushing play again.
Vitalia’s eyes grew wider as the video continued. “Where was this taken?” she asked. Her voice trembled slightly.
“It doesn’t matter,” Stalbridge said. “What do you make of the art? Are the pieces genuine?”
Vitalia stared at the flashing images and then mumbled something. She must have had a sensory overload. The technology sidetracked her from the task at hand.
Danville clicked a button and a large white background began to descend from a recess in the ceiling. “Let’s watch it again without all the fancy technology,” Danville said. “Sometimes it can be distracting.”
Vitalia only nodded. They watched the video in its entirety. When it had finished, everyone sat in silence for a few moments.
“If those pieces are genuine,” Vitalia said, “That would be the greatest collection of art in the entire world. I just wish I could examine them closely one by one.”
Danville typed at the keyboard and an enlarged painting floated in the center of the table. It rotated slowly, allowing the three spectators to view it at every angle. “Is this close enough?” Danville asked.
Vitalia
remained silent but began to scrutinize the painting before her. “This was painted by a fellow Italian between 1513 and 1514,” she said. Her voice was full of reverence and veneration. “Many believe, and I count myself among them, that it was a self-portrait of Raphael himself. It was stolen in 1939 when Germany invaded Poland and was sent to Berlin for the Führer's own collection at Linz. A few years later, it ended up in the private collection of Hitler's appointee for the governor of the General Government. His name was Hans Frank. From there, the trail goes cold. The painting has not been seen since 1945. If it were discovered today, it would easily sell at auction for over 100 million dollars.”
“In your opinion, is it genuine?” Stalbridge asked.
Vitalia stretched out a hand to touch the canvas. “It looks so real,” she whispered. “The colors look right. The thread count looks right. The patina of the wood looks right. Paint strokes look good. There are not any of the common red flags that indicate it is a copy. She leaned forward and inhaled deeply, as if she could smell it.”
Danville rolled his eyes. He was about to tell her he had been unable to locate the odor file but thought better of it.
Vitalia gazed up at it for a full minute before turning back to Stalbridge. “I can’t be 100% certain without the ability to examine the actual painting. However, I would wager that this work is, in fact, genuine.”
“Thank you,” Stalbridge said.
Danville turned the lights on and stood up.
“What about the others?” Vitalia asked. “There must have been hundreds of priceless paintings in that video that have been missing for decades. You must consult an archeologist as well. There were enough artifacts to make the Smithsonian look like a souvenir shop.”
“Time runs short,” Stalbridge said. “Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to give us your most valued opinion.”
Vitalia was reluctant to go but saw the solemn expression on Stalbridge’s face.
