“Douglas. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Dr. Everson. I talked to you this morning.”
“I remember, Dr. Everson.” The voice was more alert. “What’s going on?”
Cait breathlessly relayed what had just happened.
“Two men are after me. The ones I told you about.”
“Can you help me?”
“That’s out of our jurisdiction,” the officer said. “I’ll call the Metro police and they’ll get in touch with the Arlington cops. Where should they meet you?”
Cait told the officer she would wait in an all-night coffee shop nearby.
An Arlington police cruiser pulled up in front of the coffee shop ten minutes later and drove her back to her car. She was relieved to see her lap-top case still on the front seat. She told the police what had happened. They drove her to her condo and at the request of the university police, a cruiser was stationed in front.
She locked her door and mixed herself a stiff Cosmopolitan. Her hands shook, but a few sips of the drink calmed her down. Those men were the same ones who had been following her for days. Why? And who were they?
The matter had been preying on her mind. Earlier that day, a student had to repeat her name a second time to get her attention.
Cait had snapped out of the trance she’d slipped into as she’d been teaching her favorite class, an introductory course on overland and maritime silk routes. Cait hid her embarrassment with a smile. An associate professor with a doctorate degree in Central Asian history was not supposed to daydream on the job.
“Sorry. I must have zoned out. Could you repeat your question?”
The female student lowered her upraised hand. “I asked about the Tarim mummies.”
“Yes. Fascinating stuff. The mummies were non-Mongoloid, apparently Caucasoid, found more than a hundred miles east of Yingpan, China. They’ve been dated back to 1600 B.C. Long before Alexander the Great really opened up the Silk Road. No one knows where they came from.”
The student had a follow-up. “Do you think the presence of a Caucasoid in China in any way vindicates the theory that east-west contacts go back much earlier than historians are willing to admit?”
“It’s an intriguing theory, but not conclusive without additional evidence. I will say that the mummies are indicative of the fact that globalization is hardly a new concept. Any more questions?”
More hands shot into the air. The class was made up of enthusiastic students in fields that included diplomacy, economics, journalism, politics and the arts. Cait had earned a reputation for bringing a contemporary global perspective to ancient events. The discussion continued until the class ended. She shooed the students from the room, gathered her papers and left the history department building, heading south through the sprawling campus until she came to Village C, the six-story brick building that housed the Georgetown University Department of Public Safety.
She took a deep breath and strode toward the entrance with purpose in her step, thinking that the worst that could happen would be that the police would think she was crazy.
Her instincts proved correct a few minutes later as she sat at a table in Room 116 across from a uniformed campus police officer who said her name was Douglas. The officer had asked what the problem was. Cait had flippantly replied that she felt as if she were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
Officer Douglas didn’t laugh. She raised an eyebrow and read from a questionnaire.
“Have you seen a suspicious individual in your neighborhood entering an apartment, room or home?”
“Describe suspicious individual,” Cait said.
“Individuals who like to seem to be lurking,” the officer said, after some thought.
“Oh,” Cait said. “Well then. No lurkers.”
“Have you ever seen a suspicious individual entering an office without apparent purpose, or loitering in a parking lot or trying to force open a car door?”
“No, no, and no.”
“Or possessing two bikes or bike parts?”
Cait emitted a strange sound that combined a laugh and a cry of disbelief.
“This is not about bicycles,” she said with an edge to her voice.
The officer folded her hands in front of her. “What is it about, Professor Everson?”
“As I just explained, I think someone has been following me.”
“Someone you can’t identify.”
“Correct. As I said, I’ll be in a public place and I’ll look up and see a man staring at me. When I stare back he averts his eyes. Or goes back to reading his newspaper. I know this sounds insane, but one minute he is there. The next he’s not.”
“He disappears into thin air?”
Cait frowned. “Please don’t go there, Officer Douglas. Of course he doesn’t vanish. He simply gets up and leaves when my attention is diverted.”
“Would you go over that description again?”
The officer was looking for discrepancies in her story. It was a classic case of Town and Gown, the tension that often existed between local worker bees and the academics in their ivory towers. She described the man again.
“He has platinum white hair, cut short, but I think it’s premature, because his face is younger. Almost boyish. High cheekbones and intense blue eyes. Mouth always seems to be in a half smile.”
“Those are pretty good observations.”
“I’m a scientist, trained to observe.” She paused. “There’s something else. Sometimes there are two of them. Twins, apparently.”
“Twins?”
“Identical. I’m not seeing double. I have perfect eye-sight.”
“That’s a new one.” Officer Douglas pursed her lips in thought. “From your description, he-I mean, they, sound handsome.”
“I suppose so, in a sick stalker sort of way.”
The officer leaned forward onto the table.
“I could not say this if I were a male officer. But men might stare at you simply because you are an attractive young woman.”
At thirty-six, Cait was old enough to know that men found her physically attractive. She was aware, too, that a good-looking woman who had advanced to her level in academia would always be subject to envious whisperings. During her work hours, however, she tried her best to keep a low profile—she had her long hair up, wore functional glasses, hid her figure with practical but unflattering clothing, and used a minimal amount of make-up.
Some attributes were impossible to minimize. She was tall and willowy, with slightly more bust than she preferred. Her eyes were the color of a gentian flower and framed with long lashes. She had white, even teeth and a flashing smile. Had she been true to her California girl roots, her raven hair would have been dyed the color of honey, and her creamy white skin burnished with a surf bum tan. Still, even without those trappings, Cait could walk into a roomful of beautiful blondes and draw every eye in the house.
Cait dismissed the officer’s suggestion. “Are you advising me to make myself less attractive?”
The officer frowned.
“Let’s try another avenue. You said this attention started a month ago. Was there anything going on in your life, any change in a relationship or something that happened at work about then?”
“No,” Cait said with a shake of her head. “Nothing like that.”
Cait hoped the officer didn’t hear the tic in her answer. She was well aware, though, that the surveillance began after she had sent the letter to the State Department. The officer droned on with more inane questions. Finally she sat back in her chair and pinched her chin.
“This is a tough one, Dr. Everson. I have a daughter, so I’m sympathetic. But there isn’t a lot I can do at this point. No crime has been committed. There’s no evidence that one will be committed. All you have is a feeling these guys are looking at you. I need more than that to go on.�
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Cait kept her anger in check and said she understood the dilemma. She agreed to keep a journal detailing time, place and nature of the stalking incidents. The officer gave Cait her cell phone number to call if she had further questions. After she left, Cait cursed her naiveté for assuming the police would help her. She walked across campus and was glad to get back to the sanctuary of her office. As she sat at her desk going over the fruitless meeting in her mind, a knock at the door almost sent her tumbling out her chair.
The door opened a second later and a face peered in.
“Are you busy?”
“Never too busy to chat with you, Professor Saleem. Have a seat.”
The man who stepped into her office and took a chair was in his mid-fifties. He wore a misshapen autumn brown corduroy jacket, relaxed fit jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and mismatched yellow tie. Dark eyes peered out from behind owlish round plastic eyeglasses that enhanced his academic look.
The history department sought out non-American faculty to provide depth and global perspective, and in keeping with such policy, Professor Saleem was on loan from a Pakistani university. He and Cait exchanged some campus gossip, but at one point he removed his glasses and leaned forward in his chair.
“I’m curious, Dr. Everson. Has the State Department replied to your letter?”
“Not a word,” Cait said with a shrug of her shoulders. “I guess they’re too busy to pay attention to a lowly history professor.”
He pondered her answer. “Do you think it would have helped if you were more specific with the location of your discovery?”
“I’m not sure it would have made a difference.”
“Perhaps not, but it would give you credibility. Unless you think you’re wrong.”
“Not at all. I’m so close I can taste it. I just need a little more time.”
“I’ve got good cartographical background. I may be of help.”
“Thanks, Professor. But I want to be sure. In the meantime I’d prefer to keep my theories to myself so as not to attract enemy fire.”
“I understand. Good luck then.” The professor rose from his chair. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“You can help in one way.” She tapped the folder on her desk. “I’ll be working late tonight on some written exams. Would you let the security guard know I’m here?”
The professor said he would be glad to. After he left, Cait began to read. She was near the bottom of the pile when she heard a knock on the door.
A voice said, “Security. You okay in there, Professor?”
Cait glanced at the wall clock. It was past eleven-thirty. “I’m about done. Would you walk me to my car in about five minutes?”
“I’ll check the rest of the floor and come back for you.”
Cait was about to shut down the computer, but she had another thought. She called up a file that contained a number of satellite photos. She went over the photos, zooming in on an image that showed a lake shaped like a figure eight. Using a crayon from her tool bar, she drew a circle at the edge of the lake.
She sent the file as an email to the State Department and a copy to Professor Saleem with a quick note:
“Taking you up on your offer to help. Let’s talk about this.”
Minutes later, the guard escorted her to the parking lot where she had left her Honda. And less than a half an hour later she was pounding breathlessly along an Arlington street in fear for her life.
Now, as she sat in the safety of her apartment, she still felt terribly vulnerable. Gradually, though, she grew angry at the unwanted violation of her life by a couple of freaks. Her fear changed to determination. She tossed down the rest of her Cosmo and placed a phone call.
A male voice answered. “Yes?”
“I need your help,” she said. “Someone is after me and I want a place to hide.”
“It is always a pleasure to see you, but it’s a long way and it could be dangerous,” the voice said, speaking English with a slight accent.
“It’s safer there than here,” she said.
“When?”
“Now.”
“I’ll make arrangements.”
Fifteen minutes later the phone rang and the voice said, “Fly to Zurich and my friends will take care of you.” He gave her a name and number, which she jotted down.
She thanked him and hung up. Then she sent an email to the university saying she was taking a leave of absence to deal with a family matter. She got on her computer and found a first class seat on a Swiss Air flight leaving the next morning. She almost gagged at the cost, but it was the only space available. Next, she packed her biggest suitcase, mostly with field clothing and gear. Then she slept for a couple of hours. When her alarm clock sounded, she got up, showered, and dressed in comfortable traveling clothes.
An officer knocked on her door around eight to check on her.
She told him that she had decided to stay with friends and asked the police to stay a while longer while she called a taxi. As she walked out to the taxi with her bag she couldn’t help reflecting on the craziness of her situation. Her peaceful life had been turned topsy-turvy and she was seeking safety in one of the most dangerous places in the world.
Afghanistan.
CHAPTER TWO
Off Cuttyhunk Island, Massachusetts
Fifty feet below the surface, the alien intruder skimmed over the sea bottom, emitting a sinister hum and scattering silvery explosions of codfish as it burbled through the water. The box-shaped object was the color of a Yellow Cab and about the size of an old steamer trunk that had been flattened in transit, and its edges had been slightly rounded. Four stubby supports, like the legs on an overweight dachshund, extended to sled runners from the plastic housing.
Printed in black on the plastic battery housing were the words:
Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution.
The vehicle stopped in front of a sliding gate that barred the way into a maze made from a framework of pipes covered in chicken wire and joined together like an old Tinker Toy. The vehicle’s camera fed the image of the gate to its computers, which sent an order to the mechanical arm at the front of the vehicle. The arm slowly unfolded, and an aluminum claw gripped the edge of the gate and pulled the barrier aside.
The vehicle swam through the opening and navigated the maze like a mouse in a lab test. Encountering a dead end, it backed out and tried another route. With each mistake, new information was added to the submersible’s data base until the vehicle popped out of the maze and headed toward a plastic storage box.
Hovering above the ocean bottom around twenty feet from the maze, Matt Hawkins watched the submersible’s antics through a video camera view-finder. He filmed the submersible as the mechanical claw removed the lid and pulled a plastic bag from the box. The vehicle pivoted slowly, stopped for a few seconds, then moved toward Hawkins and placed the bag on the sea floor. Hawkins patted the plastic housing and picked up the bag. The submersible then rose to the surface, plowed through the water a short distance, and slid into a horse-shoe shaped docking station floating on pontoons next to a white-hulled fishing boat.
Hawkins breast-stroked to the boat’s stern ladder. He handed up the bag, unclipped his weight belt and passed it and the camera to a man wearing a tan duck-billed baseball cap. He shed his SCUBA gear, climbed the ladder onto the deck, and peeled his neoprene hood off to reveal a thick mane of salt-and pepper hair and a gray-streaked beard. He stripped down to his bathing trunks and let the summer sun bake away the drops of moisture beading a muscular body that looked as if it had been carved from oak wood.
Hawkins had inherited his warm complexion, rugged profile, and lava-black eye color from his mother’s Micmac Indian forebears. His big-boned physique, with its broad shoulders and six-foot-two inch height, were gifts passed down from his English-Irish ancestors.
&nb
sp; After stowing his dive gear in a locker, he turned to the man in the tan cap, Howard Snow—Snowy to friends—and raised his hand in a high-five. Snowy’s crinkled face had been weathered by years of exposure to sun and wind as a commercial fisherman. He removed the cold stub of the cigar clenched in his teeth.
“Congratulations, Matt,” he said, returning the high-five. “Watched the whole thing over the TV hookup. Fido behaved like a champ. Hell, he would have wagged his tail if he had one.”
“I’ll hook up a mechanical tail in time for the demo,” Hawkins said. His dark eyes twinkled with good humor. “The navy brass will get a kick out of seeing a mine detection vehicle acting like a puppy-dog. Maybe I can make him pee on an admiral’s leg.”
Snowy chortled. He knew Hawkins was capable of doing exactly what he’d suggested.
Hawkins untied the bag and pulled out a foam cooler wrapped with plastic twine, which he cut with his dive knife. Inside the box was a bottle of double-malt whiskey.
Snowy shook his head. “Heard on the docks that Fido is worth close to half a million bucks.”
The right tip of Hawkins’ mouth tweaked up in a half smirk. “Let’s just say that the navy owes me more than a bucket of clams for developing the little guy.”
“Hope the navy doesn’t mind spending that kind of dough for an underwater booze fetcher.”
“Fido is a retriever. No one will complain after they see these tests, Snowy. The artificial intelligence that allowed Fido to navigate the maze is going to make the navy and the scientists very happy. Fido can do all sorts of things, from defusing a mine to retrieving a salinity detector. And he works cheap.”
Hawkins’ answer summed up the symbiotic ties between the navy and the world-renowned Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. Using funds from the navy and the resources of the institution had allowed Hawkins to design an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle that would serve both masters.
As one of Woods Hole’s leading robotic engineers, Hawkins embodied the arrangement. His SeaBot Corporation was given wide latitude that allowed him to hire Howard Snow and buy the forty-two-foot trawler Osprey for sea tests. Snowy, a wiry third-generation fisherman, had an encyclopedic knowledge of the sea, and his handyman’s skills were considerable. He had constructed the maze in his workshop. The Osprey had transported the sections to the test site over several days and they were lowered to the bottom. Hawkins dove and joined the sections together.
The Emerald Scepter Page 4
