The Emerald Scepter

by Paul Kemprecos

  Intrigued by the coincidence, the researchers dug at the site and found artifacts that indicated Itmud may have been a trading post or a caravan stop. The map showed a dotted line leading across the desert to a valley vaguely shaped like a figure eight.

  Cait skimmed through the next part of the book. Kurtz travels to the valley and discovers it full of water. Its shape matches the drawing on the back of the vellum signed by the Prester. He orders in dive equipment. The diver goes into the lake where the diagram indicates there should be a cave opening, but for some reason can’t find it. Kurtz sinks a mine shaft below the odd rock formation. The shaft collapses and traps the diver.

  The story ended with the tragic loss of Kurtz’s archaeological crew in the sinking of one of his vessels on the return trip to the States. The rest of the book was pure speculation, with Valero postulating that Kurtz found the treasure, but it was likely lost with his ship.

  Cait set the book down and reflected on what she had read, but a knock at the door pulled her thoughts back to the present. It was Amir.

  “The family missed you at lunch,” he said. “Especially the little one. They sent me to make sure you are coming to dinner.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been reviewing materials and forgot about the time. Look at this.”

  Amir stepped into the guest quarters, settled his long body into a chair and studied the photo on the computer screen. Cait pointed out the date of the expedition and described her theory about the mine being built because the treasure trove was not accessible from the lake.

  He rubbed his beard. “Not an implausible theory, but as you discovered, the mine shaft is too dangerous to explore.”

  “Even dead ends are informative. Building a mine shaft is neither easy nor cheap. It tells me that Kurtz believed that there was a treasure.”

  “Do you think he found it?”

  It was Cait’s turn to rub her chin. “I don’t know. But I’m determined to track it down.”

  Amir gazed at Cait with amusement in his dark eyes. “It seems that Mr. Kurtz is not the only one obsessed with Prester John.”

  “I prefer to think of it as a passion. Do you blame me?”

  “Not at all. The Prester is a fascinating historical figure.”

  “Agreed, but no one has been able to prove that John even existed. My goal now is to find the rest of the vellum. Then I might be able to backtrack to the Prester’s kingdom. Maybe I can locate his tomb! Even if I don’t, I could be on the trail of the historical and archaeological discovery of the century.”

  “I will do all I can to help you, Dr. Cait. Where do you go from here?”

  “Back to the beginning. Prester John.”

  “We’re talking millions of square miles spread over several countries.”

  “This will be a journey in time rather than distance. We know the Pope sent his physician Philip east to deliver a letter to Prester John, so I went into the Vatican data base. I went through every link I could find on Pope Alexander and Master Philip. Let me show you something I turned up in my research.”

  She brought a letter with graceful handwriting onto the screen.

  “What is it?”

  “The Vatican archives had a fragment of a note, written from Philip in Jerusalem, dated 1177 anno domini. It was a bill which asked for papal reimbursement of expenses to Philip’s bank in Rome:

  “For the knight Thomas and entourage and the caravan master. I will keep a journal of further expenses and their source as they occur. Magister Phillipis.”

  “This proved that Philip had intentions to leave Jerusalem,” Amir observed. “Who is this Thomas?”

  “I wish I knew. My immediate challenge is to find Philip’s journal. I need to do more research before I go back into the field. There are sources all over the world. Libraries and archives in Rome, Vienna, Paris, London and the U.S.”

  “Then you have made a decision to leave us?”

  “Tomorrow, if possible.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry your visit is so short. My family is quite attached to you.”

  “I like them, too. But I will return. I can never repay you for your hospitality and help”

  “I’m the one who is in your debt, Dr. Cait. If Prester John hadn’t brought you here, my granddaughter would not have lived.”

  Cait stared off into space. “I’m not a superstitious person, and as a historian I deal in facts, but when you study events and people over thousands of years, it’s amazing how things seem to fall into place, as if they had been pre-ordained. There have been times when Prester John seems to be calling me to find him.”

  “Grandfather!”

  They exchanged glances and started laughing.

  “It seems that Prester John has the voice of a very impatient four-year-old girl,” Amir said.

  Cait sat cross-legged on the living room floor after dinner, engaged in an intense game of patty-cake with Amir’s granddaughter. She happened to look up and noticed that the drug lord, seated in his chair, was gazing thoughtfully in her direction.

  Then Amir said something in Pashto to the little girl, who responded with a pout that was vanquished with the offer of a sweet pastry. The little girl gave her grandfather a peck on the cheek, came over and planted a wet kiss on Cait’s face, and ran off into the next room. The scene was so affecting that Cait forgot for a moment that the kindly grandfather was a hardened drug lord.

  She rose to her feet.

  “Thank you,” she said in a breathless voice that was only partially exaggerated. “I was becoming patty-caked to exhaustion.”

  “Yasmeen has more energy than a young colt.” He affixed her with his eagle-like gaze. “So, Dr. Cait, you still plan to leave tomorrow?”

  “Yes, if I can prevail upon you to fly me out in the morning.”

  “I’ll call the plane back from Kabul. But perhaps I can persuade you to stay another day. My granddaughter is going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss her, too. But my mind is set on my research. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to start packing.”

  “Before you go to your room, I have something to show you that may be of interest.”

  He patted his shirt like an absent-minded professor, pulled some four-by-five inch photographs out of his pocket and handed them over.

  Cait fanned the photos out on the table top.

  “This picture shows an ancient bread mold,” she said. “This looks like a baking oven. This photo shows ash from a fire. This oval piece is a stone name seal.” She looked up from the pile. “Where were these pictures taken, Amir?”

  “The objects were found at some ruins not far from the village.”

  He slid more pictures across the table. Cait studied the images. Most people would have seen only a maze of rectangular pits and open spaces, but in her mind’s eye, Cait saw a caravanserai.

  The high walls of the caravan stop enclosed an open space that in ancient times would have been a crowded bazaar ringed by apartments to lodge weary traders, storage space for their precious goods, and stables to house camels and other beasts of burden.

  “Who took these?”

  “I did. I’m no photographer, as you can see by the poor quality.”

  “Where are the objects now?”

  “I’ve heard that the provenance of artifacts is important to an archaeologist so I left them in situ until the time the ruins can be examined professionally. I’ve warned the locals to stay away from the site.”

  “Where are the ruins in relation to the lake?”

  “About twenty miles to the east.”

  The site was between Itmud and the Valley of the Dead. Trying to keep excitement from coloring her voice, she said, “I don’t recall you mentioning these ruins before.”

  “Forgive me. You seemed to be focused on the old mine near the lake, and I didn�
��t want to distract you. It’s a shame that you are leaving so soon,” he said with a sigh. “Perhaps you can see the ruins on your next visit. Although to my untrained eye, there is nothing there of any importance.”

  Amir did his best to wreath his weathered features in innocence, but it was impossible for him to mask the cunning that lurked behind the intelligent eyes. Cait wasn’t fooled. The Kahn was using the ruins as bait to keep her there.

  “Hard to tell much about the site from these photos. It might be a trading post or caravan stop. On the other hand, it might be part of a major settlement.”

  “You think that these ruins could be part of an abandoned city?”

  “It’s possible. Which is the reason the site is not on the caravan stop map Kurtz found. And if that’s true, they could be an important piece of the Prester John puzzle.”

  “In what way, Dr. Cait?” He leaned forward, giving her his full attention.

  “This would have been a logical place for the caravan carrying the treasure to have stopped. They would have tried to keep their presence low key, but someone might have made note of their passing through. It might be something as ordinary as a bill for supplies, but it would strengthen the foundation underlying my theory.”

  “Then it’s done,” Amir said. “You will visit the ruins tomorrow.”

  Cait admired the way the Kahn closed the deal. Her chances of finding evidence of Prester John in one day were slim, but historical research was like plucking at a strand of yarn and unraveling the whole sweater.

  “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. I know how busy you are.”

  “No trouble at all. I shall be away tomorrow. Some of my men will take you there.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “Any other ruins you have forgotten to tell me about?”

  He spread his hands wide, palms up. “The sands are always shifting. One can never know what mystery lies beneath their surface until they reveal themselves.”

  “No different than people,” Cait observed.

  Amir must have known that he was the target of her wry wit, because he confirmed the accuracy of her comment by widening his lips in a mysterious smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The intruders came in the night.

  Sutherland had slept a few hours only to wake up before dawn. She got out of bed and shuffled to her office like a sleep-walker, sat at her desk and booted up her computer. No message from Hawkins. She frowned. Then her sleepy eyes snapped open like window shades at the sound of her security alarm.

  Bong-bong. Bong-bong.

  Her security system was warning that an intruder had entered the motion detection zone. She had installed a camera at each roof corner and another at the old ranch to warn her of Border Patrol raids. The feeds came through on the seventy-two inch television screen mounted on the wall. The ranch camera had picked up the image of shadowy figures emerging from an SUV that was dark-colored, not white and green like Border Patrol vehicles.

  And the figures moving toward the house wore black uniforms instead of Border Patrol khaki.

  The intruders stirred up every paranoid fear Sutherland had ever encountered. She began to hyperventilate and tremble uncontrollably. Reminding herself that she was not completely defenseless, she began to get control of her emotions and silently scolded herself:

  Don’t be a victim. Act.

  She reached for the phone, put in a call to 911 and reported that she had seen prowlers around the house.

  “Illegals?” the dispatcher said.

  “I don’t know. It’s dark.”

  “I’ll call the Border Patrol and send a cruiser.”

  “How long?”

  “Soon as possible. Keep your doors and windows locked.”

  Sutherland frowned at the lame advice and hung up. It would take at least fifteen minutes for anyone to reach her remote house, and during that time she would be on her own.

  She looked at the monitor again. The intruders were close enough to be picked up by a camera on the front of the roof. They were approaching the electrified fence around the house. The power running through the wire strands would only give a small jolt if touched. She hadn’t wanted the bodies of dead illegal immigrants or wildlife piling up outside the fence. But she had installed a switch that would allow her to ramp up power to deadly levels.

  The figures were standing in a line in front of the fence, looking at the house. There were six of them, and they were carrying long-barreled weapons. One approached the fence. She increased the power level and an instant later saw a flash of light, like an insect hitting a bug zapper.

  An outside microphone picked up a yell of pain. She dampened the power down until the figure fell away from the fence, then she increased it to near lethal levels again.

  A couple of the intruders grabbed the limp form of the failed fence-climber and dragged it back down the trail leading to the ranch. She saw the figures get into the SUV. Then the headlights flashed on and the vehicle began to climb to the house. Moving fast.

  The electronic barrier wasn’t built to withstand a battering ram on wheels. The SUV crashed through the fence in a shower of sparks and slammed into the front door smashing it to splinters.

  She snatched up her laptop, shoved it into a rucksack, raced down the hall and ducked into a walk-in closet. She shoved aside the hanging clothes and pushed a hidden wall button. A two-foot-wide section of shoe shelves slid open and a light switch went on automatically. She slipped through the opening into a small room and bolted the door.

  Sutherland had installed the room after seeing Jody Foster fend off a gang of home invaders in the movie Panic Room. The chamber had eight-inch-thick steel-reinforced concrete walls, a first aid kit, food and water, a phone, cot and porta-potty. There was a chest with fresh sets of clothing and underwear.

  She whipped off her pajamas and changed into jeans and sweat-shirt, keeping her eyes glued to the television screen that connected the room to cameras inside the house.

  Masked figures in Ninja type uniforms burst into the house over the wreckage of the shattered front door. Caps were pulled down over their heads. The intruders searched every room, communicating with military hand signals. When they didn’t find her, they gathered in the studio.

  She grabbed a phone from its wall hanger and called 911 again.

  The dispatcher’s neutral voice said, “Hold on. A unit is on its way.”

  “Tell them to watch their ass. These guys have guns.”

  “What—?”

  She clicked off and turned back to the screen. She guessed that the fence jumper must still be recuperating from shock because there were only five figures. One apparently noticed the camera high in a corner. He stared at it for a few seconds and pulled his scarf away from his lower face. There was something strangely familiar about the lopsided mouth and the yellow-toothed grin.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  The man picked up her new painting of the hummingbird from the easel. He stepped nearer the camera, drew his arm back and punched a ragged hole in the canvas with his gloved fist. He looked at the camera again, as if daring her to come out of hiding to save her precious art work. She watched, frustrated and angry, as the other intruders ruined paintings with fists or knives and threw them into a heap.

  The leader poured the contents of a can of paint thinner on the pile. He produced a lighter and snapped the flame on. He moved the lighter back and forth near the paintings, smiling all the while at the camera.

  Then he touched the lighter to the pile which burst immediately into flames.

  Sutherland shrieked in a voice that was part sob and part a scream of rage.

  They’re burning my art.

  But there was nothing she could do except watch as greasy smoke filled the room and the flames spread to the curtains and consumed the easel and palette table. The intruders h
astily exited the burning house.

  Choking fumes were seeping into the safe room.

  Sutherland hit the kill switch for the ventilation system and tried to decide what to do. Maybe the room would be safe from the fire. Maybe it wouldn’t be. She wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

  She grabbed a flashlight from a wall bracket, then bent over and lifted a ring on the floor of the room, opening a rectangular hatch. A short stairway led down into a tight space.

  A musty smell greeted her when she unlocked a steel door that guarded a tunnel. She took a deep breath and crawled fifty feet into the tunnel to another steel door, which she pushed open, emerging into another small space.

  She groped for a handle above her head, found it, pushed open a hatch cover, and climbed out of the tunnel into the pump house located on the other side of the fence.

  The flashlight beam played on the shiny black paint and gold scrollwork of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle resting on its kick stand next to the pump. As a young woman, she had ridden bikes back in West Virginia, and had become pretty good at it. She used her mustering out pay to buy the customized Forty-Eight model Harley. The low-slung motorcycle was built for speed rather than comfort, but she liked the retro design, low profile and the kick from its 1203-cc V-twin engine.

  She slipped into leather boots and pulled on a light black leather jacket from a locker, then opened the pump house door a few inches. She let out a soft cry. Her dream house was fully enveloped in fire and her RAV4 had been torched as well. Dark figures moved against the flaming backdrop.

  She had intended to wait out the intruders, but one figure had broken away from the group and was walking toward the pump house. She’d be trapped.

  She swung a leg over the seat of the Harley and hit the starter. The distinctive guttural roar of the motor was ear-shattering in the close confines of the pump house and the exhaust fumes filled her nostrils. She flicked the headlight on and twisted the handle grip. The bike leaped forward and the front tire knocked the door wide open.