by Brad Thor
“I’d have to concur,” replied Davidson. “But significant how? And why?”
Jillian looked up from the table and caught the look in Harvath’s eye. They were both thinking the same thing. It was time to get to the bottom of things. “Dr. Davidson, we need to know who sent you these artifacts,” said Jillian.
“Why?” she asked incredulously.
“Because people’s lives may depend on it,” stated Harvath.
“People’s lives may depend on a table full of military relics over two thousand years old?”
“This goes much deeper than military relics,” said Jillian.
“How?”
“We’re not at liberty to share that with you.”
“Mr. Guerin,” said Davidson as she used Harvath’s alias, “ don’t insult my intelligence. Any lives concerned with what I am doing here have long since passed. If you’d like to tell me the real reason we’re talking, maybe then we can help each other out. Are you suggesting that these relics are connected to some sort of crime? If so, I’d like to know how a respected paleopathologist like Vanessa Whitcomb fits into all of this.”
“We can appreciate that you have questions of your own,” said Jillian as she tried to take control of the conversation and prevent things from turning too adversarial. She was a scientist herself and understood the way Davidson’s mind worked. She wouldn’t respond well to intimidation, and Harvath looked all too ready to jump into his “bad cop” uniform. It was obvious what her role was going to have to be. “We, on the other hand, need you to appreciate that we’re limited in what we can tell you.”
Davidson walked over to her desk, folded her arms across her chest, and sat down on its edge. She said, ”Why don’t you start with what you can tell me. Because until you do, I’m not sharing anything else.”
“Dr. Davidson, you’re obviously an intelligent woman—” began Harvath.
“Don’t try to flatter me, Mr. Guerin,” she shot back.
“Believe me, flattery is the least of my intentions, “He responded. “I’m trying to be nice, so why don’t you cooperate and listen to what I have to say? Your employer, Sotheby’s, has been involved in multiple cases of fraud and trafficking in stolen and otherwise illegally tainted merchandise over the years.”
“How dare you?” snapped Davidson. “Sotheby’s has never knowingly participated in any illegal activity whatsoever.”
“Dr. Davidson, not only do I not care, but the general public at large is not going to care either when this story breaks. I guarantee you it will be the end of Sotheby’s. A stolen painting, a forged diary, they’re nothing in this day and age compared with colluding and providing material aid to terrorists.”
It was preposterous. Davidson couldn’t believe her ears. “Terrorists? That’s how they’re making their money now, by trafficking in relics over two thousand years old? Are you serious?” She laughed.
“Deadly serious,” replied Harvath.
“I don’t think you are. If you were, you wouldn’t be speaking to me. You’d be speaking to someone else here with a lot more power than I have.”
“You’re the one studying these for the client,” said Harvath.
“Mr. Guerin, you’re not only wasting your time, you’re wasting mine, and I want you to leave.”
Harvath was about to give it to Davidson with both barrels when Jillian motioned for him to back off. Shaking his head in exasperation, Harvath walked toward the other end of the room and the faint music bleeding through the wall.
“Dr. Davidson,” said Jillian, “I can assure you this is a very serious matter. We need to know where these artifacts were discovered and who found them. In answer to your previous question, yes, we believe they are connected to a major international crime.”
“So you lied then. You’re not a paleopathologist at all,” said Davidson, breaking her silence. “What are you? Interpol?”
“Dr. Davidson, I didn’t lie to you. I am a paleopathologist, but this case is very complicated. Please. We need your help. You have to tell us who sent these artifacts to you.”
“Let me disabuse you of that notion right now,” snapped Davidson as she rose from her stool. “Unless you want to make all of this very official, I don’t have to tell you anything. It is strict Sotheby’s policy not to divulge the names or any other personal information about our clients. If you have reason to believe that these artifacts or the person or persons who supplied them to us are tied to some sort of criminal activity, then I suggest you speak with a local magistrate. Unless this company is properly served with the appropriate legal paperwork, we will give you nothing.”
“You’re asking us to start legal proceedings? Through the French legal system no less? Do you know how long that will take?” beseeched Jillian.
“That’s not my problem.”
“Dr. Davidson, I am imploring you—”
“What the hell is he doing?” demanded Davidson, standing up.
“Cutting through the red tape,” stated Harvath, who had walked back to the head of the table and was now rifling through a stack of file folders. “We don’t have time to wait for French or any other jurisprudence. We need this information now.”
“I’m calling security,” said Davidson as she reached for her phone.
“Stop her,” Harvath ordered Jillian.
Alcott couldn’t believe how rapidly things were deteriorating. “Let’s just all calm down here.”
Harvath had no intention of calming down. In the world Davidson and Alcott lived in, people might patiently sit back and move at a snail’s pace dictated by science, but that wasn’t his world. In Harvath’s world, either you set the pace or somebody else set it for you. Too many people were depending on him to get to the bottom of things as quickly as possible. Jillian had had her chance and failed. Now they were going to do things his way.
Harvath dropped the files he was looking at, came around the table, and got to Davidson just as she began speaking. He yanked the phone’s cord from the wall and said to her, “I always try my best to be nice until it’s time not to be nice, and guess what time it is now?”
Davidson fixed him with an icy stare. “What is it you want?”
“You know what I want,” said Harvath as he moved into her personal space, hoping to increase the intimidation factor. He didn’t like having to play hardball with a woman, but she wasn’t leaving him much choice. “I want all of the information you have on whoever sent you these artifacts, and I want it now.”
Davidson pointed to the pile of folders spilled on the floor and replied, “It’s down there in one of those.”
She was lying, and the lie was accompanied by a not so subtle shift of Davidson’s weight from one foot to the other. She wasn’t trying to get away—she was trying to obscure something from Harvath’s vision. What was it? Then Harvath figured it out. Her computer.
“I don’t suppose you want to make this easy for me?” he asked.
Davidson just glared at him.
“Okay, have it your way,” said Harvath as he pulled her chair out for her. “Take a seat. “The woman refused, and Harvath had no choice but to physically encourage her. The move scared her more than anything else, and she immediately dropped down in front of her computer. Harvath kept one hand clamped around her upper arm just in case there was any resistance. Little did he know that the resistance was going to come flying through the door at him like a Mack truck.
Before he could get Davidson to open any of her computer files, the office door exploded inward, and a powerful, black-clad, uniformed body came sailing across the desk toward him. Harvath let go of Davidson’s forearm just in time to raise his hands to protect his face. The security guard crashed into him and sent him tumbling over backward. His head smacked against the hardwood floor, and before he could clear the stars from his eyes, the security guard began pounding on him. Despite the stars, Harvath’s instincts immediately kicked in.
In two quick moves, he had gotten the better of
his attacker and was on top of him, holding the man’s head and neck in a hammerlock. There was only one problem—Harvath had forgotten that the man had a partner.
Before he could free one of his arms to parry the blow away, the second security guard had landed a searing kick to his ribs. Harvath thought for a fraction of a second that he might be able to hold it in, but inevitably the air rushed from his lungs. His hammerlock collapsed, and his body crumpled to the floor as it heaved for oxygen. Somewhere off in the distance, he thought he heard Jillian scream as a round was chambered into an MP5 and its muzzle was pressed against the side of his head.
TWENTY-NINE
C APITOL G RILLE
W ASHINGTON , DC
H elen Remington Carmichael weaved her way through the crowded steak house and found DNC chairman Russell Mercer at his usual table behind a large porterhouse and an even larger glass of Archery Summit Pinot Noir. “Helen,” said the portly man as he rose to meet his unexpected guest. “How nice to see you.”
“Cut the crap, Russ. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two goddamn days.”
“I’ve been a bit busy.”
“I can see that,” said Carmichael as she looked at the three attractive young women seated with him. “Let me guess. Polling?”
Mercer could smell a showdown coming, and the last thing he wanted was witnesses. “My tab should still be open at the bar, “He said as he stood and politely shooed the women from his booth. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re done here.”
Once they had filed past, Carmichael sat down and snapped her fingers at the nearest waiter. “Kettle One martini up, very dirty with lots of olives. “When the waiter had disappeared, Carmichael focused her ire back on Mercer. “Judging by the looks of your companions, they charge by the hour, so I’ll make this short.”
“I’m not going to even dignify that remark with a response,” replied the DNC chairman.
“Well, let’s see what you will dignify. I heard you had a very candid meeting at the White House with Chuck Anderson.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you told him I wouldn’t be on the Democratic ticket?”
“That’s what I told him.”
“How dare you?” she hissed.
Mercer leaned forward over the table, and his eyes bored right into hers. “Listen to me, Helen, and listen good. Your ball-busting routine might have charmed the voters of Pennsylvania, but you’re in the big leagues now, and we play by a different set of rules here. If you want the party’s nomination, you’ve gotta damn well earn it. You don’t just sashay up to my table, insult my guests, and demand I hand it to you on a silver platter.”
Carmichael was indignant. “And you don’t control the party, Russ. The ticket needs a strong vice-presidential candidate, and there isn’t anyone else out there as strong as I am.”
“You think so?” replied Mercer. “I happen to think Senator Koda of Maine could do a lot to help the ticket.”
“And if assholes had wings, this whole fucking town would be an airport,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Listen, Koda may be good, but I’m better, and you damn well know it.”
“So what? You haven’t earned it.”
“Earned it? How dare you say I haven’t earned it? I’ve busted my ass for the party.”
“And it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“Then how can you say I haven’t earned a spot on the ticket?”
“You haven’t earned your stripes,” replied Mercer as he held out his sleeve and patted his forearm. “Nobody gives a shit what you’ve done for the state of Pennsylvania. If it weren’t for your husband, you wouldn’t have that job in the first place. What’s more, you’ve got a shitty public image. Half of voting Americans, hell, half of your own constituents think you’re a raging bull dyke, and the other half think the only reason you’re in office is to help facilitate your husband’s business deals. It won’t sell. Not where we need it the most.”
Carmichael waited for the waiter to set down her martini and back away from the table before responding. “My own people have been encouraging me to work on my public image, and I’ll admit I’ve been slow to respond, but I can change that. I’ll even bring in outside consultants if I have to. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. You want me to soften things up? Consider it done. Just don’t scratch me off the list of possible contenders for the ticket.”
The woman was amazing. She was an absolute chameleon. One minute she could be the Beltway’s biggest brass-balled bitch, and the next she was turning in a “Please, sir, may I have some more?” performance worthy of the best Dickens novel. Mercer, though, had seen it all before. Political ambition came in a million shapes and styles. If Helen Carmichael wanted the Democratic nomination so bad, she was going to have to work for it, and Mercer knew just how to make her do it. Regardless of whether they put her on the ticket or not, if the DNC kept her focused, Senator Carmichael could broadside the Republicans so bad there was no way President Rutledge’s campaign would be able to bail water fast enough.
Mercer settled back into the booth, reached for his wineglass, and said, “Maybe we can work something out. Tell me, how are your hearings progressing?”
THIRTY
H OTEL G ARE DU N ORD
P ARIS
T ell me some more about Hannibal and his love of biological weapons,” said Harvath, unbuttoning his shirt as Jillian emptied the ice bucket on top of the mini bar into a plastic bag and handed it to him.
“First things first,” she replied. “Let me take a look at your ribs.”
Harvath pulled back his shirt so Jillian could see the softball-sized bruise that was setting up shop along his left side.
“Does anything feel broken?” she asked as she reached her hand out toward his side.
“Hold on a second,” said Harvath as he caught her hand. “You’re a doctor of paleopathology, not medicine.”
“For your information, I rode ambulances to help pay for school and doubled as a nurse’s assistant on several archeological digs during my summers off from Durham.”
“Imagine my luck,” said Harvath as Jillian’s fingers slid across his flesh. “Any of your patients actually live?”
“Very funny,” she said, applying pressure to an obviously sensitive part of the bruise. “This looks tender.”
Harvath sucked in a painful breath as Jillian continued, “You know, this all could have been avoided if you hadn’t lost your head.”
“I lost my head?” said Harvath. “Is that what you think happened?”
“I’ve seen it before,” she said as she continued probing for broken bones. “It’s a typical male reaction. You’re the hammer, and any problems you encounter in life are nothing more than nails.”
“Hammer this, lady,” said Harvath as he stood up from the bed and put his shirt back on. Even if he had managed to crack a rib or two, Jillian Alcott wouldn’t be able to tell just by touching him. And broken or not, there was nothing she could do for him. His ribs would just have to heal on their own.
“Sit back down,” ordered Jillian. “I’m not done examining you yet.”
“If you want to see any more, “He replied, walking over to the mini bar to retrieve a small bottle of Moskovskaya vodka, “you’re going to have to buy me dinner and tell me you love me first.”
Jillian smiled. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant, “He said as he poured the vodka into a glass and looked around for some ice. “Let’s get back to Hannibal.”
Jillian picked the ice pack up off the bed and threw it to him. Harvath untied the bag, removed a couple of cubes, and dropped them into his glass. “I’m all ears.”
“There isn’t much else to add. Like Vanessa said, what we know about Hannibal comes to us mostly from Roman accounts, and there aren’t many. We do know that he was extremely brilliant and would go to any lengths to get the ultimate edge. There was no one else like him.”
“I’ll drink to that,”
said Harvath as he took a sip of Moskovskaya to kill the pain in his side. As he set his drink on the nightstand he asked, “What about the India connection? Is it possible Hannibal had contact with them?”
“There’s no arguing with those breastplates. Those are Azemiops feae vipers, no doubt about it.”
“How does the wolf image fit in?”
“Wolves were considered very fierce, very ferocious animals. They were also a symbol of Rome. Hannibal might have been attempting to steal some of the Romans’thunder by using their symbol in that way.”
“Possibly,” said Harvath, though he had a feeling that theory was off the mark.
“What we do know,” said Alcott, “is that the weapon itself had to have been the most frightening thing he had in his arsenal. That’s why the Azemiops feae were depicted on the breastplates. He would have wanted everyone, especially his soldiers, to be constantly aware of the weapon they were carrying.”
“Are you saying that replicating poisonous snakes on arrow shafts and depicting Azemiops feae vipers on breastplates could be used to scare the enemy and embolden your own troops at the same time?”
“Exactly,” replied Alcott. “Once the snake plan had been announced, Hannibal’s navy felt confident they couldn’t lose, even in the face of a much mightier opponent.”
Harvath sorted through the logic, trying to tie everything together. “So let’s assume that Hannibal got his hands on a copy of the Arthashastra.”
“Which would have been no small feat at the time. It was a pretty powerful book, and I doubt they were just giving it away on street corners, especially to nations that could wind up as potential enemies at some point down the road.”
“I’ll put my faith in Hannibal. He was a pretty crafty guy, but whether he bought the Arthashastra, stole it, or it was given to him doesn’t matter. Let’s just say he got a copy of it.”
“Okay.”
“Then he got hold of someone to translate it for him. Maybe he even brought some enterprising Indian scientist or soldier to the Mediterranean to help out with it. He could have even sent teams back and forth to India to get the snakes they needed, since Azemiops feae wasn’t native to the Greco-Roman world, and then used members of the Psylli tribe to handle them and extract the venom.”
