Until you revisited.
Walcott finally halted before a set of uneven shelves, their coating of dust attesting to the fact that nothing nearby had been touched for many years. Dudley saw no trails in the fine coating, no fingerprints.
Walcott hesitated. “This . . . this is ancient history,” he said. “Almost a million years old. It is the oldest known form of primitive man.”
“And what have yer done with it in fifty years? Shoved it in a museum? Naw, not even that.” Dudley gestured angrily. “Hurry up.”
“What can you possibly hope to accomplish with it? Make money? At least here, it’s safe.”
Dudley wasn’t a patient man at the best of times. Without any further warnings he punched Walcott hard behind the left ear, sending the man to his knees.
“Yer wife’s next, pal.”
Walcott struggled upright, reaching out for the skew-whiff shelving. “Help me,” he said. “It’s this one.”
Byram and McLain took hold of a wooden box and lifted it easily to the floor. Walcott bent over, lifting the lid.
“No key?” Dudley asked suspiciously.
“It would only draw attention,” Walcott murmured.
Inside the shabby-appearing but surprisingly well-made box was a layer of foam, which Walcott removed, and then the old bones gleamed up at them. Dudley didn’t stand on ceremony, just whipped out his backpack and forced several of the bones inside. Byram and McLain did the same. Walcott winced with every clink.
“You should wrap them, at least. Don’t you know what they—”
Dudley’s hand struck as fast as a viper’s head, grabbing the Secretary by the collar and drawing him close. “I don’t care. I don’t give a rat’s arse. Shut yer face and do yer job. And yer may get to live.”
Walcott tucked his protestations and grimaces away. The three Irishmen filled their backpacks and strapped them on. Walcott then replaced the wooden box and tried to spread a little dust over the shelves to preserve their untouched appearance. Dudley grabbed his arm and threw him ahead.
“Get on with it.”
Back through the maze of shelves they went, silence their only companion. Timeworn boxes surrounded them, each one a relic, making Dudley wonder just what other treasures the Smithsonian might have secreted down here. If he had time to make Walcott talk, the 27-Club might be able to find enough valuable “lost” artefacts to fund a few operations of their own.
Later.
He stored that nugget away. Truth be told, it was a good reason to keep Walcott alive. Maybe they should show willing and let the rest of his family live too. It would make coming back in a few months so very much sweeter. And productive.
Dudley felt his face creasing into a grin and wiped it clean. This wasn’t the time. Motes of dust swirled and eddied around him, micro-hurricanes displaced by the fury of his passing. Walcott stuck faithfully to the center of the passage but the Irishmen brushed against boxes and shelves and caused more than a little damage. Walcott got a move on. At last they reached the more populated area and aimed toward the metal staircase and then an elevator. Walcott attracted little attention and even those who did recognize him only nodded. The Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution was an important man, appointed by the Board of Regents. Probably not the kind of man most employees felt content to stop and discuss their evening plans or crappy commute with.
Dudley was happy with that. Soon, they exited out into the public museum and made their way toward the rear gardens and, beyond that, the street parking. Within minutes Dudley found himself walking in the fresh air, down a straight path toward four large pillars and open gates. Almost disappointed, he glanced to left and right.
Ah . . .
The guard approached them from behind a bench where he’d been chatting with tourists. Dudley purposely held his gaze, flicking a disparaging glance at the man’s paunch. When he reached an audible distance he opened his mouth.
Dudley turned to McLain. “Shut that fat fecker up.”
His comrade liked nothing better than to teach security guards what real fighting and real pain was all about. Back in Ulster and an age ago now it had been one of his favorite hobbies. Back then, they had sought out local security guards just for fun, leaving them broken and bleeding, crawling around the floor of the place they were paid to defend. McLain even used to cut his biceps to mark every target they took down.
Back when the 27-Club was young, just finding their feet . . .
Now?
McLain jabbed the guard hard, making the man’s eyes bulge and his touristy friends scream. When the guard’s hands flew to his throat, McLain used his groin as a punching bag, placing an arm across his upper half and bending him over. When the guard slithered to the floor, incapacitated, McLain lifted a boot over his throat.
“Say goodbye, fat man.”
“No!” Walcott’s voice was unnecessarily loud. “Don’t kill him. He’s done nothing to you. Nothing!”
Dudley grinned. “Aw, come on. McLain here hasn’t killed nothing for days.”
“Please.”
McLain smiled into Walcott’s eyes as he brought his boot hard down on the security guard’s throat.
Dudley shrugged. “I guess it wasn’t the poor bastard’s day.”
“Bastard! That wasn’t necessary. We’re free!”
Dudley eyed the scrambling tourists. “Don’t be too sure. Letting someone live is always a mistake.”
“Do not hurt them. Do not! I will raise the alarm. I will—”
Dudley cuffed him. “Ah, at last, you’ve found a set of bollocks. Let’s call yer family and see how long that lasts.”
Walcott hung his head as Dudley directed them back to their parked car. Without rushing, his comrades and he deposited their backpacks into the enormous trunk. Then, carefully, they slid into the traffic.
“On second thoughts,” Dudley said. “Maybe yer shouldn’t have killed him. Now they’ll be trying even harder to find us.”
Byram shrugged, massaging his heavy bicep.
Dudley smirked. “Best get a move on, old man. Us lads have another vault to visit.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Drake always got a feeling in his gut when things were about to kick-off big time; a kind of pre-emptive adrenalin burst that, if heavily diluted, one might feel when tipping over the top of the lift-hill of the world’s tallest rollercoaster or sitting behind the wheel of the world’s fastest and most dangerous dragster.
When Karin took the call and then turned that face upon them, the feeling hit him. “What the hell’s wrong?”
Karin stared. “Unbelievable. About an hour ago there was a murder and unknown theft committed at the Smithsonian and they believe Dudley may be involved.”
Drake couldn’t make it compute. “What? Our Dudley? The mad Irish bastard who’s in jail?”
“The mad Irish bastard who escaped jail, killed his drivers and guards in the process with the help of some old friends, and may now be back working for the Pythians.”
Drake gripped the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “He escaped? And nobody thought to let us know?”
“We just brought him to justice,” Hayden put in. “After that, he’s all theirs. An escaped prisoner doesn’t come under our purview and might not be brought to our attention at all.”
Karin pursed her lips. “We’re that agency that’s so secret nobody knows to read us in.”
Dahl disagreed. “We’re not that bloody secret anymore. I think it’s more admin based, no insult intended. We need some kind of a flagging system.”
Drake shook it all off. “Just tell us what happened, Karin.”
“The Smithsonian isn’t exactly sure. Their secretary, the big boss, may have escorted three men into the vault earlier today. Units are en route to his house now. Using facial recognition the cops have identified one of the three men as Callan Dudley.”
Drake sat down. Here they were awaiting word of Mai and something potentially bigger had dropped into the
ir laps. If the Pythians were up to their not-so-old tricks . . .
“Make sure you reinforce and remind all the relevant authorities of Dudley’s nastier connections,” Hayden said. “I didn’t expect the Pythians to bounce back so quickly after we killed three of their members. I guess I underestimated them. Or maybe it’s something else. Now, let’s start looking into Dudley’s so-called friends and this Smithsonian heist.” Her eyes stopped as they passed Drake’s.
“I’m sorry we have to pull away from Mai at this time.”
The Yorkshireman shrugged. “Aye, me too. But it’ll help take my mind off what I’m going to do to her abductors.”
Hayden nodded. Dahl sighed and rolled his shoulders, a man desperate to help out his friend but incapable of doing so.
“Need a way to ease some of that tension?” Alicia addressed the Swede. “We could always—”
Drake’s phone rang, cutting her off. It was Hibiki. “Yes?”
Alicia finished lamely, “Hit the gym.”
Hibiki’s voice filled Drake’s world. “I’m with an . . . informant now.” The cop was panting. “Hold on, I’m just washing my hands . . .”
Dahl raised an eyebrow.
“Took an awful lot to learn this, my friend, but Mai is now the focus of the whole Yakuza organization. And they are the biggest criminal organization in the world.”
Drake knew his face had gone white, emotions bubbling over, but he didn’t care. “What can we do? Do you know their intentions?”
“Unfortunately, yes. The Yakuza, they rarely forgive. It’s as much a trait of theirs as the rule ‘once you’re in you never get out’. It’s hard to pin any Yakuza operation down not only because they’re so connected and insulated but because they’re into so many different criminal activities. It’s a testament to their viciousness and cleverness that although they’re universally known, they still haven’t made many inroads into America or even Tokyo. I say this only to prepare you for what we have to do.”
Drake felt Dahl’s hand on his shoulder. “Which is?”
“Mai is being taken to Kobe, where they have their headquarters, probably by freighter. I’m not sure if you have identified the blood in the hotel room yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, if it is Mai’s don’t worry. The bullet will have been to make her compliant, to help the snatch squad take her down. They will fix her up.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because they plan to put her up on a vile pedestal for some kind of showcase trial. Before the entire Yakuza organization. And then they plan to kill her.”
Drake felt a headache coming on. “A trial? Where?”
“They have a walled compound, Drake. A guarded headquarters inside the city of Kobe. For real. The place is impregnable.”
“And that’s where they’re taking Mai? Can we stop this freighter at the docks?”
“I have a few of the Kobe police looking into that. But . . .” Hibiki paused and sighed. “You have to understand the Yakuza and their reach. It is said they own the police. A few years ago one of their leaders was allowed to be honorary police chief for the day. There really are pictures, believe me. I can only seriously trust half a dozen people.”
“But would they risk going up against the Yakuza?” Dahl asked. “In their home town?”
“Not a chance,” Hibiki said. “In truth, Kobe is one of the safest cities in Japan. This is because no other criminal entities dare operate there and the Yakuza don’t crap where they eat. But my police friends are strictly reconnaissance only. They will not challenge and they will not get physically involved.”
“How many men do the Yaks have?” Alicia asked.
Hibiki laughed. “Normally? Only a thousand or so. But for such a showcase trial designed to inspire its members? To put fire in their bellies? You could double or treble that. And add a private video and audio network, I’m sure.”
Drake suppressed the relatively alien rush of sudden panic. “So what can we do?”
“Seriously? If it were anyone else with lesser comrades-in-arms I’d say prepare for the funeral. I don’t know what the answer is, my friend, but I do know this. You have to get yourselves over here. Over to Kobe as fast as possible.”
Drake nodded. “Text me a location. We’ll find you.”
Dahl turned to Hayden, stony-faced. “We’re going to have to split this team up.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hayden watched as a major part of her team vacated the room, illogically intent on rescuing Mai Kitano from the world’s biggest criminal organization in their own back yard. Of course she would not even try to stop them, and if it had been up to her, and Dudley hadn’t just resurfaced, she would undoubtedly be climbing aboard the same plane with the same motives.
Once they were gone, however, the remainder of the team needed refocusing. Hayden encouraged Karin to concentrate on Dudley, his friends and Walcott, and what they may have stolen, then asked Kinimaka to keep tabs on the police visit to the Smithsonian’s boss’s house. Her own first task was to inform her boss—Robert Price the new US Secretary of Defense—as to Callan Dudley’s new venture. The man sounded genuinely shocked and supportive, but Hayden was beginning to detect a peculiar detachedness there, as if Price didn’t give too much of a hoot. Obviously, although he was in the same job as Jonathan Gates, the man’s motives were a whole lot different. Don’t be surprised, most officials have different notions about how to perform their duties once they’re in office. It’s not unknown.
At least Price was leaving them alone. But that only reminded her of Jonathan and how he had died. A tragic, tragic waste. Same as my father.
Karin spoke up. “Okay, well, the FBI have taken charge of the Smithsonian robbery. They’re not taking any chances with Dudley. They’ve drafted in Walcott’s underling, guy called Kyle, and one of the old relics who's worked there practically since he left pre-school. They think they’ve identified what was taken.”
Hayden leaned forward. “Which is?”
“The Peking Man.”
“What’s that?” Smyth barked. “Sounds old.”
“You’re right. Peking, now Beijing—the older English spelling was the Chinese postal map Romanization Peking—the city is three thousand years old. This city alone has seven World Heritage sites, including the Forbidden City, the Ming Tombs and the Great Wall, so it’s not surprising that such an ancient, momentous find was made there.”
“This Peking Man?”
“Yes. Discovered in the 1920s the bones are said to be three quarter of a million years old. The site also revealed teeth, bones, skulls and tools. Some of the fossils even ended up in Uppsala University.” Karin smiled wistfully. “Neighboring unearthings of animal remains, and fire and tool usage were used to identify this find as the very first tool-worker, actually a great example of human evolution. He is chiefly a human ancestor and the earliest known ancestor of the Chinese people.”
“So why the hell isn’t he in China?” Smyth wondered. “Instead of being stored in a dusty vault underneath the Smithsonian?”
“Well, that’s where it gets even more interesting. We know from the Odin quest that there are many out of place artifacts—OOPArt—in this world, artefacts that defy time-stamping and challenge accepted historical chronology as being far too advanced for the accepted level of civilization of the time. These objects are usually collecting dust in some vault somewhere. Though not an OOPArt, the Peking Man has been subject to the same kind of concealment.”
Hayden shared a look with Kinimaka. “I heard something about this. The bones were lost, right? And the Americans had something to do with it.”
“Not exactly,” Karin stressed. “In 1941, while Beijing was under Japanese occupation, the fossils were squirreled away. Packed into two large crates they were loaded onto a US Marine vehicle heading toward northern China, near a Marine base at Camp Holcomb. This was of course before the outbreak of hostilities between Japan and the Allied Forces in the
Second World War. From this camp they were to be shipped to the National History Museum in New York, possible for safe-keeping, or some other reason, no one really knows.”
“And?” Smyth urged her.
Lauren put a hand on top of his. “Relax.”
Karin continued, “They disappeared en route. Many, many attempts have been made to find the fossils, mostly frantic attempts by the Chinese, but nothing was ever found. Most theories suggest the fossils were aboard the Japanese ship, the Awa Maru¸ and that’s where our mystery deepens.”
“Shit.” Smyth shook his head. “I’m gonna need espresso for this. Anyone else?”
Komodo gave him a thumbs up, also mentioning cookies. Lauren nodded. Smyth used Dolce Gusto pods to deliver the strong, steaming brews.
“In 1945 the Awa Maru was being used as a Red Cross relief ship, carrying essential supplies to American and Allied Prisoners of War in Japanese camps. An agreement—Relief for POWs—had been signed by all and was universally being adhered to. She was supposed to be given safe passage by everyone and all commanders had orders issued to that effect. Now, once she’d delivered her supplies the stories around the Awa Maru begin to get more captivating. It may be intrigue . . . but then again? In Singapore she took on several hundred marine officers, military and civilian personnel and diplomats. She also carried a treasure worth over five billion dollars, that’s—”
Smyth choked. “Five billion?”
“Yup. Forty metric tons of gold. Platinum. Diamonds. There are even reports of the docks being cleared for several more precious cargos to be loaded in secret.”
The Lost Kingdom (Matt Drake Book 10) Page 4
