by Howard Upton
New York City, New York, USA
July 16, 2013 05:38 A.M.
Dan Dugan ran on his treadmill. He ran as hard as he could, the sweat rolling off his forehead, down his nose and onto the treadmill belt. His mind re-ran his conversation with Rafael, that fucking Mexican, over and over. Fortunately, it had been quite easy to keep his true identity from the Latino, and that might come in handy should he be forced to chase him down and retrieve the cartouche.
His mind ran at the same rapid pace as his feet. His options were limited, but as he always did, he planned for the worst. He knew he had an asset on the ground that would retrieve the artifact and return it to him if necessary. Regardless, the loose cannon he’d hired in Mexico wasn’t long for this world, of that he was sure.
Dugan finished his five mile stationary jaunt then turned the machine off. He grabbed his towel and began wiping himself down as he walked to a window staring east from his swanky upper west side office. The view of thousands of people walking through Central Park did nothing to better his mood; in fact it worsened it. Sheep, every damned one of them. He watched as NYU student groups meditated on a patch of grass near a huge outcropping of rocks. Smart kids, as clueless as the rocks they sit next to. He actually allowed himself a chuckle at this thought as he walked into the bathroom and disrobed. He turned on the shower and jumped in when the water was warm enough.
Afterward, he dried himself off, dressed, then moved to his desk and opened his laptop. He checked his encrypted e-mail address known only to two others. His myriad of e-mail addresses and aliases gave him a chance to keep things compartmentalized from some who would love to access his personal information.
He read the note sent to him by one of the two contractors working for him:
Asset is tracking. Half of fee wired to an off-shore account. No questions asked at this time. Awaiting reconnect with asset. No additional information. Advise on other needs if any.
Dugan studied the short e-mail and thought about a response before allowing his hands to touch the keyboard. Outside he could hear the sirens from police cars and fire trucks. At any time of day the prevalent sounds of emergencies were blasting throughout the city. He could smell street vendor food comingled with raw sewage emanating from the city’s ancient but complicated sewer system. All of his senses were alert and deciphering the environmental information unconsciously. The sights, sounds and smells of New York City were somehow comforting to him.
He stared at the computer screen and allowed his fingers to rest lightly on the keys. His eyes narrowed as he pecked out his response. His fingers paused momentarily before beginning.
Contact me as soon as you hear from our asset. Once cartouche is acquired, terminate asset and target if still breathing. Confirm receipt.
Dugan clicked the send button on the screen before folding the laptop closed. He could feel how close he was to having the cartouche and all the power and money it would bring. On his desk he kept a photo he had snapped of the pyramid in Chichen Itza, Mexico several years earlier.
He suppressed a laugh as he thought about what he had been fortunate enough to learn about over the last few years. World governments had been involved in strange things throughout mankind’s history. In the twentieth century, Nazi Germany had experimented with alien technology in order to develop anti-gravitational aircraft. Many said they had unlocked its secret but couldn’t build the ship before the allies attack on Berlin began.
The United States had spent considerable resources engaged in group remote viewing in the seventies and eighties. Amazingly, the results of groups of people focused on distant areas or objects were tremendous. Significant intelligence was gathered on Russian and Chinese military activity at a time when satellite technology was still in its infancy. Later, as always, US military personnel would dismiss the RV experiment as a failure and continue its practice in secrecy, in desolate outposts in Alaska and the fabled Area 51 in the Nevada desert.
Every powerful government had one thing in common: power lust. Control of the skies and oceans for any given country fostered a desire for more. On the global front, development of nuclear arms intimidated smaller, less powerful governments into picking sides and selling their natural resources to the powerful countries all in the name of security. As one powerful government developed a more advanced means of global control, another would discover something even more clever and hideous. The race to control the paranormal was one that conspiracy theorists loved to talk about, and one the world’s governments loved to deny.
However, Dugan had a firm grasp on the race to find the next most powerful weapon on Earth. He also knew full well that governments regularly researched means by which to control a burgeoning global population. Billions of dollars were spent annually in America alone on those things most would scoff at: time travel, mind control, alien technology, and other fringe activities.
Dugan’s “discovery” would provide the highest bidder with an ability to control the greatest army in world history. He would also become a very rich and powerful man in the process. With Buddy Smith working as his pawn, he knew inroads with the CIA were already paved. His CIA connections would probably land him an opportunity to negotiate with the highest levels of American intelligence and military personnel. He also knew he would have to be very careful or the might of the United States would rain down on him in such a nasty shit-storm; it made him shiver.
Mexico City, Mexico
July 16, 2013 6:31 A.M.
Roper lay in his hotel room thinking about what he had learned the previous night. He laced his fingers behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling, the room’s ceiling fan offering a quiet swoop-swoop as it spun, pushing warm air down on him. His eyes followed the blades and his mind drifted.
After picking up his bag of supplies, he drove around the city in search of another internet café, this one a considerable distance from his hotel. He had driven for over two hours, performing switch backs, sudden stopping and parking and two U-turns on quieter roads, all the while keeping an eye out for anyone following him.
Content he wasn’t being trailed he plugged a café address into his GPS and found one only eight kilometers from his location. He parked in a well-lit lot just in case someone tried to surprise him. As he opened his car door he took in his surroundings. He walked into the café, found an open terminal and settled in.
He opened an internet browser and searched the word “cartouche.” In less than a second, link upon link appeared on the monitor. What he saw confused him even more.
In Egyptian hieroglyphs, a cartouche is an oval with a horizontal line at one end indicating that the text enclosed is a royal name, coming into use during the beginning of the Fourth Dynasty under Pharaoh Sneferu. While the cartouche is usually vertical with a horizontal line, it is sometimes horizontal if it makes the name fit better, with a vertical line on the left. The Ancient Egyptian word for it was shenu, and it was essentially an expanded shen ring. In Demotic, the cartouche was reduced to a pair of brackets and a vertical line.
Roper’s hand found his chin and rubbed it. None of this made sense to him. Buddy had told him the cartouche was Chinese, but his research said it was Egyptian. Worn by royalty, he thought. What’s the connection?
He thought for a few more moments, and on a whim he performed a search for “Mexico cartouche.” What popped up on his screen this time caused him to furrow his brow. Roper paused long enough to glance around to make sure no one had taken an interest in him. No one he saw made him uneasy, so he went back to his reading.
He began reading about the ancient Mayans and how they made cartouches for their own royalty and spiritual protection. That’s crazy. Half a world away from Egypt and they are making the same damned jewelry? How is that possible? There was no mass transit back then. How could this be?
Roper was struck by the distinct similarities between both the Mayan and the Egyptian cartouches after seeing pictures of both. Even the hieroglyphs on the different pieces
of jewelry were remarkably similar. The shapes were both oval, and the necklace loops were virtually the same.
He read some more about the Mayan cartouche. The entry on the internet page continued, the Mayan cartouche was believed to keep and protect the individual from those who would do him harm. It was highly regarded as an amulet that would store a person’s spirit or could be utilized in incantations and other works of magic.
While he laid there on his bed, his mind focused on the last thing he read: incantations and other works of magic. He could find no other reason that the United States government would be interested in this piece of jewelry than that of potential magic. Roper had been clued into enough clandestine governmental stuff, and had networked with other spooks who knew about things like the government’s interest in voodoo and electroshock “therapy” on children, especially those with autistic schizophrenia. Their hopes were to tap into a dormant gene enabling them to perform incredible feats of magic. The government also experimented with mind altering drugs, such as LSD, to aid in magical application.
The U.S. government is always looking for a way to control its enemies AND its citizens. Unbelievable how blind people are to this fact. Well, fuck it. I’m getting paid to retrieve this cartouche not analyze what they’ll do with it once they get it. But still, I would really like to know what their plans are for this thing. What does it do that they would pay a hired hand more than a million dollars to retrieve?
Roper got out of the bed and took his body through fifteen minutes of static stretching then found some room to practice kata. The room was large enough to allow practice without having to move furniture. He opened the window and let his eyes adjust to the brilliant sunlight that poured into the room.
His feet moved into the preparation position as he called the kata name out in his mind—seisan. His left foot moved into seisan stance, the ball of his left foot touching down lightly on the carpet and his left arm moving into an outside center block. Just as quickly as the block, his right fist shot off his hip in an opposite side reverse punch.
He pushed through the kata, focusing on technique and keeping his head level so his energy moved laterally, rather than bobbing up and down. His hips snapped, and his trailing foot came into the correct position at just the right second each time he moved. The sweat began to form on his body and his kime, focus, became more intent.
The open hand techniques were performed while his mind focused on the targets of his imaginary opponent, both soft targets and nerve strikes. After finishing the kata, he gave himself a few seconds to smile as he thought about his training time with a great American sensei, James Davenport. Davenport sensei had studied the world over, had been an intelligence officer in the U.S. Army and understood kata application better than anyone he had trained with, including the Okinawans and Japanese.
Roper refocused his mind and prepared for the next kata, Sanshiryu. This advanced kata incorporated spear hand strikes to specific soft targets and several throws that would incapacitate or even kill an opponent. His intent and focus in the kata were incredible, his movement fluid and flawless. He finished the kata then practiced it another five times, each time, changing the cadence of the techniques, letting his mind see his opponent in different combative positions.
He finished his training regimen and walked to the bathroom to shower. With the hot water further opening his pores permitting the impurities to exit his body, he soaped himself and scrubbed with the washcloth. After showering he finished preparing for the day, dressing in a non-descript fashion, the cotton material light against his skin.
With plenty of time before the museum opened, Roper rode the elevator downstairs to eat in the hotel restaurant. He looked around, taking note of everyone, and found a table where he could sit with his back against the wall. From that vantage point he could see both the entrance to the restaurant and the windows to the street outside.
He could smell the food being prepared in the kitchen as he sipped a cup of black coffee. The robust beans offering him a taste of bitter heaven, he savored the blissfully hot nectar of the gods.
He ordered a breakfast of eggs and wheat toast and a glass of orange juice. The sun was bright and the sky cloudless and brilliant. The sidewalks were beginning to bustle with activity, and car horns could be heard in the distance. If he couldn’t glean some information at the museum today, he would be at a loss and have to rethink his approach to tracking down the cartouche.
From his pocket he pulled a disposable cell phone, the minutes pre-paid and Buddy’s number already programmed. He typed in a simple text, Going to museum this morning, and hit send. From his wallet he pulled the pesos needed to pay the chit and walked to his car. A few seconds later he felt the vibration of his phone as he sat down in the driver’s seat. He pulled the phone from his pocket and read the text, Good. Update once you finish.
Roper navigated the busy Mexico City streets. He arrived at the Museum of Anthropology at just after noon and parked in the underground parking lot. Before he got out of his car, he raised his sunglasses and looked around the lot, acutely aware of the many surveillance cameras placed throughout the garage. He lowered the glasses to the bridge of his nose, stuffed his car key into his pocket and got out of the rental.
He walked up the stairs, which rose to ground level, and was greeted by enormous statues and a Mexican flag flying proudly on a very tall pole, all standing before the entrance to the museum itself. He was able to ascertain two more surveillance cameras at either corner of the roof above the entranceway before walking to the ticket window.
Roper purchased a ticket and pulled his key and phone from his pocket, careful to check himself for anything else metallic before walking through the metal detector. The alarm didn’t sound and the guard nodded to him to get his things that had been scanned and inspected by the other security guard on duty. He walked over to the guard after gathering his things and asked to speak with his supervisor. The guard looked at him inquisitively and asked him in English why he needed to see him.
“I was here a few days ago, and one of the guards harassed me. He made me feel very uncomfortable, and I would like to lodge a formal complaint." The guard frowned at the potential of one of his buddies getting in trouble.
“You can leave your complaint with me, sir. I will see to it that my supervisor gets it.”
“With all due respect, I prefer to see your supervisor. I’m certain you would make sure he would get my complaint, but I would be more comfortable delivering it in person. Please call your supervisor now.”
The guard saw that the American would not relent and radioed his supervisor to come to the lobby. He could hear the supervisor ask, “Por que?” The guard answered that there was someone who needed to lodge a complaint and wouldn’t leave until he spoke with him.
An older Mexican gentleman of average height appeared in the rotunda and introduced himself in heavily accented English as Captain Reynoso. “What can I do for you,” his voice trailing off as he waited for an introduction from the man who was obviously American.
Roper looked over his shoulder and saw the guard who had called Captain Reynoso eyeing him suspiciously. The guard had moved a respectful distance away, out of earshot of the conversation. Still, he kept his voice low as he reached inside his pants pocket and retrieved an NSA badge, compliments of Buddy and Torta Javier. The badge was a perfect replica.
“Captain Reynoso, my name is Agent Roper with the National Security Agency of the United States. I’d like to have a few words with you about an artifact stolen from your museum a few nights ago.”
Reynoso kept his voice low but level. “United States has no jurisdiction here, Agent Roper. I’m afraid I have nothing to say to you. Buenos dias.”
Undeterred, Roper stepped closer to the head of security. “Captain Reynoso, I understand your hesitation and admire your position with this wonderful museum. I also understand that having a precious artifact like that cartouche stolen on your watch is very embarrassi
ng. As a liaison of the United States government, I can assure you there is a potential that we will share in far greater embarrassment if you don’t afford me a few minutes of your time.
There is a significant risk that the cartouche will find its way into the United States and be sold at auction there, never to be recovered by Mexico or this museum. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Please, also understand that our countries’ relations have been somewhat strained over the past few years, and I would hate to see this issue bring about more angst. Together we might be able to prevent this from becoming problematic."
The head of security continued to stare at the large American who stood three inches taller than him. The man's green eyes pierced his own, and something told Reynoso those same eyes had seen many terrible things. His light brown hair was neatly parted on one side and appeared to have been recently cut. Broad shoulders topped an obviously muscular torso, and his arms looked to be those born of hard labor, rather than falsely manufactured in some fitness club. Finally, Reynoso took notice of the man’s chiseled jaw that protruded from his face and subconsciously was reminded of a viper poised to strike.
“Let’s go to my office, Agent Roper, and speak in private. I do not think the rotunda is the proper place for this conversation.
“Agreed,” Roper replied, relieved that the aging Captain Reynoso hadn’t questioned his credentials.
Roper nodded to the other security guard who had moved closer in an attempt to overhear the conversation between the American and his boss, but had not picked up on the discussion. A curt nod from the guard back to Roper was the only acknowledgement he gave before turning back to his task of checking tourists entering the museum. He followed Captain Reynoso down a marbled floor to a stained oak door with a “security” sign affixed to it.
