“And will you make it your business to kill me once I have produced your so-called heir?”
“That depends entirely on you.”
“Then kill me now. The thought of your touch revolts me.” She attempted to get by him. He stepped in to bar the way. She turned instinctively, looking for a place to run; her glance fell on the statue’s face, which was illuminated in the flickering torchlight.
“The statue. I remember now. I saw one like it in Rome. It was taken from Carthage during the Punic Wars. The Carthaginians used it to sacrifice children to Ba’al when the Romans attacked the city. That’s why your sainted priestess was exiled. She practiced human sacrifice.”
“Solomon was a hypocrite,” Baltazar snapped. “He worshipped the old gods, but when his priests rose up against him he gave in to them.”
“I don’t want anything to do with you or your vile gods. I want you to let me go.”
“That’s not possible.”
A wicked gleam came to Carina’s eye. She snatched up the torch from its stand and stuck it in Baltazar’s face. He laughed at the show of defiance.
“Put that thing down before I take it away from you.”
“If you won’t let me go, I will destroy your wonderful priestess.”
She whirled around and brought the torch close to the bound parchment pages on the altar.
Baltazar’s hand moved with the speed of a cobra. He snatched the torch from her hand before the dry pages caught fire, and his fist slammed her in the face. She crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Baltazar looked up at the statue. The slanting almond eyes glittered in the light. The arms reached out as if they wanted to embrace him.
He glanced down at Carina’s limp body, then up at the silent statue again. He cocked his head as if he were listening.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Now I understand.”
Chapter 44
AUSTIN DROPPED THE DUFFEL BAG with his dive equipment just inside the entrance to the boathouse and walked into the study. The red light was blinking on the phone. Two messages. He pressed the button. The first message was from Carina.
“Hi, Kurt. Leaving the Met around one-thirty. Meeting was a great success! Can’t wait to tell you about it. Hope the computer enhancements of the Navigator worked out. Catching a cab to Penn Station. I should be back in D.C. by late afternoon. Will call when I’m on my way. Ciao.”
He glanced at the wall clock. It was past ten o’clock. The beep signaling the start of the second message broke into his thoughts. Maybe it was Carina calling again. The phone message was short and chilling.
“Good evening, Mr. Austin,” a metallic voice said. “We are holding the Italian property for you to view. Call this number back.”
A voice changer made the caller sound like a robot. The phone number listed on the caller ID said the caller was OUT OF AREA. Austin remembered Buck’s words when Austin had confronted him at TopkapiPalace.
My employer has other plans for her.
Carina had never made it to Penn Station. Austin pursed his lips. He mentally retraced Carina’s steps that day, hoping that he’d recall a clue to her disappearance. Carina had told no one else of her plans to go to the Met. He remembered overhearing her making last-minute plans with the museum people that morning on his phone.
Austin picked up the phone to call Zavala, but his hand froze in midair. He put the phone down as if it had turned into a rattlesnake and went out onto the deck.
The air carried a rank but not unpleasant smell of mud and rotting vegetation. Lovelorn frogs croaked soft love songs against the insect chorus. The river was a pale ghost in the light of a half-moon. He remembered the prowler who’d watched the house the night of his first dinner with Carina. The tall oak tree where he had found the footprint was silhouetted against the dull sheen of the river.
The prowler had done more than prowl.
Austin went back through the house and out to the car. He drove to the end of the long driveway, turned onto the road, and drove five miles before stopping. He removed the cell phone from its dashboard holder and punched in a number from memory.
A deep voice answered: “Flagg here.”
“I could use your help,” Austin said. “Can you come by my house? Bring a fumigator.”
“Twenty minutes,” Flagg said and hung up.
Flagg was probably at Langley. Austin didn’t know where his old colleague lived. Maybe he didn’t have a home other than the CIA headquarters, where he spent most of his time between troubleshooting assignments that took him around the world.
Austin drove back to the boathouse. He was angry at himself for not insisting that Carina stay out of view, although it probably wouldn’t have done any good. Carina was fearless when it came to her own safety.
Two vehicles pulled into the drive exactly twenty-five minutes after Austin called. Flagg got out of a Yukon. A slim young man wearing coveralls emerged from a panel truck that had the name of a pest control company painted on the doors.
The fumigator introduced himself as the Bug Man. He set an aluminum case on the study floor and snapped the lid open. He removed a gadget that looked like a Buck Rogers ray gun and pointed its flared barrel at the walls as he swiveled on his heel.
Working quickly, the Bug Man surveyed each room on the ground level and then climbed up the spiral staircase to the turret bedroom. He came down a few minutes later and went to repack his electronic gear.
“No infestation here,” he said. “The whole house is clean.”
“What about outside the house?” Austin said. He jerked his thumb toward the deck.
The Bug Man tapped his right temple with a forefinger. “Duh. Of course.”
He went out on the deck and returned seconds later.
“I’m getting something from the direction of the river,” he said.
“I think I know where,” Austin said. He got a flashlight and led Flagg and the Bug Man down the deck stairs to the base of the tall oak tree. “There was a prowler out here a few nights ago,” he said. “I found a footprint under this tree.”
The Bug Man pointed his ray gun up toward the network of branches. Numbers appeared on the small LED display screen, and the gun let off a series of electronic pings.
He borrowed the flashlight and asked Flagg and Austin to give him a hand. They hoisted him up to the lowest branch, and he climbed halfway up the tree. He dug into a thick limb with a pocketknife, then climbed back down to earth, and he held his hand out in the beam of the flashlight. A black plastic box the size of a deck of cards rested in his palm.
“State-of-the-art. Maybe even beyond that. Voice-activated. Solar-powered. This little gadget picked up every phone call you made, whether on the regular line or cell phone, and transmitted the conversations to a listening post. Your phone conversations could have been relayed anywhere in the world. What do you want me to do with this thing?”
Flagg had watched the debugging process without talking, but now he offered a suggestion. “I’d put it back. It might come in handy if you want to spread some disinformation around.”
“I was thinking of using it to send a few choice words to the listening post,” Austin said, but he knew Flagg’s suggestion was a good one.
The Bug Man climbed back into the tree. Flagg glanced up into the branches and said, “Somebody went through a lot of trouble to butt into your business. I thought that all you had to worry about since going over to NUMA was counting fish.”
“You wouldn’t believe the size of some of the fish in the ocean,” Austin said. “When your friend is through, I’ll crack open a couple of beers and tell you all about it.”
The fumigator dropped out of the tree after reinstalling the electronic bug. He gathered up his tools and took off in his truck. Austin got two bottles of Sam Adams from the refrigerator, and he and Flagg settled into leather chairs in the study. For the next hour, Austin filled Flagg in on the events that had transpired since the hijacking of the containership.
Flagg allowed his wide mouth a slight smile in his otherwise impassive face. “King Solomon’s mines! Compared to you, Austin, my job is about as exciting as sorting mail.” He grew serious again. “You’re up against some real heavyweights. You think this Baltazar character has your lady friend?”
“Baltazar’s signature as been all over this thing since the very start.”
“What can I do?”
“Try to find out where Baltazar spends his time.”
“I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”
“Stand by.” Austin picked up the phone, put it on speaker, and punched in the number left by his anonymous caller.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” said the weird voice.
“I was out of town. What’s this Italian property you told me about?”
“You know her as Carina Mechadi. She’s in good shape. For now. I can’t vouch for her future health.”
“What’s your asking price?”
“Not what. Who. We would exchange her for you.”
“Guaranteed?”
“In a perfect world. Yours is very imperfect right now.”
“What are the terms?”
“Be out in front of the Lincoln Memorial in exactly ninety minutes. Have no one with you. Don’t try to bring any positioning devices. You will be scanned.”
Austin glanced at Flagg. “I’ll be there.”
The line went dead.
“She must be quite a woman,” Flagg said. He rose from his chair. “You’d better get moving. I’ll try to run Baltazar to ground.”
Austin told Flagg to use Zavala as his contact. After his friend had left, Austin picked up the phone and called Joe, holding back the temptation to hurl some choice epithets at the unknown listener.
“Hi, Joe. Kurt. I won’t be able to meet with you tomorrow. Pitt called and wants me to meet him tonight.”
“Must be pretty important.”
“It is. I’ll give you a call later.”
Austin made the second call to Zavala fifteen minutes later during the drive along the Beltway toward Washington.
“I was waiting for your call. Didn’t see how you’d meet with Pitt tonight. Last I heard, he was on the Sea of Japan.”
“Sorry for the runaround. Someone was listening to every word.”
Austin told him about Carina and his intention to comply with the kidnapper’s orders.
“I’ll go along with anything you say, Kurt, but do you think going into this will help Carina?”
“I don’t know. It may put me close enough to her to help. The fact that I have a lead on the location of the mine might give me some leverage.”
“Hate to rain on your parade, but what if they’re simply after your hide and don’t want to bargain?”
“I’ve given that possibility serious consideration. I’ll have to take that chance. Meanwhile, I want you to find the mine. It could be a trump card. Speed is of the essence.”
“I’ve already arranged for a chopper and talked to the Trouts. We’ll hook up with Saxon at first light. Good luck in the meantime.”
“Thanks,” Austin said. “I’ll need it.”
Austin told Zavala that Flagg would be in touch with him and hung up. He parked the Jeep in the NUMA underground garage and caught a cab to the Lincoln Memorial. He got there a minute before the ninety minutes had elapsed. Seconds after the taxi pulled away, a black Cadillac Escalade SUV pulled up to the curb and the rear door opened. A man got out and pointed to the backseat.
Austin took a deep breath and got into the car. The man slid in behind him, wedging Austin between another occupant. The SUV sped away from the memorial and joined the traffic stream.
The man to his left reached under his jacket. Austin saw the gleam of metal. He couldn’t tell whether it was a knife or a gun. He cursed his bad judgment. They weren’t taking him anywhere. They were going to kill him immediately.
He brought his arm up to protect himself.
Something cold pressed against his neck and he heard a soft hiss.
Then someone pulled a blackout curtain down over his eyes.
His body went limp, his eyes closed on their own, and his head lolled. Only the presence of the men on either side of him prevented him from falling over.
Before long, the SUV was on the outskirts of the capital, moving as fast as the speed limit allowed, in the direction of the airport.
Chapter 45
THE MCDONNELL DOUGLAS MD 500 utility helicopter darted through the sky high over Chesapeake Bay, its turquoise fuselage bathed in the soft light of dawn. Joe Zavala was at the controls. Gamay was in the passenger bucket seat. Paul Trout’s long form was stretched out on the rear bench seat, which he shared with bags of dive gear.
Zavala squinted through the tinted bubble canopy and jabbed his forefinger downward. “That’s where Kurt and I dove on the wreck,” he said. “Havre de Grace coming up.”
The white spike of the Concord Lighthouse came into view. Then the railroad bridge at the mouth of the Susquehanna River.
Zavala followed the course of the river as the muddy waterway headed in a northwesterly direction. The Susquehanna’s flow was broken here and there by scraggly islands. Rolling agricultural fields out of a Grant Wood painting flanked both shores.
Cruising at a speed of one hundred fifty miles per hour, the aircraft quickly covered the distance to Harrisburg. Traffic on the roads was still light. About ten miles north of the Capitol dome, the helicopter veered east, away from the river and toward a range of mountains. The helicopter passed over dense woodlands and farms, finally dropping down through the early-morning mists to land at a grassy airstrip.
Saxon’s secondhand Chevy Suburban was parked at the edge of the tarmac. As the helicopter’s skids touched the ground, Saxon started the engine and drove across the field. The Suburban pulled up next to the helicopter and Saxon bounded out. He strode under the spinning rotors to greet Zavala and the Trouts with vigorous handshakes. He was decked out for an African safari in cargo pants, a cartridge vest, and a bush hat with the brim curled up on one side.
“Where’s Kurt?” Saxon said.
“Called away unexpectedly,” Zavala said. He hid his misgivings about Austin’s mission with a cheerful smile.
“Damn shame,” Saxon said with disappointment. “Kurt’s going to miss all the fun when we find the mine.”
“You sound pretty confident,” Paul said.
“Joe knows from experience that I tend toward grandiose pronouncements. Showmanship goes with my occupation,” Saxon admitted. “But I would swear on Sheba’s grave that we have the mine within our grasp. I’ll show you.”
Saxon went over to his car and dropped down the tailgate. He snapped open his battered suitcase and extracted a thick wad of papers.
“You’ve been busy,” Zavala said.
“I’m bleary-eyed from staying up all night doing research,” Saxon said. “But it’s been worth it. This is a topographical map of the area of interest. And this diagram shows the old railroad that used to service the coal mines. Joe has probably filled you in,” he said to the Trouts, “but what drew me to this place were the persistent rumors of a legendary gold mine and Indian burial caves. There’s the Gold Mine Road, which winds through the mountains, and an abandoned village called Gold Mine.”
Trout surveyed the woods surrounding the quiet airstrip. His large brown eyes blinked, as they often did when his brain went into ponder mode.
“You’ll have to pardon my scientific skepticism,” he said with typical New England bluntness, “but it’s hard to believe that Phoenicians sailed from halfway across the world and found a gold mine in this pretty Pennsylvania countryside.”
“Skepticism is healthy,” Saxon said. “You have to look at the context. We see walking trails, sleepy villages, and farms. But this land was once inhabited by at least five tribes who lived in twenty villages. In 1600, when the Europeans rediscovered the place, there were nearly seven thousand Susquehanno
ck Indians living in these hills and valleys.”
“What’s your theory on first contact?” Gamay asked.
“I believe a Phoenician scouting ship in search of copper heard about the gold from the Indians. With their skill at organization, the Phoenicians could have hired the locals to open the mine, refine the gold, and established land and sea routes to transport it home.”
“Difficult but not impossible,” Trout said with a nod of his head. “Did I understand you to say that you can actually lead us to the mine?”
“I can lead you to where I think it is. Hop in the car and we’ll go for a ride.”
They shifted their bags from the helicopter to the Suburban. Saxon drove from the airport onto a winding country road. After a few miles, he turned off the road and followed a pair of ruts into the woods.
“Welcome to St. Anthony’s Wilderness,” Saxon said as the vehicle bumped in and out of cratered potholes. “This is the second-largest roadless area in Pennsylvania. The Appalachian Trail runs through it. You’ve got fourteen thousand acres of woodlands between First and Second mountains.”
“I wasn’t aware that St. Anthony visited North America,” Gamay said.
“He didn’t. It was named after a missionary named Anthony Seyfert. The locals know it as StonyValley. It’s as quiet as the grave around here now, but in the 1800s hundreds of men and boys toiled in the coal mines. Rail lines came into the village of Rausch Gap, and later served the Cold Springs resort. Almost everyone left when the mines played out.”
“You said almost,” Zavala said.
Saxon nodded. “Some smart developers figured out a way to profit from the gold mine legend. They built a place called the Gold Stream Hotel. Tourists stayed at the hotel, and took boat rides into a cave—Pennsylvania is loaded with them. The highlight was the opportunity to pan for gold.”
“They actually found gold?” Gamay said.
“Enough to make the tourists happy. The hotel sold lockets to hold your gold dust. The hotel went out of business after the railroad pulled out.”
“There must have been a source for that gold dust,” Paul said.
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