Legend: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “ ‘Eliminate’ was her word,” Jack answered.

  “I guess that’s what you can call irreconcilable differences,” Niles said without much humor.

  The others around the table thought Niles was straining to make this meeting light, but the attempt failed when they looked into his worried eyes.

  “The anthrax, have we generated a report yet on how it was manufactured by the Chinese seven hundred years before it was possible?” asked Virginia Pollock, deputy director and head of Nuclear Sciences.

  “There’s nothing official as yet from the Japanese government. Sarah did have a chance to speak with Danielle Serrate some before we left the island.”

  “Did she impart a theory?” Niles asked, turning and looking at the new second lieutenant.

  “Well, it’s a rough theory, but she thinks they used human blood, possibly intentionally infected with the anthrax antibodies carried by cattle. Really amazing for the time to have known the extreme nature of the infectious disease they were dealing with. Anyway, our Ms. Farbeaux, or Serrate if you prefer, thinks the ancient Chinese developed a way of synthesizing the anthrax organism in the animal blood and incubating it with human material inside clay ovens. Recent discoveries of alchemist’s dwellings, actually very rudimentary laboratories if you will, have been recently uncovered just outside of Beijing. The buried site was complete with eight- and twelve-lens microscopes, amazing technology for the time. The Chinese took no chances on the spread of the anthrax so the whole laboratory system was destroyed, buried forever, or so they thought. Once the incubation cycle was tested, again we assume on human guinea pigs, they mixed the dried blood with nothing more than rice starch, thus rendering the anthrax in powder form as a weapons-grade airborne bacterial substance, very ingenious for the time. God only knows how many people died in its manufacture. The Japanese can thank the heavens for the storm that sent that ship off course and the rest of Kublai Khan’s invasion fleet to the bottom of the sea.”

  “And the former Mrs. Farbeaux thought her ex was going after the anthrax?” Niles asked.

  “According to her, yes, he was. It seems our friend has expanded his interest to include weapons-grade material instead of just antiquities,” Jack said. “She stated that was just one of several sites he had investigated. But since they had an eyewitness that said the Chinese junk was in reality buried inside a lava flow chamber on Okinawa, she took a leave of absence in the hope he would be there, that being the most viable site to date.”

  “Okay, I’ll turn Ms. Serrate’s interview tape over to the president and he in turn can ask the FBI and our friends at Homeland Security to keep an eye out for our French friend.”

  Niles looked around the table at his department heads. “All right, remember we have a briefing tomorrow at ten on the joint field trip to Iraq by the University of Tennessee and Cal Poly–Pomona. So I need names of Group personnel being assigned from the departments that are applicable.” He looked at his notes, “That’s you, Bonnie,” he said, indicating Professor Bonnie Margate of the Anthropology Department. “And you, Kyle,” he glanced at Kyle Doherty of the History Department. “Jack, I need a minimum of four security men on this trip. There’s no need for a cover for them as it’s Iraq— we’ll just give them credentials from the State Department and National Archives; they’ll be there to assist the Iraqi government at the site, okay?”

  Jack nodded his agreement.

  “You two.” Niles pointed toward Sarah and Carl at the end of the long conference table. “If Jack agrees, stand down for a week. You did an excellent job out there. More than likely saved some lives. Be sure you get a good once-over in medical to make sure you didn’t bring some of that Kublai Khan face powder back with you. Thank you, that’s all I have.”

  The assembled group in the conference room moved for the door as the meeting broke up.

  “Jack, you have a minute?” Niles asked.

  Jack placed his case and notes back on the table. His uniform’s silver oak leaves glittered in the light as he pulled out his chair and sat. “Sure,” he answered.

  “This development with Farbeaux is worrisome. Why would he switch interests when all he ever did was to go after antiquities? It’s not making a whole lot of sense.”

  “I can’t figure it myself. I did some rough estimating on the plane ride home. The anthrax, even if only thirty percent of it had been viable after so many years, it would have been worth five hundred million dollars on the open market.”

  “God almighty, Jack, would he have had any takers at that price?” Niles asked, astonished.

  “That sum would have eliminated any low-budget fringe elements that pass themselves off as terrorists, but the new influx of Middle Eastern money has filled the wallets of JRA leadership and a few others, so they can afford it. Also, don’t forget Osama bin Laden and his boys, so yeah, there are those willing to pay big money for crap like that. If we had had more time on this operation we could have passed this information on to the FBI through another channel and they could have set up some kind of sting and netted a whole bunch of bad guys,” he said with regret.

  “What in God’s name is Farbeaux up to?” Niles asked, not wanting to comment on the lost opportunity.

  Jack just sat there and shook his head. “You can bet your retirement pay it’s not good, Niles.”

  BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA

  Farbeaux was feeling the jet lag. He sat and listened to the tirade of Joaquin Delacruz Mendez, chairman of the board, Banco de Juarez International Economica, as Mendez paced in front of him. The spacious boardroom was empty save for the two men.

  “What’s done is done, my friend, screaming will not return the professor to us. She has five, almost six weeks on us but, regardless of that, if we move quickly we can reach the area in a quarter of that time. It’s a very good thing we did not go down and chase after her with the documents we had in hand; we would have gone the long way around through Brazil instead of the direct route through Colombia to the north. I can’t believe she went right under our noses, through your own country.”

  Mendez didn’t respond to the slight insult of having Professor Zachary and all her team and equipment take a route that had brought them through his own nation, but he did force himself to calm down. His temper had climbed in the years that followed the collapse of the larger and most organized of the Colombian drug cartels. Cartels in which he had garnered an immense financial empire by handling the money end of their drug transactions. While those he served were tracked down and killed one at a time or thrown into prison, he had stayed safely behind the scenes, actually assisting in a few captures and ambushes on the government’s behalf, for his self-benefit.

  “What about your equipment?”

  “I took the liberty a week ago of ordering replacements from the States when I found out the good professor double-crossed us. We can be ready to travel in three days. With the equipment that was left on the dock in San Pedro with her little note attached, we should be fine. I guarantee, an hour after we arrive on site, whatever Zachary has found will be in our possession.”

  “You are very confident for a man that was so easily fooled by this woman,” Mendez said with a mocking smile that made his thick mustache look comical.

  Farbeaux was tempted to tell him just how ridiculous he looked, and then thought better of it. As he looked around the richly appointed conference room at the antiquities he had personally collected for Mendez, he was reminded of just how ruthless this man could be.

  “My estimation is that she could not have arrived on site any sooner than eleven days ago. Her interest lay in areas outside of the El Dorado aspect. So she will be making time-consuming exploration in areas outside of the mine, looking for her amphibious legend.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Mendez asked as he thought of the riches that the legend of El Dorado described—the very gold mine that had supplied the great Incan and Mayan empires of the gold they had used for thousands of years.

  “My
friend, I have never let you down. All your treasures here and in your home are there thanks to me. Because you trusted me to get them for you, so trust me on this.”

  “In the past year I have been pleased with your work and the many objects of beauty and wonder you have recovered for our mutual benefit. I will stake my entire fortune for a chance at El Dorado. And then I will gladly trade that for the mineral, if it is truly there. That is where the real El Dorado lay.”

  Farbeaux thought about Mendez and his last statement. Yes, he was positive there was gold in that small valley and, according to Padilla’s description of the mine, it had to be the legendary El Dorado. But unlike himself, gold didn’t interest Mendez any longer. The Colombian was after something far darker and less shiny than gold. As the American’s say, Mendez was after the gift that keeps on giving. And it had nothing to do with diamonds or gold.

  “You are right, my friend, there has never been anything like this, all of this,” Farbeaux said as he gestured at the priceless antiques of the Incan and Mayan civilizations, “is nothing compared to what awaits us.”

  Mendez paced to the large window looking down on Bogotá, placed his hands behind his back, and rocked in thought.

  “Very well, I approve of your expedition,” he said without turning.

  “Excellent, I will get started right away,” Farbeaux responded.

  “There is one thing more. I will be accompanying you.”

  The Frenchman was taken aback for a moment, but showed nothing. Then he smiled. “Either here or there, does it matter where you receive what’s coming to you? Of course, you are most welcome.”

  As Farbeaux left, Mendez turned and watched the large double doors close in his wake. Then he went to the long table and pushed a button on the console in front of his large chair.

  “Yes?” a voice answered.

  “This is Mendez; I have approved the operation in South America,” he said.

  “What is it you wish me to do?” the voice asked.

  “I want wire taps on this Professor Zachary’s phone at Stanford, and I want her office watched. I am curious to know if her absence has caused curiosity from the outside.”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  “Anything else?” Mendez asked.

  “Sí, jefe, it seems your French partner has recently made another large purchase of equipment not associated with the articles he told you about, which included ultrasound and other equipment stolen from a shipment belonging to Hanford National Laboratory. This fact and his failure to cover his tracks in Madrid make me believe he has his own agenda. Why this particular shipment should come from that field is suspicious, yes?”

  “Enough so that we must keep a closer eye on our friend,” Mendez answered thoughtfully as he broke the connection with Los Angeles.

  7

  THE GOLD CITY PAWNSHOP LAS VEGAS, NEVADA SEPTEMBER 5TH

  Family law attorney Stan Stopher sat in his rented Chevy and made sure the address was correct. He glanced at the envelope and the name, and they matched with what was on the old neon sign out in front of the building. Stan opened the car door and stepped into the Las Vegas heat that hit him as if someone had just opened the door of a blast furnace. He walked back to the trunk, retrieved the aluminum box, then hesitated. This act of delivering the case was tantamount to admitting that he would possibly never see her again. He knew she was in trouble, but for the life of him couldn’t figure out why she was sending the fossil to a pawnshop.

  He closed the trunk, walked up to the door, and pushed down on the old thumb plate. The door easily opened. He didn’t notice that the cameras placed in the doorway and three more across the street followed his every move. He felt the blessed air-conditioning strike him in his face, instantly cooling his sweaty brow. He set the case down and removed his sunglasses as his eyes adjusted to the brightly lit shop, then retrieved the case and followed a cramped aisle toward the back of the shop. Two young girls were going through the used CD collection, but other than them, the pawnshop was empty of customers. A large black man was seated behind the counter, reading a newspaper, both of his muscular arms resting on the glass. At least, to an untrained eye, he was reading. Stan was an observant man and he saw the black man’s gaze take in his thin frame. Then the man closed the paper and looked up at him overtly. His left hand stayed on the glass countertop but his right disappeared.

  “Hi, there,” the black man said. “What have you got? I hope it’s not vinyl LPs; can’t get rid of ’em anymore,” he said, indicating the aluminum case.

  Stan placed the shiny box on the counter and smiled. “No, I would never sell my collection of phonograph records.”

  “Oh, then how can I help you?” the clerk asked. His right hand was still not in view.

  “Well,” Stan reached into his shirt pocket and brought out the envelope and his business card, “a close friend of mine asked me to deliver this,” he said, tapping the container and handing the black man the card.

  The clerk looked more closely at the bright aluminum box and then stepped on a small red button on the floor by his foot.

  “I see, Mr.—” he looked at the business card, “Stopher. Let’s start with who your friend is and then we’ll move on to what’s in the case.”

  At that moment another man stepped out from behind a curtain at the back of the counter and without looking, only whistling, walked around to a rack of sunglasses. He started using a pricing gun left-handedly to mark the price of the glasses.

  “Well, the container belongs to a very dear friend whose name is Professor Helen Zachary. She is director of Zoology at Stanford University, and what is in the box is for the recipient only.”

  “And that is?”

  Without looking at the envelope he said the name he had memorized, “Dr. Niles Compton. Does the good doctor own this establishment?” Stan asked.

  “He owns the building, we just lease. I can deliver this, as long as it’s not a bomb,” the clerk said and smiled. The man pricing sunglasses didn’t. The fingers of his right hand were lightly tickling a Beretta automatic pistol lodged just inside the front of his shirt.

  “No, nothing as exciting as a bomb, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, we can get it to him. Can I help you with anything? Maybe add to your collection of LPs?”

  “No, thank you, your prices are kind of steep, I noticed.” Then he became deadly serious. “Look, I need to know where this case is going. This is a very dear friend of mine and I’m worried beyond measure.”

  “Sir, if you were instructed to deliver this package to Dr. Compton, you can bet action will be taken to help. I’m sure someone will be in touch as soon as possible.”

  The attorney wasn’t satisfied, but put his faith in the fact that Helen must have known what she was doing.

  Staff Sergeant Will Mendenhall watched as the old man left the shop. He looked at the card and then over to Lance Corporal Tommy Nance, United States Marine Corps.

  “We better get this X-rayed,” said Mendenhall, standing from his stool, where he had been in easy reach of the .45 automatic holstered behind the display case. As he grabbed for the aluminum box, he heard the click of an M-16 being placed on safety from behind the curtain. “Watch the store, Corporal, and try to get those two girls to buy something.”

  Corporal Nance straightened his collar and walked over to the girls, his broad smile gleaming.

  “Hi, there,” he said as suavely as he could.

  The tallest one turned around and smiled, revealing a mouth full of braces. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. Nance’s interest deflated. He kept busy ticketing for the next twenty minutes, listening to the two underage girls giggle and flirt with him. Sometimes gate duty truly sucked.

  The back room at the Gold City Pawnshop was no different in appearance than a hundred others with in the Las Vegas City limits. Stored there were items just tagged as collateral and others that had been pulled off the shelf for not selling. It was the door in the bac
k that led to the office that hid the wizard behind the curtain.

  Staff Sergeant Will Mendenhall was sitting and looking at the aluminum case and shaking his head. He had just finished speaking with Lieutenant Commander Carl Everett, who had ordered the attorney followed. A two-man team was currently tailing Stanley Stopher to wherever he was staying. Just in case they needed him for any reason. When Mendenhall had explained what the X-ray had turned up, security protocol went into immediate effect. The case and envelope addressed to Director Compton was sitting on the watch commander’s desk.

  Mendenhall heard the elevator arrive from the lower level, and the false-fronted wall slide aside. He turned and stood when he saw it was not only Carl who had arrived, but Major Collins also.

  “So, we have a skeletal hand in a box?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, sir, wasn’t expecting that,” Mendenhall said with a smile.

  “And our tail is still in contact with our attorney friend?”

  “Yes, sir, they just checked in. It seems Mr. Stopher is heading for McCarran airport. You want them to follow along?”

  Jack pursed his lips and thought. “I’ll have the USC field team pulled off duty and tail him long enough to make sure he’s who he says he is.”

  Jack looked the container over and then read the heading on the envelope. He then pulled the computer monitor around to face him and Carl. The X-ray image was still up and he examined it. “Nothing but the aluminum case, bone, and foam, with a hard rubber gasket lining the lid and soft neoprene for atmosphere evacuation. The computer is one hundred percent on this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Still, how is it that someone can walk right in off the street and know that this is a gate to the Group?” Carl asked.

  “Simple, if he didn’t know it was a gate and was instructed to deliver the item to this address by a former Group member,” Mendenhall ventured.

  Both Jack and Carl stopped talking and stared at the sergeant.