by Davis Bunn
They rounded Cape Korucam, with its medieval stone lighthouse and emerald pastures, shepherds watching them from the point. The mountains closed in, spilling in timeless grace down to the sea, their crowns lost to clouds. The hills marched in stolid certainty into the lavender distance, joining finally with the sea and the sky. Harry moved in closer to shore, the cliffs a looming wall blocking the east.
He knew they had arrived because the ledge upon which the monastery sat was a solitary hook of rock, extending at a jagged angle from the main cliff face. Harry pulled a bit farther offshore, checked the current to ensure they were safe for a dive, then cut his engine. After two hours of whining engines, the silence was achingly strong.
Emma slipped back a notch. It seemed to Harry that the lady might have been a bit reluctant to release her grip. He patted her arm, unable to come up with words quite as fine as that sentiment. She seemed to understand, because she kissed the sun-splashed back of his neck before finally letting go.
Storm called over, “I saw that.”
Emma said, “Stick around, you might learn something.”
Harry said, “I wish.”
Storm’s quip was cut off by a ringing from Emma’s backpack. Emma said, “I don’t believe it.”
“The military base up on the cliff must have its own cell-phone tower,” Harry said.
Storm asked, “Do you have to answer?”
Emma slipped agilely onto the sled. She pulled the phone from her pack, checked the readout, and hit the button. “Agent Webb.”
“Business,” Harry said.
Storm sighed.
Emma’s tone went steel hard. “What I need to hear from you, sir, is the history and whereabouts for Yves Boucaud.”
Storm turned in her seat. As intent now as Emma.
Harry swung one leg over the center console. He kept a hand on the controls, balanced against any movement from Emma. Waves lapped against the windward side of his Jet Ski. The woman’s face grew as hard as the cliffs overhead.
Emma fumbled inside the backpack and came up with pad and pen. The light was Aegean clear, a luminosity so brilliant Harry saw what he had missed up until then. Emma Webb was in fact two people. There was a woman strong enough to be soft with him. And this other person. A federal agent. Hard and cold and utterly professional. He studied her with the sadness of knowing she was locked into a world from which he was forever barred.
Emma cut the connection. The wraparound shades clung to a face more stone than flesh. “Washington’s come through. I need to let Hakim know.”
Storm asked, “Can you tell us first?”
Harry replied, “No. Make the call.”
“Thanks.”
He watched her so intently he only half heard her side of the conversation. Her tone held him, though, clipped and terse, chopping each word off with a sniper’s precision. The question Harry had to work through was, could he handle having less than 100 percent of this lady? Because he was certain there would always be places she went without him.
He gripped the Jet Ski’s rubber handle and looked over the side, down into the waiting depths. Down into his world. He looked back to the sled. As Emma talked about the bad guys, she left his world behind. Harry knew this would be a lifelong pattern. It left him a little sad, but not much. Because he felt what was really happening was a whole lot bigger than just one shift in his perception. Like he’d taken some giant leap of his own. Adding another mystery to the world.
Finally Emma shut the phone, put away her notepad, zipped up the backpack, said, “Okay. Here’s what we know. Yves Boucaud was born Robert Montalband in Marseilles to pied noir parents. Pied noir translates as blackfoot. It was intended as a semiderogatory way of describing Europeans cast out of Algeria after France lost the civil war, but the families apparently use it to describe themselves to this day, and with pride. They are very close-knit. Some are involved with crime lords inside the Arab world. Ten years ago, Boucaud became a principal conduit for clandestine arms shipments to US allies. In the lead-up to the second Gulf war, Boucaud was the largest supplier to Kurdish rebels in north Iraq.”
Storm asked, “Why the name change?”
“You see that sometimes. Maybe he stiffed the wrong partner. Or maybe he moved up in the world and wanted to break from his past. In any case, the US recently discovered that our boy had started using his ally status to sell arms wherever he could find a buyer. The US government has been playing it low-key, hoping threats would bring him around and allow them to avoid a major publicity nightmare.”
Harry said, “He’s fronting for terrorists.”
Emma shrugged a maybe. “As of yesterday, Homeland Security has officially put Boucaud on their watch list and has frozen any further business.”
Storm said, “That’s it?”
“My guy claims they have no concrete evidence to take it any further.”
“In other words, they still aren’t looking very hard.”
Emma did not respond.
Harry let the water lap against the hulls for a time, then said, “Let’s get wet.”
STORM HELPED THEM SUIT UP and fit on the tanks. She declined Harry’s offer for her first-ever diving lesson, said she’d be happy to snorkel when they were done. She watched them slip over the sled’s edge and gave it a full twenty minutes. Harry had lashed the two Jet Skis together so Storm could easily hold them both offshore. She waited until their air bubbles had shifted so far south of the boat that she could no longer make them out from the waves and the sun. Then she shifted to the other machine, climbed onto the sled, and reached into Emma’s backpack.
Emma’s notepad and pen were in the same side pocket as her phone and the Interpol badge. Storm scouted about, half expecting to see Emma rise from the waves and hurtle accusations. But she was alone on the calm waters, save for a distant boat and a pair of gulls floating overhead. Storm opened the Interpol ID, the leather wallet so new it creaked. Emma looked out at her with a steel-hard gaze, the total pro. Storm ran her finger down the edge of the cover. The night before, in the darkness of their shared bedroom, Storm had asked her how it felt to be a federal agent. Emma had replied sleepily that it was the best job in the world, but only if you could put up with the sexist hassles, the lack of stick-around men, and parents who urge you to get psychiatric help. For some reason, Storm had felt sad for them both.
Right then, she wished for a bit more of Emma’s hard-core strength.
Storm put down the wallet and opened Emma’s notebook to the last page. Yves Boucaud’s telephone number stood out clearly because it was the only thing not written in Emma’s personal shorthand. Storm unzipped the backpack’s other pocket and drew out her own cell phone. The signal was down to a single bar. Storm dialed the number.
After three rings, a man’s voice came on. “Speak now.”
The shock of hearing the voice behind Sean’s murder felt as sharp as an ice dagger. “My name is Storm Syrrell. I am calling to ask you for a job.”
She slapped the phone shut and clenched both hands between her thighs, rocking slightly until the body tremors eased.
FORTY
WHEN HARRY AND EMMA RETURNED to the surface, the evidence of a good dive was clear on both their faces. Harry helped Emma out of the water, then set his speargun on the sled and clambered up to sit beside her. He unhooked the line of fish from his weight belt and connected it to the Jet Ski’s footpad so the fish remained in the water. He eased off her tanks and her weight belt, then stabilized the sled while she took off her wetsuit and slipped shorts over her bikini. They talked in low tones about the water, the fish, the coral, the sea, the light. Not shutting Storm out. Just reveling in the intimacy of an experience that was all theirs.
Harry fed them all energy bars and water. He asked Storm if she wanted to go out, but didn’t press. Storm had the impression he was waiting for something, particularly after he picked up the small binoculars he’d bought in town and played them over the cliffs looming to the east. Emma c
ombed out her hair, slipped on a sweatshirt, then leaned back on the sled and sighed with genuine contentment.
Later, Storm decided. I’ll tell them later.
Emma said, “I could learn to love this.”
“Glad to hear it,” Harry said, not taking his eyes off the cliffs.
Emma smiled his way. “Looking for anything in particular?”
Harry seemed to take that as his cue. He lowered the glasses and said to Storm, “Tell us about these hills.”
Storm had left her notes back at the cottage but did not need them to respond. “The mountains of northwest Cyprus were the world’s first major source of copper. King Aurelius, leader of Cyprus during the rule of Nefertiti, empress of Egypt, was known to have paid all his tributes in copper talents, mined from those hills. The island became rich off the export of copper, which became one of the cornerstones of the first and second Bronze Ages.”
Emma said, “Okay, I’m impressed.”
“Enkomi was the island’s first capital and was located near Salamis, away from the eyes of people coming to buy their treasure. Then the Phoenicians invaded and captured the island. They moved the capital near where Lefkosa is now.”
Harry asked, “Any mention of earthquakes in the mining area?”
“No, but I didn’t check that specifically.”
Emma said, “They’d talk about cities being destroyed.”
“Maybe. Then again, maybe there wasn’t any to mention.” Harry pointed to the sharp line of peaks rising from the sea to their left. “Hills struck by earthquakes tend to be rounded. These mountains have been fashioned by eons of wind and rain.”
“What are you saying?”
Harry replied, “Tell me what you saw down there.”
Emma sat up on the packs. “Coral. Fish. Seaweed.”
“You saw a ledge, right? The bottom comes flat off the cliffs there, straight out to here, and then it drops off to infinity and beyond. A classic eastern Mediterranean island configuration.”
“So?”
“It’s been bothering me since I got my first look off the cliffs by the monastery.” Harry turned to Storm. “What brought us here? I don’t mean the treasure. I mean the first clue we had of its being here at all.”
“The three-fingered design from the tryptych.”
“Exactly.”
Emma said, “You’ve lost me.”
“Hand me your notepad.” Harry flipped to an empty page and related his and Storm’s findings as he drew. “This is what we saw. Three stubby peninsulas sticking out to sea. The central one is squared off at the tip. Waves are crashing around the outside.”
Emma said to the page, “So maybe an earthquake sheered it all off.”
“That’s what I came here hoping we’d find.” Harry handed back the notebook and pen. “But I don’t think that’s what happened. If an earthquake sheered off a face that high, you could spot the rubble from the surface.”
Storm said, “You’re telling us we got it wrong.”
“No. I’m saying it’s not here.” Harry stabbed the water with a forefinger.
“All this for nothing,” Emma said.
“No. Absolutely not. The treasure is real and we’re closing in. I can smell it.” Harry hefted the binoculars and studied the cliff again. “But I can’t get around to solving this riddle until our watchers take off.”
Emma sat up straight. “I don’t see anybody.”
“That boat on the horizon. They’ve been shadowing us since before we made our dive. So far, all they’ve seen is three people doing exactly what we said we’d do.” Harry unleashed the Jet Skis. “So let’s go find us a secluded beach, and maybe they’ll leave us to get down to the real work.”
EMMA CONTINUED TO RIDE BEHIND Harry as they motored south by west, following the line of cliffs around a gradual curve. The man was all muscle yet lacked the buffed quality of most men she knew. She found herself drawn to his raw strength, so completely different from the standard Washington male.
As the sun gentled into the sea, clouds gathered like skyborne sheep about the cliffs overhead. They rode around a headland to discover a cluster of perhaps fifty miniature peaks rising from the sea, rocky islands huddled in three tight clumps just offshore. Five miles before the islets began, the cliffs made a tight curve inward. A shelf of sand rose from the sea and nestled into the rocky overhang. Harry stopped fifty yards offshore and jumped into the water with snorkel and fins, making sure the bottom was safe. At his signal, Emma and Storm ran the Jet Skis slowly forward and beached them on the shore.
Harry stood on one of the rocks planted in the sand and gave the ladies a quick dousing from one of the five-gallon fresh-water containers. Just enough to get the worst of the salt off their skin. He used a ladle on himself, then turned to making dinner. They dined on fresh-speared fish and freeze-dried vegetables and pilau rice, with two energy bars each for dessert. The sunset was blocked by towering cliffs that formed a gentle sweep out in both directions. As happened every night since they’d been on the island, the clouds condensed about the peaks. Harry fed the fire from an endless supply of driftwood. Emma sat on a rock just beyond the fire’s reach and listened to the waves whisper about conflicting desires.
Storm’s cell phone began ringing. Emma watched her fumble in the pack, grip her phone with both hands, clench her eyes tight, then raise the phone and say, “What?”
The metallic edge to her voice lifted Harry’s head. “Storm?”
She turned her back to them both and said coldly, “That is not the question you need to be asking.”
Emma asked, “Who is it?”
Storm said to her phone, “You need to realize the kind of resources the woman who tracked you down would bring to the table. And then decide whether you want her on your side.”
The fire crackled. The waves lapped the shore. Storm said, “No. Not a chance. If you’re interested, you meet me here, Monsieur Bouchaud. We decide on a way we can trust…Oh, please. As if you haven’t been chasing us since Palm Beach.”
Emma covered the distance between them in a pair of giant leaps, only to be met by a stiff-armed rejection. Storm went on, “Think about it. The old man fired me. I was left totally out in the cold. Why should I feel loyalty to a guy who kicked me out?”
Harry moved up close enough for Emma to feel his heat.
Storm said, “You know perfectly well where we are. You want to talk, you’ve got forty-eight hours. Otherwise I’ll see if the authorities…No. Forget that. No threats. Because you are interested. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have called.”
She slapped the phone shut. The shudder that wracked her left her crouching so low her hair smoldered in the fire. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Step back,” Harry said, taking her arm. “That’s it. Okay, unlock. Give me the phone. Good girl. Unlock. Relax. It’s over.”
But Emma wasn’t about to let it go. “Let me get this straight. You went through my purse and got Boucaud’s number?”
Storm let Harry guide her over and settle her onto a rock. “I had to do it.”
When Storm swiveled away, Emma followed. “Just exactly how did you have to go through my things?”
“How long has the FBI known about this guy?”
“I’m asking the questions here.”
“Four months, isn’t that what you said? If they had done something four months ago, Sean would still be alive!”
The pain was so raw in Storm’s voice, Emma found herself calming. “They didn’t roll because they didn’t have a case.”
“You said it yourself. Arresting him still isn’t their priority. So how long do they give him this time? Who does he get to kill next?”
“You should have discussed it with me.”
“What for? So you could take it up with a committee?”
“I don’t work like that and you know it.”
Storm didn’t respond.
“You’re putting yourself out there as bait.”
“No, Emma. I’m making things happen. Your job is to do something with it.”
Harry walked away from them both. He scrunched through the sand, down to the shoreline. The clouds surrounding the peaks blocked out the stars. The sea was inky black and very still. Harry stood staring out at nothing.
Emma called over, “Don’t you have the slightest bit of concern here?”
Harry replied to the night, “I know what old Sean would say.”
Storm’s head popped up. “What?”
“Sean would say, the vine from above the temple doors is the key. A gold pipe five inches in diameter and forty feet long, let’s assume it’s hollow because if it isn’t we’re in serious trouble. Even hollow, if it’s got gold leaves soldered along its length, the thing is going to weigh two, maybe three hundred pounds. I’m guessing they folded it six or seven times, got it down to the height of a man. I can lift it. But I can’t carry it anywhere alone.”
Emma knew she was defeated, but went down fighting. “Did you even hear what we’ve said?”
Harry turned toward them. The fire carved his features into battle-hardened lines. “Storm did what she felt she had to. That doesn’t change a thing. We were under life-or-death pressure long before she picked up the phone.”
He pointed toward the night. “We’re tracking one of the greatest prizes the world has ever known. If it’s there, we’re going to have to move fast. And get it right the first time.”
