“You’re getting slower, Elise,” Sam said. “I remember a time when you used to pick up before it reached its second ring.”
“Is that so?” she asked. “And I remember a time when you didn’t interrupt me when I was on vacation.”
Sam smiled. In the past three years since he’d hired her for her inhuman ability to solve complex puzzles and hack any computer on the planet, he hadn’t recalled Elise ever taking a proper vacation. “That’s right, you said you were going away while the Maria Helena had her maintenance. Where are you?”
“Laying on a sunny beach in a town whose name most people can’t pronounce, and where few people will ever go looking to find me.”
“Not anymore,” Sam said. “I need you to get back to civilization and use that incredible mind of yours to locate something for me.”
“What?”
“Two things, actually.”
“Go on,” she said.
“A pyramid in Namibia and a ship last seen in 1655 bearing the name, Emerald Star.”
“Sure.” Her voice betrayed her usual surprise by what Sam wanted from her, as though for all her knowledge and skills, he basically wanted her to use Google for him. “You want a pyramid that didn’t exist and a pirate ship?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Sam flicked over to the third photo of the pyramid on his computer. It was real, he was certain of it. “How long will it take you to get off the beach and find me some answers?”
“Oh, I’m not planning on leaving the beach today. I’m on vacation, remember?” Her voice was teasing.
“Elise, this is important. It’s about Billie.”
“Relax, I’m already looking it up for you.”
“You take your laptop to the beach?” Sam asked.
“What can I say? I’m still a nerd even if I’m on vacation. And with the free satellite connection the company so generously provides, why shouldn’t I?”
Sam smiled as he listened to the sharp staccato of fingers tapping on a keyboard. He waited on the line for her to tell him how long it would take to find something.
He didn’t have to wait long, before she spoke. “Okay, I’m running two searches through a series of databases, ranging from African and Portuguese newspapers through to maritime and archeology reports. It might take a few minutes, but it’s looking like there’s nothing about a pyramid ever being found there.”
“What about the ship, the Emerald Star?” Sam asked.
“Okay, there were eight separate ships built between 1600 and 1700 bearing that name. Can you give me anything else to make it more specific?”
“No. What have you got?”
“Three were built after 1655 and two were sunk before 1655,” she said.
“And the other three?” Sam persisted.
“There’s a Spanish merchant vessel, which sank on the way to South America in 1656, a Portuguese Frigate that sank at Trafalgar, and a Portuguese barquentine that was stolen by pirates in 1646 – after which, it caused a world of havoc for merchant vessels traveling through the Gibraltar Strait. Apparently it was one of the most successful pirate ships during that era.”
“What happened to it?”
“No one knows. In 1654 it fired two shots at a Portuguese Frigate, before evidently realizing it couldn’t win, and turned to run. It was never seen again.”
“That’s our ship,” Sam said. “Where was it last seen?”
“Causing trouble along the north-west coast of Africa.”
“That’s it?” Sam said. “You can’t get any closer port or anything? What about where she was sailing to?”
“Sorry, Sam – that’s all I’ve got.”
Sam felt the Gulfstream ease off its thrust, as it commenced descent into Malta still thirty miles away. “What about the pyramid?”
There was a pause on the line – maybe just enough to take a couple breaths. “All right, I think I’ve got something for you.”
“What?” Sam asked, feeling hopeful.
“I don’t know if you’re going to like it. There was never any proof, but the story will definitely grab your attention.”
“Go on!”
“A man named Peter Smyth, three years ago went searching for a pyramid his great ancestor once wrote about. He claimed he’d found a journal stored by his late father and written by a guy named Thomas Hammersmith. In the journal Hammersmith described a journey into an African desert that reached all the way to the Atlantic. The purpose of which was to steal a rare golden artifact from an ancient pyramid. He goes on to say the strange relic was a curse that led to the deaths of the rest of their crew.”
“How did he survive?”
“Hammersmith wrote that he was saved by the generosity of an Angel with dark purple eyes who came cloaked in white robes, claiming to be Death, and told him to spread the word – Death was going to save the world.”
Sam said, “I can’t imagine why you thought I’d be concerned about the authenticity of this guy’s story. What did the archeologist say about it?”
“Of course, he never found a pyramid, and the conservatorium of archeology generally placed the story as fiction with no credible basis to go off.”
“But you think he might have been on to something?” Sam asked.
“Well, there’s an interesting note at the end of the article. Apparently Hammersmith was part of a crew who had come there specifically to steal a priceless artifact. After doing so, they were chased like wild animals by the rightful owners who numbered in the hundreds, all the way back to their ship. Care to guess the name of his ship?” she asked, with a hint of a tease.
Sam grinned. “The Emerald Star!”
“Quite a coincidence for a completely made up story, isn’t it?”
“What happened to the ship?”
“He doesn’t know. But what he does know is that a sand storm raged that night, worse than he’d ever seen, and in the process, the entire landscape had changed forever – and he often wondered if the ship still lay buried in the sand.”
Sam took a deep breath in and held it for a moment. “Elise. Tell me you have Peter Smyth’s contact details!”
“No. He went on another journey early last year in search of the pyramid and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Can you find him?”
“Only if he’s left a digital footprint, somewhere. If he walked into the desert and never came back I won’t find anything. He’s definitely not on social media or anywhere else on the internet as far as I can tell. There’s a note somewhere here about him being considered a paranoid conspiracy theorist. Apparently he became concerned that the same people who went after his great descendant were now after him because of what he knew.”
“What about facial recognition?”
“What about it?” Elise asked, and he could imagine her grinning at his naiveté.
Sam persisted. “I thought you said there’s software out there that can locate any person on the planet based on their face.”
“Sure. But the person would need to have the image of their face recorded somewhere for me to locate it. For example, if he went into a bank or a public library I could find it on their database.”
“So can you do it?”
“Not if he’s as paranoid as he appears to be. A man like that would know to disappear into the woods, away from any digital preying eyes.”
“What about satellite images?”
She laughed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but now you’re talking about the realms of science fiction or poorly described techno thrillers. I’ll keep searching to see if I can find him on any photo taken in the past year. But it’s going to be a miracle if I find something.”
“Okay. See what you can do. I’ve seen you perform miracles before.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I need you to tell me the name of the closest airport to the Namibian desert.”
A moment later, he hung up the phone.
Tom asked, “What did she s
ay?”
“We’re off to Windhoek Hosea Kutako International Airport.”
“Why?”
“To find a lost pirate ship and a pyramid that doesn’t exist.”
Chapter Twenty – Namibia
Sam stepped out of the Gulfstream G650 and onto the tarmac at Windhoek Hosea Kutako International Airport. He took a deep breath and was surprised by the sudden change in temperature. Having crossed over from the northern summer to the southern winter, the temperature dropped to 34 degrees Fahrenheit. He gritted his teeth at the perversity of recent severe weather changes. If people didn’t know by now that the health of the world was a global issue, they were never going to get it. While Turkey suffered its hottest summer on record, Namibia was struggling through its coldest winter. He was greeted by two men – one an official Customs Officer and the other an aircraft dealer.
“Good morning,” Sam said, handing his and Tom’s passport to the official.
“Welcome to Namibia.” The Customs Officer stamped both passports without looking at them and handed the books back. He smiled obsequiously, as though he were used to dealing with wealthy businessmen who landed at the airport in private jets. “If there is anything I can do for you while you’re here just let me know and I will arrange it for you. I have left my private cell number and will most certainly be able to find any service that you are after.”
“Thank you, Romashall,” Sam said, glancing at the man’s name tag. He turned to the second man. “You must be Bjorn?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Reilly,” Bjorn offered his hand.
Sam took it and then motioned toward Tom. “This is a good friend of mine, Tom Bower.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Bjorn said.
Sam glanced around the tarmac where several small private aircraft were stored outside. “What did you find us?”
“I’ve got a Cessna 172 Turbo Skyhawk!” Bjorn whistled through crooked teeth and a single gold tooth, as though he’d done them a monumental favor. “There’s less than three hundred hours on the clock, too. It was only recently purchased to use as a charter to ferry the various geologists and other professionals employed for oil exploration currently.”
“There’s a lot of that going on?” Sam asked.
“Oh yes, very much. Business has never been so good for me. They say that Namibia is the El Dorado of oil reserves. Lot of money coming into the country.”
While Sam expected many Namibians still eagerly anticipate an oil discovery, he figured others were more circumspect. Oil discoveries, particularly in developing countries, have not always yielded positive results for the people. In many instances, the majority actually end up losing out, while the minority became exorbitantly wealthy. Moreover, competition for control of resources has been known to lead to bloody and pervasive conflicts in many developing nations.
“And I bet it’s the people of Namibia who are the recipients of this new wealth?” Sam said without restraining his cynicism.
Bjorn ignored the comment. “People need my planes to fly the short distances to where there are no permanent airfields. The Cessna is fully booked after the end of the month, but you can have it until then if you like?”
The end of the month was still two weeks away. Sam hoped he’d have some answers by then. “It should do.”
“Great. I’ll take you over there now and run you through a few things. Do you have any other luggage?”
“No. We travel pretty light. We’ll buy anything we need while we’re here,” Sam said.
“Good. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Sam said, “You spend a lot of time flying around the Skeleton Coast and Namib Desert?”
Bjorn nodded. “That’s how I’ve spent the last thirty years of my life.”
“So you know the landscape pretty well?”
“Of course. What would you like to know?”
Sam grinned. “Have you ever seen a pyramid?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Skyhawk was covered in sand. It was painted light blue which poorly disguised the dirt and sand which had lightly coated her aluminum frame. Tom walked around the aircraft from wingtip to wingtip, looking for any significant faults or damages. He manually moved the articulated joints of the ailerons, rudder, and elevator. They moved freely and Tom smiled. He could see that despite only two hundred and ninety hours on her clock, she had already had some rough treatment ferrying clients into the desert. Not that it mattered, he knew that Cessna built robust aircraft to take abuse and last. There were still a number of Cessna 152s from the early 1950s still in service today – a massive testament of their reliability.
Tom clambered into the pilot seat. He pulled the latch at the side of his chair and slid it all the way to the back until his seat virtually touched the empty one behind. At six foot four, his knees bent awkwardly in the small single propped aircraft, but he was remarkably comfortable nonetheless. He carefully flicked through the Skyhawk’s running sheet and spec sheet. He paused at the description of the engine. It was powered by a Continental Motors CD-135 turbo-charged 4-cylinder in-line diesel engine. He’d heard some companies were experimenting with using diesel instead of aviation fuel, but had never flown one.
Tom worked his way through the start-up check sheet, running the engine to maximum and then bringing it back to an idle. He ran the flaps through their range and then left them at zero degrees for take-off.
Outside, Sam paid the charter fee, shook Bjorn’s hand and climbed into the co-pilot’s seat. “What do you think?”
“About the aircraft?”
Sam nodded.
“It’s good,” Tom said. “She will serve our purpose handsomely no doubt. Did you know she’s got a diesel engine?”
“Whose bright idea was it to put a diesel in single propped aircraft?”
“The additional torque makes it an estimated twenty-five percent more fuel efficient than her aviation fuel counterpart, bringing her range to just under a thousand miles to the tank. Besides, diesel’s a lot easier to get a hold of around here than aviation fuel.”
“Interesting,” Sam said indifferently. He then placed a topographical map of the region in front of Tom and circled a small coastal city named, Swakopmund. “We need to fly here.”
“What’s there?”
“Not much. Bjorn tells me that if I want to know the truth about a rumor I’d heard about some abandoned pyramid that once existed in the Namib Desert, then I needed to speak to a man named Leo Dietrich.”
“Who is he?” Tom asked.
“He’s a registered Master Hunting Guide in Namibia and a drunkard, apparently,” Sam said. “He offers private tours to big game hunters in search of trophy animals.”
Tom nodded. “And Bjorn thinks he might have heard something in his travels?”
“It’s better than that. He says Dietrich is a fifth generation hunter in the region. His family has lived there since Germany founded the city in 1892 as the main harbor of the German South West Africa. If anyone knows about an ancient pyramid that was still standing back in 1655, he would.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The little Skyhawk took off easily in the cold air. Tom reached a cruising altitude of 3000 feet and settled into a bearing due west and watched the arid and inhospitable land below go by. It took just over two hours to reach the Skeleton Coast – so aptly named because the combination of violent seas and the regular setting in of a thick fog, that it caused ships and whales to constantly become beached along its shores – where the Atlantic met the Namib Desert.
He watched as the massive sand dunes below rolled into the ocean, where they were met by the violent whitewash of the incoming waves. He banked nearly ninety degrees to his left and followed the coast south until he reached Swakopmund.
Tom landed and they caught a taxi to Dietrich’s address. It was an old German colonial-style house. A dozen or more unopened newspapers lined the porch. Sam banged on the door. There was no response. They backed away
from the front door to see if there was any way to see inside. A neighbor noticed them snooping round the side of the house.
“What do you two think you’re doing?” She scolded. “You think it’s any easy place to rob while he’s away?”
“No ma’am,” Sam and Tom replied in unison.
Tom looked at the woman. She was probably in her mid to late eighties and still commanded an air of German authority as she spoke. “You think he hasn’t taken precautions while he’s away? Well, he has. The rest of the street look after his house.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, turning his palms upwards in defense. “We’re trying to find Leo Dietrich. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“You came here looking for Leo, did you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She laughed. “Then you’d better get comfortable because you’ll be waiting a long time.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
“Because he’s gone to Ozondjahe for the hunting season.”
“If we fly there now, how would we find him?” Sam asked.
She paused for a moment, as though she was picturing the place in her mind. “There’s a Public House at Tsumeb where he normally stays and drinks at night. Mention his name around and someone will be able to point him out to you when he comes in from the day’s hunt.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am,” Tom said.
“You’re welcome.” As an afterthought, she asked, “What are you looking to hunt, anyway?”
“A pyramid in the Namib Desert everyone keeps telling us doesn’t exist.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was another four hours before the Skyhawk landed on the narrow outcrop of blacktop that lined the road to the south of Tsumeb, before taxiing to a stop out the front of a small road house. The town was situated to the southeast of the Etosha Game Park and to the west of the Kalahari Desert. It was known as the gateway to the north of Namibia. Once a thriving mining town providing some of the rarest precious and semiprecious gemstones in the world. The town now thrived on tourism – wealthy travelers searching for big game to hunt.
The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 3 Page 15
