Tomb of the First Priest: A Lost Origins Novel

by A D Davies

  “But,” Charlie continued, “his son won a few of his own contests. After his mum and dad died, there’s no mention of it. He goes dark. Foster homes, but I’ll work on the details.” More fluttering fingers gave her a new line of interest. “Moneywise, he inherited the family’s apartment after their deaths. They weren’t rich, but his mother owned the property outright. The apartment went to a trust and supplied Julian with rent, which he’s existed on until recently, when he sold it to a developer.”

  “But he’s spent all the money?” Bridget said.

  “On travel mostly.” Charlie once more fiddled with her phone, intel feeding from the Demon Server on autopilot. “He’s popped up all over: Syria, before it went to hell; Iran; Pakistan; Strionia in Eastern Europe; some South American destinations...”

  Toby placed his glass down. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into him before now.”

  “The big news, though, is there’s mention of a ‘Jules’ on the dark web that syncs Mr. Sibeko’s legit travel arrangements. A guy who…” Charlie smiled. A smile that became a laugh. All waited patiently for her to ingest what she was reading. “Oh wow. He repatriates stolen artifacts from black marketeers and grave robbers.”

  Bridget’s grin matched Charlie’s. “He’s doing the same job as us?”

  “Similar,” Charlie corrected. “He charges a fee where he can.”

  “But he does it alone,” Dan said.

  Charlie lowered her phone and nodded. “He’s still wanted in Pakistan in connection with the robbery of a Persian bust of Alexander the Great, which turned up in a museum in Tehran four months later. The Iranians refuse to give it back, saying they obtained it legally since it was stolen from their lands in the first place during their revolution in 1979.”

  “So,” Bridget said, “he sees his mom’s antique bangle stolen and gets into freelance archeology? Toby, we should bring him in on this.”

  “He’s more like a treasure hunter,” Charlie said.

  “Hmm.” Toby reclined, unsmiling. He didn’t share their happiness at the coincidence. “A youngster in foster care who has trained himself to scale buildings and break into top-end security vaults, not to mention honing his fighting skills to the point where he can take out a former US Army Ranger and evade a cadre of Valerio Conchin’s mercenaries...” Toby crossed his legs, trying to ease the soreness from his body. Unfortunately, his discomfort wasn’t caused by his sitting position. “From what Charlie tells us, I believe this chap is now skint. But he’s got a sniff of his dead mother’s property.” Toby pondered the risks. “That could make him dangerous, or he could be useful.”

  Charlie gave a slight shake of her head. “A guy who’s held an obsession so long? He must be unstable. Look at what he went through... losing his mom, all that training, all that money thrown away just to recover a piece of jewelry.”

  “It’s not just jewelry,” Dan pointed out. “And I’m not talking sentiment. Jewelry doesn’t glow.”

  “But he didn’t know that any more than we did.” Charlie emphasized each point with a chop of her hand. “Bridget said he looked surprised when the contaminants in the bangle lit up. This is personal. It’s an obsession. That makes him a risk.”

  “We owe him the chance,” Bridget said. “And he might be able to help with answers. The historical texts we’ve examined were vague about its properties—”

  “We owe him nothing.” Toby sat forward, the alcohol having thickened is head. “But indeed, he could be useful. You said he’s been after this a while?”

  “If the Aradia bangle belonged to his mother, that’s nine years.”

  “Making it personal,” Charlie said. “It’s a bad combination. Hard to control.”

  Dan nodded. “He won’t work well with the institute.”

  “And let’s not forget the object glows.” Toby leaned on his knees, his chin resting on fingers pointing upward. “Have you dispatched Harpal?”

  “Of course. In fact, he’s streaming imagery right now. Awaiting orders.”

  “Tell him to assess.”

  Charlie made a noise akin to an ape dismissing a pesky youngster, stood, and wandered out of the webcam’s field.

  “No action, though, not yet,” Toby added, also standing. “Let me know when you have something to work on.”

  “Stand by.” Dan killed the feed.

  Charlie folded her arms. “It’s a mistake, Toby. Waifs and strays like this guy… it won’t end well.”

  “Let’s wait on Harpal,” Toby said. “If we can utilize this Julian character without major risk, we will. If he won’t cooperate on our terms, we cut him loose. Okay?”

  Almost immediately, new footage streamed onto the TV screen: Julian Sibeko sat alone in a cheap hostel bar.

  Chapter Five

  Hostel Porborski

  Narodni Obrany District, Prague

  Harpal Singh did not interrupt the audio of the conference streaming into his right ear through the bone conduction bud nestled within, nor did he absorb everything his colleagues said, but he had full access and tuned in to the relevant points: Julian Sibeko had bested Dan Vincent without hurting him too much, and they learned he had mad-impressive burglary and climbing skills. Harpal wanted to keep an open mind but would err toward the notion that Sibeko was dangerous.

  Every situation demanded caution until all the parameters were known. Then Harpal could let loose and do his thing. Yet it was the buildup that often intrigued him the most. Asking the questions of who this person was, why the target needed watching, how he should be approached. What was the one thing that Harpal could use to turn this person to his way of thinking? To use him?

  As the institute’s discussion continued, the target ate a chicken salad and drank carbonated water. Harpal’s camera lens was as wide as a pen and nestled in his fist as he pretended to read a novel, his body pointed away from the bar. An occasional glance at the phone in his lap kept Sibeko in frame, and the conversation between those in Prague and in the north of France eventually concluded with Toby admitting an approach to the stranger was a gamble.

  “We either win big or lose big,” he concluded. “Harpal, make contact.”

  Harpal answered too quietly for anyone close by to hear, but it was picked up by the throat mic attached to his collar. “Copy that. Stand by.”

  Although there were fewer than half a dozen people around at two a.m., he didn’t want to take any chances on one of them being a plant from Conchin’s crew. It seemed to be mostly folks arriving off planes, some returning from late-night fun, and a barman with two-day stubble and a three-day shirt. All young.

  All but Harpal. And the middle-aged couple who departed for bed ten minutes ago. That said, early thirties isn’t really old, but it probably seemed that way to these youngsters.

  He closed his book but kept the nearly invisible earbud active along with his mic and sat a moment. He’d had plenty of time to plan his approach to what appeared to be just another gangly African American backpacker. He didn’t want to come across as if he were hitting on the target, who was a handsome fellow for sure, his hair closely cropped and his clothes plain, loose, and casual yet still fashionable and... cool. Yeah, that was the word that Harpal stuck with. The kid looked cool. More than his clothes, it was the easy way he moved, a complete confidence and knowledge of what he wanted to achieve.

  With a ten-second glance at the menu earlier—short as it was—he ordered. He kept his head down, not interacting with fellow backpackers unless he had to, and when he did, it was with a wide smile that belied his stern approach to matters when he was alone.

  One pair of tipsy girls—British by the sound of them—said hi, called him “Jules,” and asked what he was doing up so late, to which he replied that he’d been to the opera followed by a couple of drinks. When the girls seemed impressed he added in a heavy New York drawl that he “didn’t really get it” and was planning on hitting the sack soon. The girls both touched his arm, smiling as they went, and giggled in the d
ouble doorway leading to the rooms. Jules let out a huge breath, plainly relieved at being alone again.

  Approaching the bar, Harpal pocketed the camera so it wouldn’t be spotted and ordered a small Urquell beer and sat at a stool with one seat between him and Sibeko. He sipped and wished he wasn’t such a lightweight when it came to alcohol.

  While Dan could chug ten of these and still pilot a helicopter under the radar, Harpal would be challenged to climb into the passenger seat after three.

  He let out a sigh but didn’t draw Sibeko’s attention the way he hoped. The guy poked at his salad as if searching for a lost diamond that he’d only just noticed was missing from his ring but was trying not to panic about. Not that he wore jewelry. Just the plain trendy T-shirt. No tattoos either, no distinguishing features at all.

  Intentional?

  Probably.

  Harpal sipped again, the cold, crisp fizz coating his throat and landing pleasantly in his stomach. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the beer hit. “Damn, that’s nice.”

  Sibeko ceased his foraging. “Talkin’ to me?”

  “Anyone who’ll listen.” Harpal moved only his head. A whole-body turn wasn’t on the cards yet, and a stranger settling in for a conversation uninvited tended to raise suspicions within a potential asset, so Harpal let the silence do the work for him.

  Sibeko speared a chunk of chicken. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Happy?”

  “Your beer.” The target chewed, eyes on the liquor bottles beyond the barman who was reading what looked like a Czech version of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, awaiting the next interruption. Sibeko swallowed. “I’m happy for you. That you’re enjoying it.”

  Odd response. Was it sarcasm?

  “Not like back home,” Harpal said.

  “They sell Urquell in the UK.”

  “Yeah, but it tastes different on holiday, right?”

  “The travel screws with it.” Sibeko scooped half a baby tomato along with a chunk of cucumber into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. “It’s brewed in a town called Plzeñ and exported. The more times it gets loaded on and off a truck at breweries and warehouses, the more the carbonation and the sugar change the taste. Not a lot, but makes it different.”

  Harpal nodded, feigning interest. “You know your stuff. You in the business?”

  Sibeko still hadn’t looked Harpal’s way. “I’ve tended a few bars.” He searched around the salad bowl again. Gulped a couple of times at his water and set the glass down. Wiped at the condensation. “You with the redhead or the giant dog and his yellow master?”

  A jolt swam through Harpal’s chest.

  It must have shown, as Sibeko said, “Don’t sweat it. I figured there was something off, you chatting to yourself over there. Your lips hardly moved, but I picked up on it. I started wondering if maybe you’re just a bit lonely, living in your own head and stuff. Wasn’t sure until you came and sat by me. Not right next to me, ’cause that’d be weird, but one stool between us ’cause strangers don’t snuggle up in a group of three when there’s five other seats to pick from.” Sibeko faced Harpal. “I’m guessing you’re with the redhead and her beefcake pal.”

  “Why?”

  “The others don’t strike me as subtle.”

  In Harpal’s ear, Toby said, “Be honest. But don’t give us away. Not fully.”

  Harpal smiled. He hadn’t been made since his first undercover assignment when his commanding officer bailed him out by activating the sprinkler system in a Hilton. Scooting one stool over, he lowered his voice as two men holding hands passed behind them. “I work for an institute that recovers artifacts that have been... misplaced. We have an interest in the Aradia bangle.”

  “No kidding? You got an interest. Never woulda guessed.”

  “The purpose of tonight was to take it to an expert who would authenticate it so we could return it to the place it was taken from nearly a hundred years ago.”

  “It was taken from my mom eight years and seven months ago.”

  “That’s part of the period when the artifact went dark.”

  “Dark?”

  “It was taken from India during British rule, in and out of collections for decades, until it disappeared completely in the forties. Last known location was Berlin, in the vault of a Jewish shipping magnate who had close ties with the British royal family. Most guess it didn’t look valuable so got destroyed or lost in the Second World War, but we heard whispers of it six months ago. Valerio Conchin was making inquiries, meaning he had a clue to its location. And if he wants it, then—”

  “Sounds like you know a bit about this guy. Valerio Conchin?”

  “We can talk about him later.”

  “How about we talk now? Or I can leave.”

  “Go ahead,” Toby said.

  Harpal sighed and acquiesced. “We don’t know as much as we’d like. Secretive billionaire. Family made money in the arms trade. Offices all over the world—construction, emerging tech, and a new hobby in archeology. He looks ill, but we can’t find his medical records, so no way of knowing if his liver is failing or if it’s another condition. But he snatches up these rare artifacts... pre-Persian usually, often pre–written language. He’s trodden on our toes before, but we’ve mostly stayed off his radar.”

  “Careful,” came Charlie’s voice. “Don’t give him everything.”

  “If Valerio Conchin wants the Aradia bangle,” Harpal summarized, “then there was a good chance it was real, and a very good chance it would take an illegal transaction to get his hands on it. Meaning a bribe. Or violence.”

  Sibeko hadn’t moved since Harpal shifted stools. He just stared at Harpal.

  “Now, if you have a claim to it, we’ll look into that, and an independent tribunal can determine ownership, but—”

  “Dude, seriously,” Sibeko said. “What do you want?”

  Toby said, “To bring you in on the search.”

  “To bring you in on the search,” Harpal repeated.

  “You just said an independent tribunal would decide who owns it.”

  “That’s the fairest way.”

  Sibeko hopped off his stool, left ten euros on the bar, and stepped away. “I don’t know who this Valerio asshole is, and I don’t care about your institute. The bracelet’s mine. I’m takin’ it.”

  Sibeko walked toward the door.

  “What’s happening?” Charlie asked.

  “He’s leaving,” Bridget said. “Isn’t he?”

  Harpal nodded to no one in particular. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Try money,” Toby said. “And I don’t mean appeal to his greed. He needs money. He has nothing left.”

  Harpal sprang up. “How’s your cash flow?”

  Sibeko halted just beyond the wide doorway to the reception lounge. He spun around, his face tight, like a drunk in a pub about to strike an opponent. “Leave me alone.”

  “We have money.” Harpal raised his hands defensively. “Not a lot, but... enough.”

  “Voices in your head tell you to say that? Who are they?”

  Honesty seemed important to Sibeko, so Harpal pointed at his ear. “Subvocal mic and earbud combined in one unit. Four voices.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and showed him the faces of Toby and Charlie on one half of the screen, Bridget and Dan on the other. Bridget waved. Harpal said, “We’re the Lost Origins Recovery Institute.”

  “LORI. An acronym.” Sibeko returned to the bar to face Harpal. “Yeah, I heard the name. I was tracking the expert, not the thieves.”

  “We’re not thieves.”

  “Bounty hunters.”

  “We get rewards sometimes. But not every time.”

  “And you got money for me? Meaning you know I’m light on funds right now, meaning you investigated me. Pretty quick too. So now I know you got resources I don’t. Hackers, logistics, spy craft like yours... but small. You’re not government, so you got private backers or you wouldn’t be offering cash for a piece of rock
with more sentimental value than black market kudos.”

  Harpal nodded along, letting Sibeko talk. Was that how fast his brain was working? Who was this guy?

  “Yet you got some yellow goon wants a look-see too, a guy who’s clearly wealthy and connected as hell. Tell me, right now, what’s so special about my mom’s bracelet?”

  Harpal glanced at the phone screen in the same way he would if Toby Smith were in the room. Toby gave his instructions, and Harpal relayed them: “Come work with us. Help us recover the Aradia bangle. If you convince us you should own it, it’s yours. We just want a chance to examine it first. And if Valerio wants it, all the better if we take it.”

  Sibeko was looking sideways at Harpal, apparently suspicious and yet processing everything they’d said. His deductions spilled fast before, but now he appeared more considered.

  “Maybe,” Sibeko said.

  Harpal listened and said, “We need more than ‘maybe.’”

  “I don’t do anything without my own due diligence. Need to see how you operate, what chance I got of success. Then, maybe, I’ll throw in with you. Until I’m convinced, that’s all you’re getting. Maybe.”

  With Sibeko still out of earshot, Charlie said, “He’s aggressive, intelligent, and hell-bent on possessing that object.”

  “True,” Toby answered. “But he knows more about its recent history than any of us. And it appears to be his touch that made it glow. He may not only be useful. He could prove to be essential.” No one else spoke. “Harpal, accept his offer. Bring him to France so we can give him the grand tour. Tonight, please.”

  Chapter Six

  Brittany, France

  Bridget, Dan, and Harpal flew home on the institute’s jet, a twenty-year-old Lear that wasn’t exactly the discarded toy of some billionaire playboy. Functional and well serviced, it bestowed a semblance of respectability when palms needed greasing, yet the closest the Lear got to true luxury was the reclining seats; although fixed in place and not the swiveling cream numbers Bridget lusted after, they folded flat to function as beds. The institute had no money for a flight crew, making Dan and Harpal the only people who could pilot it, which seemed unfair to Bridget. She’d been lobbying them to give her lessons with no success to date.