The Colonel turned back toward the Sea King and began to march in its direction. Kurt looked at Joe, then over at Morgan. Nothing in her demeanor suggested this was a joke.
“Come along,” the Colonel added, looking back and pointing his swagger stick at the stainless steel trunk at their feet. “And, by all means, don’t forget the treasure.”
CHAPTER 15
Grinstead Pumping Station, on the outskirts of London
Solomon Barlow stood in the shadows inside an abandoned pumping station just north of London. Around him lay massive pipes and heavy machinery, all of it covered in layers of dirt and grime. Not one light of any kind illuminated the industrial space, but the moon could be seen through skylights above and it gave off enough of a glow for Barlow to see his surroundings.
To the right and the left were circular turbines the size of small houses. Behind him stood one wall of the building. Fifty feet tall and made of brick that had been stacked and mortared in the 1930s, it had survived Nazi bombs through the Battle of Britain—what the Londoners called the Blitz—only to be covered by graffiti in the ’60s and ’70s.
Barlow felt at home in this dark, abandoned place, but he was not alone. Several of his men stood scattered about the floor of the old station. One pair milled lazily near the back door, while another man leaned against the wall foolishly smoking a cigarette. A fourth man stood near the front, gazing out through a dirty window. His job was to watch the road leading up to the entrance. Barlow noticed him perking up as a point of oncoming light caught his eye.
Barlow stiffened. “What is it?”
The lookout studied the approaching light for a moment and then shook his head and relaxed. “Just a car turning around on the motorway.”
Barlow sat down, unbuttoning his overcoat and easing himself onto a folding metal chair. It was an inauspicious throne for a man who’d once been labeled Prince of the Arms Trade.
He’d seen far worse, of course. Two decades fighting as a mercenary in political hot spots around the world told him it could always be worse. He’d lain in ditches running with raw sewage to escape machete-wielding rioters in Liberia, he’d suffered second-degree burns after getting trapped in a bombing in Sri Lanka. He’d nearly froze to death in the hold of a commercial airliner when a rival had attempted to “ship” him to a place where he would face justice.
It was a lifestyle that left him looking older than his mid-forties. His face was worn and scarred in places. He moved like an old boxer who’d fought one too many rounds. The substantial gut he’d grown since he started wearing suits and paying others to do his dirty work added to the appearance of decline, but he could still take a punch. And, more importantly, still deliver one.
“Something may have gone wrong,” one of his men said.
“Of course something went wrong,” Barlow snapped, standing. “Robson’s three hours late. That doesn’t happen if everything is running according to plan.”
The men tensed at the outburst. None of them wanted to see Barlow’s legendary temper.
“What do we do?” the man asked.
“We wait,” Barlow said. “There’s nothing else to do.”
Barlow sat back down. He didn’t show it, but he remained pleased that a hint of anger could put his men on high alert. As if to reward him, the phone buzzed in his pocket.
Reaching into his overcoat, Barlow pulled it out, pressed two buttons and waited while technology did its thing. Two programs in the phone had been activated. The first scrambled the location signal, preventing anyone from figuring out where he was. The second encrypted everything that was being said, which would prevent anyone from tapping the signal and listening in.
“This is Robson,” an electronically altered voice said. The encryption system also modified all voices so that if anyone did manage to tap the line, a voiceprint identification could not be performed.
“Where the hell are you?” Barlow asked. “You were supposed to be here with the package hours ago.”
“It couldn’t be helped.”
“The storm,” Barlow said. “Is that your excuse?”
“We have bigger problems than the wind and rain,” Robson replied. “They took the boat into another harbor and got hung up on the rocks. Vincennes called us and I sent Slocum down. But before we could do anything, a pair of outsiders got involved.”
“Outsiders are of little concern to me,” Barlow said. “What about the package?”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“Destroyed.”
Barlow stood up. He felt a great urge to smash something—anything, really—but he held back. Men in suits did not smash things, they spoke calmly and coldly, instilling fear through their very act of control. “You’d better explain yourself.”
“The outsiders you so easily dismiss killed Slocum and his men and then went back to the trawler and attempted to recover the crate. I had no choice but to destroy it.”
“The package?”
“The entire trawler. I thought it best to keep them from recovering it.”
Barlow felt a tension headache crawling up his spine to his head. He reached back and massaged the nape of his neck. “You really should refrain from thinking,” he said. “Reasoning is not your strong suit.”
“It was either that or let them have it. I chose to deny them the opportunity to study it.”
“And by doing so, you’ve denied us the opportunity to study it as well. Considering that only we know what the hieroglyphics are referring to, that makes this a net loss for our side.”
As Robson went silent, Barlow thought about ways to punish his foolish subordinate. Means of torture and images of violence flashed through his mind. Before he’d chosen any of them, his attention was diverted by the sound of an incoming message reaching his phone. He pulled the phone away from his ear and studied the screen.
The message came from a numbered contact. It read simply
PACKAGE TO LONDON. MI5 IN POSSESSION.
“Thank the gods,” Barlow muttered.
“What did you say?”
Barlow returned his attention to the phone call. “I said you’ve just been saved by your own incompetence. The artifacts must have been off the trawler when you destroyed it.”
“Not possible,” Robson insisted. “I know for a fact that the divers were still on board. We heard their radio transmissions.”
“Perhaps you missed them.”
“Not likely. I assure you.”
“Well, something happened,” Barlow said. “Because MI5 has the crate. It’s coming here to London after all. Only instead of you bringing it to me, these outsiders must be delivering it to Thames House.”
After a brief silence, Robson volunteered, “Do you want me to go after it?”
Despite the temptation, Barlow knew blasting their way into MI5 headquarters would not be helpful. “Not yet. Just get yourself back down to London. Since we’ve lost Slocum and his crew, you’ll have to pick up some local help. Can you do that on short notice?”
“I can bring in a few of my old mates. They’re not soldiers, but they’ll do in a pinch.”
Robson had grown up on the streets of London. It would come in handy at this moment. “That’ll work,” Barlow said. “Round them up and get ready. When the moment comes, I’ll need you to retrieve the package without destroying it.”
“And just how am I supposed to do that?” Robson asked. “Since I’m not supposed to reason things out for myself.”
“MI5 is still in the dark,” Barlow explained. “They know we’ve been sourcing Egyptian treasures, but they don’t know why. When they see the contents of the crate, they’ll be even more confused. They’ll attempt to decipher the information on the stones, but there are no experts in Egyptian writing on their staff, which means they’ll have to seek outside help. Based on my knowledge of their previous work, I know who they’ll choose.”
“The Punter,” Robson said.
“Precisely,”
Barlow replied. “When they go to him, you and your men will already be there waiting to collect.”
CHAPTER 16
En route to London
Kurt sat in the back of the Royal Navy Sea King helicopter, enduring turbulence that felt like corporal punishment. Constant shaking was interrupted only by sudden updrafts that slammed everyone back in their seats or sudden downdrafts that felt like free fall. Near the edge of the storm, the air became so filled with lightning strikes that the inside of the cabin was illuminated like a strobe.
Silence reigned for most of the journey as all held on tight. But after one last round of buffeting, the helicopter got out in front of the weather and the ride settled down. Calmer air was welcome, as was the web of orange lights stretching out below.
“We’re over the outskirts of London,” the pilot announced over the intercom. “We’ll be landing shortly.”
The Sea King flew across London on a course that took them directly toward the center of the city. They descended along the way, slowing to a hover over a dark, snaking void in the pattern of lights. Kurt recognized it—the River Thames.
An illuminated landing pad at the edge of the river came into view. The helicopter slowed and eventually hovered over the concrete before touching down.
Climbing from the helicopter, Kurt saw Big Ben in the distance, beyond which stood the famous London Eye.
“This way,” the Colonel said, leading them to a stairwell that took them down to the Thames.
A patrol boat pulled up and they were ushered aboard. It took them across the river to a building known as Thames House, the official headquarters of MI5.
Inside the building, Kurt and Joe were separated from Morgan and escorted to a conference room. They remained there, uninterrupted, until an older woman brought them tea and biscuits.
“The Scots gave us whisky,” Joe said.
“You’re in England now,” the woman responded politely. “We’re a bit more civilized here.”
She left without another word. With little to do but wait, Kurt poured himself a cup of tea. He stirred in some milk and picked up one of the rectangular biscuits. Having gone hours without much to eat, he was famished. “When in London …” he said to Joe.
He dipped the biscuit in the tea and waited for a brief moment before pulling it out. To his surprise, there was nothing left of the dipped end, as if it had dissolved in a pool of acid. After eating the part that hadn’t disintegrated, he made a second attempt, retrieving the next biscuit more rapidly—and just in time to watch it crumble and fall back into the cup. He was on his third try when the door opened.
Morgan and the Colonel walked in together. She took a seat as he moved to the head of the table. “Sorry for the delay,” he announced. “I trust you’re being treated adequately.”
Kurt cut to the chase. “That depends. Are we being held on suspicion of some wrongdoing or is this protective custody?”
“Neither,” the Colonel said. “But it seemed best to bring everyone back here before explaining the situation. Let me begin by introducing myself properly. Oliver Pembroke-Smythe, formerly of the Special Air Service and the Royal Dragoons, now Director of Counter-Terrorism Operations for Section 5.”
“Morgan addressed you as Colonel.”
“Old habits die hard,” Pembroke-Smythe said. “I’m retired. After twenty-six years in the Army, it’s hard to say my name without including reference to my former grade. Also, I prefer to be called Colonel by those who work for me. It instills the right mix of confidence and fear.”
Kurt laughed. “I know an Admiral who feels the same way. You were going to explain how you knew us?”
“It’s simple, really. I’m well acquainted with NUMA. Not from your government website or dossiers, but from working with a rather extraordinary chap named Pitt years ago in the Sahara.”
“You worked with Dirk Pitt?” Joe asked.
“Worked is not quite accurate, I suppose. We fought together, stormed a hellhole of a gold mine called Tebezza to rescue some prisoners and then spent what I was certain would be our last days on earth hiding in the remnants of an old Foreign Legion outpost. From behind those walls we fought off at least a thousand soldiers loyal to a mad dictator named Kazim. In the end, we managed to undo one of the most sordid regimes in recent history.”
“That sounds like one of Dirk’s adventures,” Joe said.
Kurt nodded. He’d heard stories about the Sahara expedition, but most of it was classified above his level. All he knew for certain was that it had something to do with toxic waste poisoning the sea.
“Dirk Pitt is the Director of NUMA these days,” Kurt said. “But I have to assume you already know that.”
“Of course,” Pembroke-Smythe said. “Spoke to him earlier this evening. First time in years. Congratulated him on his promotion and his new family. And then asked for a favor.”
Kurt shot a look in Joe’s direction. “Here it comes.”
Joe nodded. “What have we been traded for this time?”
“Nothing,” Pembroke-Smythe said. “I merely explained the situation and asked Dirk if he thought you’d be interested in helping our investigation. Upon hearing the details, he suggested that, short of locking you up in the Tower of London, I wouldn’t be able to keep you out of it.”
Joe sat back. “Dirk knows us too well.”
Kurt smiled. “I’d still like to hear those details,” he said. “What, exactly, would we be signing up for?”
Morgan spoke up next. “Something right up your alley,” she said. “A treasure hunt.”
“That does land in our wheelhouse,” Kurt admitted.
Pembroke-Smythe offered more. “As Morgan has already told you, the Bloodstone Group funds their dealings by selling stolen antiquities. We know they’ve been shadowing various archeological expeditions, bribing workers and guards—or threatening them—and siphoning off objects worth selling. They’ve also resorted to outright theft, having staged large-scale robberies at various museums and universities over the last two years. Based on information from one of Morgan’s informants, we believe they’re looking for a lost ship or fleet of Egyptian trading vessels.”
Kurt leaned forward. “You have my attention.”
“Mine too,” Joe said.
Pembroke-Smythe continued. “We thought the delivery in Dunvegan might have been the fruit of their labors, but it seems to be just a step along the way. Your suggestion—that they want the information on the stones and not the stones themselves—is all we have to go on. But it’s an intriguing idea.”
“What about the journal?” Kurt asked.
“We were just looking it over,” Morgan said. “It’s not a journal, it’s a logbook from an old aircraft. The final entry carries a date of December 1927. Because the ink has faded and the pages have turned brittle, most of the entries are unreadable. However, the last pages read like a diary, including notes that suggest the man who carried it had crashed in a remote area. He indicates taking a few items and attempting to hike out to civilization. It was a difficult task, considering he had an injured leg and nothing but dry scrubland and a rocky riverbed to hike through.”
“Dry scrubland,” Joe said. “Doesn’t sound like England.”
“Any mention of Egypt or artifacts?” Kurt asked.
Morgan shook her head.
They were clearly lacking information. It was even possible the logbook/journal had nothing to do with the other artifacts, but there was no way to say for sure.
“What about your informant?” Kurt asked. “Any chance you can use him to get to the bottom of this?”
Pembroke-Smythe answered this way. “We think it’s wise not to reach out to him at this moment.”
“Why is that?”
Morgan explained. “My informant has an agenda of his own,” she said. “He’s a competitor of the Bloodstone Group, not in the arms business but in the world of stolen artifacts. We call him the Collector. He’s known to spend large amounts on the blac
k market. But as far as we can tell, very little of what he buys ever comes up for sale again.”
“What’s his connection to the Bloodstone Group?” Kurt asked.
“How does he know what they’re up to?” Joe added.
“The association is a little murky,” Morgan admitted. “We think he may have been a client of Bloodstone’s at some point. Our best guess is, they had a falling-out, possibly a disagreement over price. Perhaps the Collector decided it’s better to steal what he’s after rather than pay Bloodstone for it. At any rate, where the Bloodstone Group wants to dig up these treasures to sell them, the Collector seems more interested in keeping them for himself. And we’ve been using that desire in our efforts to stop them.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Joe noted.
“Exactly,” Pembroke-Smythe chimed in. “Whoever he—or she—is, this Collector has been spot-on in predicting what Bloodstone will do, though he must not have total insight because he labeled this delivery ‘the big one.’”
“Relying on criminal sources for information tends to be a game of diminishing returns,” Kurt said. “We used to do the same thing in the CIA. We found the informants would miss out on the most crucial details just when you really needed them.”
“A scenario we’re encountering now,” Pembroke-Smythe said. “All of which leads to an important decision. Either we sit and wait or we take action. Since action is almost always preferable to sitting and waiting, we’ve chosen to move forward.”
“Meaning what?” Kurt asked.
“We intend to cut the Bloodstone Group off at the knees by finding out what they’re after and securing it before they do. That’s where you two come in … if you’re interested …”
“Take out their source of income and they wither on the vine,” Kurt said.
Pembroke-Smythe nodded and then added a final touch to the sales pitch. “MI5 is simply not equipped for something like this. We stop smugglers, prevent terrorist attacks, arrest people. We don’t search for lost treasure. And while we could go bring in university types and the like, putting civilians in the same arena as the Bloodstone Group would be considered bad form.”
Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020) Page 9
