After reading a message from Kurt Austin, and a communiqué from the head of a foreign government agency, Rudi got the distinct impression that his ship might be going off course or perhaps taking on water.
The communiqué that made up the second half of his reading had come in on official channels from MI5 headquarters in London. It mentioned two incidents that took place over the past forty-eight hours and casually noted the involvement of Kurt Austin and Joe Zavala.
Rudi scanned the after-action report quickly, slowing down as he arrived at the personal thoughts of the MI5 Station Chief.
… possible involvement of major world arms dealers known by the moniker Bloodstone Group. Both Austin and Zavala acquitted themselves admirably and I extend my thanks for their continued assistance …
“Bad news?” a voice asked.
Rudi looked up to see Hiram Yaeger standing in the doorway.
Hiram wore blue jeans and a pullover sweater with a large red S stamped over the outline of an evergreen tree. He was the Director of NUMA’s Technology and Information Systems Unit. Unlike Rudi, who always wore a pressed shirt, patterned tie and tailored jacket, Hiram seemed to possess clothing that ran the gamut from casual to extra-casual only. Such were the perks of running the IT department.
Rudi studied his longtime friend. The sweater caught his eye. “I must have fallen into an alternate universe,” he announced. “When I went to sleep last night, Kurt and Joe worked for us, not British Intelligence, and you were a graduate of MIT, not Stanford.”
“You’re not dreaming,” Hiram said. “Dirk loaned Kurt and Joe to the Brits before he took off for Japan.”
“And your sweater?”
“My youngest daughter chose Stanford last week.”
Rudi sat back. “Over MIT? You must be heartbroken.”
“She’s a misguided youth in full rebellion,” Hiram said. “I blame it on the weather. We visited Boston in January and it was a balmy four degrees. The next week in California it was in the mid-seventies.”
Rudi grinned. “And yet her choice is still more surprising than hearing that Kurt and Joe have been lend-leased to MI5 on a handshake. They were supposed to be on vacation.”
Hiram came in but remained standing. “Vacation is just another way for them to find trouble. You could put those two on a desert island in the middle of nowhere and they’d still get into something.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
“I assume they need our help or we wouldn’t even be hearing from them.”
Rudi picked up the printed message from Kurt and scanned it once more. “They want us to look for a plane that crashed in December of 1927. They’ve narrowed it down to the ‘drier parts of Europe’—France, Spain or Portugal, perhaps. In Kurt’s words, that should make it easy.”
“He’s king of the optimists,” Hiram said. “Then again, we’ve given him too many reasons to be confident in the past. Send me the details and I’ll have Max search through the records.”
Max was Hiram’s artificially intelligent system, a one-of-a-kind supercomputer that he had built and modified over the years to the point that it had taken on a personality all its own.
“There won’t be many government records that far back,” Rudi said.
“I know,” Hiram replied. “But old newspaper articles are often helpful in cases like this. Airplanes were few and far between in 1927. When one went missing or came falling out of the sky, that usually made the news.”
Rudi knew he could count on Hiram. He handed the message over. “While you’re at it, Kurt would also like to know about some ancient Egyptian texts, a missing Pharaoh and whatever information you can pull up on an MI5 agent named Morgan Manning.”
“Starting with her phone number, no doubt.”
“I’m sure he already has that,” Rudi said. “It seems they’re partnering on this investigation.”
Hiram pulled off the wire-rimmed glasses he wore, cleaned them with the hem of his sweater and then slid them back on before studying the message. “Tell him I’ll do what I can.”
He turned to leave.
“And one more thing,” Rudi said. “While you’re helping Kurt, get me everything you can on this Bloodstone Group. I’d like to know exactly what Kurt is dealing with.”
CHAPTER 21
Eurotunnel Folkstone Terminal, England
The Renault utility van eased along a concrete ramp in a slow-moving line of cars. Ahead of it, the other vehicles inched forward bumper-to-bumper, stopping at a security officer who studied their tickets before clearing them through. From there, the cars moved through a second set of gates and drove across a platform, lining up again, before disappearing into the side of a cavernous, rail-borne car transporter.
Robson looked at the hulking train, it stretched forward nearly twenty railcars before he saw what looked like the aerodynamic engine at the front.
“Never been in the Chunnel,” Snipe said quietly. “Always thought people drove through it. Didn’t know you had to ride a bloomin’ train.”
“No one drives through the Chunnel on his own,” Robson said. “Can you imagine if there was a crash or someone ran out of fuel?”
Snipe nodded.
“How’s your hand?”
“Something’s broke,” Snipe said, holding out a swollen bandaged fist. “But I can still use the other one.”
Robson looked over. “Keep it out of sight,” he said, “in case it’s been made part of our description.”
As Snipe stuffed both his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, Robson moved up until he was stopped by the uniformed officer. A graphic on the officer’s jacket showed the high-speed train in profile underscored by the identifier TRAFFIC OPERATIONS CONTROL.
“Registration, insurance, travel papers,” the officer requested.
Robson motioned to Snipe, who paused and then used his uninjured hand to retrieve the papers from the glove box. Robson took them and handed them through the window.
The officer studied the documents and then put his hand on the microphone clipped to his collar. Pressing the TALK switch, he called the information in and then waited for a response from his central command.
The reply did not come quickly. As the silence began to drag, Robson glanced around, looking for avenues of escape. Walls of concrete stood to the right and left, while going forward only led deeper into the rail yard. He glanced in the mirror and saw nothing but a line of cars going all the way back to the outer gate. There would be no getting through there either.
He forced himself to relax while allowing his hand to slide down the side of his seat, stopping only when his fingers touched the pistol taped there.
“Just as I thought,” the officer said, handing back the papers. “You’re the mechanics.” He pointed ahead. “Down there. Next car.”
The officer waved for another uniformed man to open the temporary gate and then directed Robson on through. Leaning in the car before allowing Robson to drive off, he issued a warning. “Remember. Once you get off the train in France, you’ll be driving on the other side of the road.”
Robson felt his pounding heart start to slow. He nodded, eased his foot onto the gas and moved the van forward.
Snipe whistled. “That was dodgy.”
In the back of the van, Gus was recuperating from getting his scalp split open by the American with the pole. He wore a hat to cover it. Fingers had shaved off his long hair and now sported a punk rocker’s Mohawk. They weren’t a pretty crew, but it had got the job done.
With a careful twist of the wheel, Robson pulled into the vehicle transporter, leaving the daylight for its well-lit, oversize interior. It didn’t take long to realize it was a private car. A custom Maserati Quattroporte was parked in front of them. Just beyond that sat a Rolls-Royce Phantom.
With the engine off and the gearshift in park, Robson and his crew waited. Soon enough, the door to the transporter was lowered and sealed and shortly thereafter the train began to move.
&n
bsp; The initial acceleration was so smooth that Robson barely noticed it. From there, speed was added methodically and quickly. They were soon traveling at over a hundred miles an hour, and heading for one hundred and fifty, and yet the rail system was so precise that even traveling at full speed resulted in only the slightest sensation of movement.
“When’s Mr. Big coming?” Snipe asked.
“He’s not coming,” Robson said. “He’s already here.”
“Good. Then it’s time we got paid.”
“We get paid when the job’s done,” Robson said.
“I thought the job was done.”
“Not yet,” Robson said. “Not by a long shot.”
Up ahead, a man got out of the Maserati. Robson recognized him as one of Barlow’s personal guards. He waved him over.
“Stay here,” Robson said. He grabbed the briefcase, got out and walked toward the Maserati. After being relieved of his phone and both frisked and wanded for bugs, he was directed ahead to the Rolls.
The Phantom’s rear door opened. “Get in,” Solomon Barlow said.
Sliding inside, Robson sat. He handed the briefcase to Barlow, who opened it immediately.
While Barlow went through the contents of the case, Robson allowed his nerves to get the best of him. “I thought we were about to get nicked back there,” he said.
“I told you I had it handled,” Barlow replied without looking up.
“The mechanics?”
“If anyone asks, you’re accompanying my cars to a show in Toulouse.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“Farther on,” Barlow said. “Down to the border with Spain.” He looked up. “Is this everything?”
“That’s all they had.”
“Pity they didn’t bring the actual objects with them, but the photos are enough for now. Wise of you to scan them and send them ahead. It allowed us to get a jump on things.”
“Will it lead us to the treasure?”
“Not directly,” Barlow said. “Regrettably, the important parts—the bits telling us where the treasure might be hidden—are still unaccounted for.”
“Is that why we’re heading to Spain?”
“We’re not heading to Spain,” Barlow replied. “We’re heading to the border with Spain. Pay attention.”
Robson didn’t like Barlow’s word games. “The question doesn’t change. Why are we going there?”
“Because a French nobleman by the name of DeMars lives there. His family owned the original fragments containing the known Writings of Qsn. They might have information we could use. Specifically, some idea of where the rest of the tablet could be. They may even be in possession of other items that could help us in our search. Unfortunately, DeMars is an uncompromising fellow who doesn’t like to share. We’re going to provide him with proper motivation to change that habit.”
Robson suppressed a laugh. Solomon Barlow and his long-winded speeches. He could’ve saved them both time and energy by saying they were going to torture DeMars. “Fine,” Robson said. “First off, my men need food, rest and a down payment for their services.”
“They’ll get paid when I have what I want,” Barlow replied.
“They won’t be working on a promise.”
Barlow turned cold. “They will find that to be an untenable negotiating position.”
“How so?”
“Because you’re no longer on point here,” Barlow said. “After you nearly screwed the entire operation in Cambridge, I’ve decided to make a change. I’m putting Kappa in charge. His men will handle the rest of the operation. You and that rabble of yours are only there to provide backup.”
“That rabble got back what your men in Scotland lost,” Robson said, feeling oddly defensive about his old mates. “Mark my word, you’re going to need their help before this is over. Especially if you’re trusting things to Kappa. He wouldn’t know a lie from a hole in the ground.”
Solomon Barlow did not like being questioned, but he felt the odds had turned against them with the Americans and MI5 now teamed up together. He would put Robson and his street thugs away at some later date. For now, he knew they might come in handy.
“Fine,” Barlow said. “Kappa stays on, but I’ll let you handle the interrogation of DeMars. In the meantime, I’ll see that you get some cash to pass around to your men. But I’m warning you. If you undermine this operation to make Kappa look bad, or if your men screw up in any form, it’ll be your head that rolls. Understand?”
Robson nodded, pleased with the agreement. “So, how do you want me to treat this DeMars when we find him?”
Barlow glared at Robson as if he’d said something foolish. “How do you think I want you to treat him?” Barlow snapped. “We have a banker willing to part with a hundred million euros for every golden sarcophagus proven to hold a mummified Pharaoh, plus a dozen other collectors promising millions should we find anything at all. Get DeMars talking. I really don’t care what he looks like afterward.”
CHAPTER 22
Savoy Hotel, London
“No joy in Mudville,” Kurt said. “The Mighty Hiram has completely struck out.”
Kurt, Joe and Morgan were using a suite at the Savoy as a temporary headquarters while attempting to divine the final landing spot of whatever aircraft it was that had carried the Writings of Qsn.
Kurt sat at the desk near the front of the luxurious accommodations, studying his computer. Morgan sat in the adjoining room on the bed, looking at messages on her own laptop, while Joe was lying across the sofa, facing the fireplace, examining the pages of the logbook, hoping to find any information that would help them pin down the make and model of the missing plane or the pilot who’d flown it.
After hearing Kurt’s announcement, Morgan looked up from her screen, bewildered. “Mudville?”
“Baseball reference,” Kurt said. “From an old poem. The hero strikes out despite being supremely sure of himself.”
“Something that never happens in real life,” Joe said with a smirk.
Morgan’s look remained blank. “Where, exactly, is Mudville?”
“It’s not a real place,” Kurt said.
“Then why bring it up?”
“You’re missing the point,” Kurt said. “What I’m trying to tell you is, after an exhaustive search our computer and records experts have found nothing to indicate the crash of any aircraft in any of the areas we’ve suggested they look during December of 1927. How’s that for clarity?”
“Much better,” Morgan said, smiling. “But a crash may not have been recorded if the area was rural.”
“Perhaps not,” Kurt agreed. “But a missing plane would be noted by the company flying it or by the operator of an aerodrome waiting for the plane to return. And if not by them, then at least by relatives of the missing pilot. Hiram and his crew have found nothing of the sort. They’ve even searched obituaries listing pilots. But they’ve … struck out.”
“Ah,” she said. “Now I understand. It’s like getting bowled. Or ending up as batsmen with a sticky wicket.”
Kurt stared blankly. “I’d say yes, but I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Joe burst out laughing. He needed to. Despite hours of trying to glean anything from the pages Morgan had stolen, he’d learned nothing new. He’d been over them a dozen times. He’d used a magnifying glass and then a special light that helped reveal faded ink. He’d even felt for indentations caused by something else being written over them.
Aside from the cryptic words, written by the injured and possibly feverish pilot, the notations were simple and irrelevant. Spark plug timings were noted, along with fluid levels and other mechanic’s entries. The descriptions on the second and third pages referred to overhauls, misfiring cylinders and oil changes. They had nothing to do with the lost ancient writings.
Kurt looked his way. “What about you, Joe? Getting bowled or having a sticky wicket?”
“Neither,” Joe said. “It was definitely a cra
sh. Which makes me think Hiram is searching in the wrong place.”
“He’s covered all of Europe,” Kurt said. “Where else can he look?”
Joe sighed. He had no idea. There was nothing to suggest where, just a description of an arid part of Europe with a high bluff and a river down below.
Ready to take a break, Joe sat up and allowed his mind to wander. He found his eyes resting on a small desk calendar. They’d done so much running around in the last week, he wasn’t sure what day it was.
Studying the date, a realization came to him suddenly. He went back through the notes and the logbook entries. Once he realized what he was looking for, it became obvious. And he wondered how he’d missed it in the first place.
“Maybe we’re looking in the right area,” he said, “but the wrong time.”
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting … time travel?”
Joe shook his head. “August 1st, 2019,” he said. “How would you abbreviate that?”
“Eight-one-nineteen,” Kurt replied.
Joe grinned, pleased with himself. “Morgan?”
She looked up from her computer. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“How would you abbreviate August 1st, 2019?”
“One-eight-nineteen, of course. Why?”
“Day, then month, then year,” Joe confirmed. “European-style.”
Morgan nodded.
“Has it always been that way in Europe?”
“As far as I know,” she said. “I have a card from Granddad to my mum dated that way. Why do you ask?”
“Because you said the crash was on December 5th, 1927,” Joe said. “We gave that date to Hiram to use in his computer records search. But if the plane—or the pilot—were American, then the notation five-twelve-twenty-seven would be May 12th as the crash date, not December 5th.”
“What makes you think it’s an American pilot?” Kurt asked.
“Because it’s an American plane,” Joe said. “And in those days that would almost certainly mean an American flyboy or -girl—er, -woman.”
Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020) Page 12
