by Rob Jones
“Oh, what the hell…”
He kicked the brick and pushed it inside a cavity. To his astonishment, the wall slid back in increments until it formed the rest of the staircase. He ran up the steps with bullets clanging off the granite steps under his feet. If he could just reach the top and get outside the tomb complex at least he stood a chance of getting away from McCabe for long enough to get the statue to safety.
The steps now went all the way to the tunnel ceiling, and at the top, he pulled the sleeve of his leather jacket up over his fist to form a sort of glove and punched into the packed dirt. Two, three, four strikes later he broke through and daylight streamed down into the stairwell. He breathed a sigh of relief, but he was still in trouble; he could hear the sound of the soldiers breathing as they pounded along the tunnel below him.
He worked fast. The fading Iraqi desert light was bright enough to light up the dust motes floating in a thin cloud in front of his face as he punched a bigger hole in the ceiling. It got big enough to climb through, just in time. The soldiers turned the corner and reached the bottom of the steps just as he was throwing his canvas bag up through the hole in the ceiling. He reached his arms up either side of the hole and grabbed hold of more solid ground. Then he pulled himself up out of the stairwell and into the hot, dry desert air.
“Hello, Dr Hunter.”
The exhausted archaeologist stared up and saw the silhouette of Brodie McCabe standing above him, legs spread wide and arms crossed casually over his chest. Behind him, a Jeep Wrangler was parked up beside a canvas-top truck sprayed with the insignia of the Iraqi Army.
“We have to stop meeting like this, Brodie.”
McCabe laughed as Hunter crawled up out of the hole and slid his bag back over his shoulder in a desperate bid to hold onto the treasure inside. “It’s over, Max. I guess your little trip to the Gates of Nineveh didn’t work out quite how you planned?”
“You got that right! I’m going to absolutely smash this place on Trip Advisor.”
McCabe signaled to one of the soldiers who raised the stock of his rifle and clubbed Hunter between the shoulder blades. He tumbled down into the hot, dry gravel as more rifle stocks pounded down into his back. The palms of his hands pushed down in the grit as he tried to raise his body off the ground, but another blow to the back of his head thrust his face back into the gravel. He struggled not to pass out when he saw McCabe’s expensive Oxford loafers move a step closer.
“Give up, Max.”
“I won’t let you beat me, Brodie.”
“I think that ship has already sailed. Despite your best efforts back in the tomb, you are surrounded by many armed soldiers who all want to see you hanged for stealing their country’s precious relics.”
Hunter huffed out a sour laugh. “That’s a joke.”
“I’ll have you arrested and thrown in jail for years. I’ll testify. So will these men. Do you have any idea what life is like inside an Iraqi prison?”
“Actually, yes, but that’s another story.”
“And yet this is still a joke to you. I have the power in my hands to crush your life, Max.”
Hunter shrugged. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em, right?”
McCabe spoke in Arabic and one of the soldiers pulled a combat knife from his belt. Hunter flinched when he saw it, but the soldier used it hack the strap of his canvas bag. When it was severed, he handed the bag over to McCabe.
He opened it and grinned. Reaching inside and pulling out the winged statue, he held it up into the dying light of the setting sun and gasped. “We have it at last.”
As the soldiers whooped and cheered, Hunter twisted his head up to McCabe. When he spoke, it was through split, bloody lips encrusted with sand and flies. “Enjoy it while you can, because this time you’re going to prison.”
McCabe struggled to contain his laughter. “Please, Max, enough already. You know, it’s scum like you, coming into these countries and looting their ancient treasures, who really bring archaeology in disrepute.”
“You’re the scum.”
McCabe kicked him hard, burying his shoe in his ribs. Hunter clenched his jaw and muffled a cry of agony. Bolts of pain coursed through his ribcage like electricity and he heard McCabe giving the soldiers more orders. They grabbed him and hauled him roughly to his feet until he was face to face with his old enemy.
“I keep telling you to give up but you just won’t listen.”
Hunter winced as one of the soldiers bound his wrists behind his back with a nylon cable zip tie. He blew out short, sharp breaths to alleviate the pain of the injuries he had sustained in the beating. “If you think I’m the kind of guy who gives up, then you obviously don’t know me very well.”
McCabe stuffed the statue back inside the canvas bag. “I know you well enough, Max.”
More orders in Arabic, and then the men dragged him away to the army truck behind McCabe’s dusty Wrangler.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Back to my camp.” McCabe walked back over to the Jeep. “We’re holding you there until the Iraqi Police arrive and arrest you for the theft and attempted smuggling of various precious artifacts I recently excavated there.”
Hunter was confused. “So what happens to the winged statue?”
McCabe turned and held the bag up in the air. “This? This is going back to where it belongs – to where it has belonged for thousands of years.”
“I think the desert sun has given you heatstroke, Brodie. What the hell are you talking about? The last person to own that statue died at least a thousand years before Christ.”
“As I have told you before many times, you don’t know as much as you think you do.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’ll pass on your thoughts to the rightful owners of this statue, Max. I’m sure they will care even less about them than I do.” He opened the door of the Wrangler and dropped the bag onto the seat. “And please, try to escape on the way back to the camp. My men have orders to shoot you on sight if you attempt to flee their custody. It will save me having to fill out a witness statement.”
The soldiers bundled him up onto the back of the truck and sat opposite him with rifles in their hands. He considered jumping out and making a break for it, but with his hands tied and McCabe’s last words echoing in his mind, he decided to keep his powder dry and wait for a better opportunity.
The growl of a diesel engine and its vibration on the bench seat knocked him from his thoughts. A loose resonator rattled under the chassis and then a puff of exhaust fumes billowed out into the air behind them. Hunter guessed he was in for a long ride, and when he gave the soldiers a big, bright smile, they ignored him. One of them made a joke in Arabic and they all laughed. Hunter turned and looked out of the back of the truck.
They had left the track now and were driving out into the desert to the west of Mosul. It was isolated and bleak, and yet the stark inviting beauty of most deserts was there, enriched further by the reds and deep ambers of the fat sun setting slowly just out of sight ahead of the truck. At this time of day, the sands sometimes looked as soft as velvet, and as the temperature dropped for another cool night, the stars above the desolation grew sharper.
The truck rumbled on, lost in the column of dust kicked up by McCabe’s Jeep when the wind occasionally shifted. Behind them, in their own dust trail, Hunter watched the awesome sight of the moon rising over the desert to the east. Even the soldiers stopped their jokes to watch it. When the sun finally slipped below the horizon, the moon’s ghostly light swept over the sands like liquid silver. For a moment, Hunter almost lost himself in the beauty of the moment.
And then the truck pulled to a stop and the engine spluttered into silence. The Iraqi men around him burst to life, flicking their cigarettes over the tailgate and kicking him with their boots. Unshaven, tired and with a sheen of sweat on his face, he jumped down onto the sand and took in McCabe’s camp.
So this is where he was looking for it… he thought smugl
y.
Centred around a large excavation site in the middle of nowhere, it was more like a small ramshackle town. Mesh tarps flapped in the breeze and the smell of roast lamb drifted over to him on a cloud of smoke from a crackling campfire. He absorbed the atmosphere until McCabe stepped out of the Wrangler and ordered the men to bring him into camp.
One of the soldiers prodded him in the back with his rifle stock.
“All right, I get the hint.”
He made his way down a gentle slope, carefully navigating the gasoline lanterns and guy ropes as he went. His face was bashed up enough without adding to the damage, and with his hands tied behind his back he couldn’t break a fall.
They were nearing the center of the camp when he saw a team of German archaeologists talking as they ate their evening meal. They looked up but ignored him, turning away and continuing their quiet conversation as they ate bowls of steaming stew and drank from stainless steel canteens. As he reached the fire in the middle of the site, the moon was lighting the highlands to the south of Mosul and a desert lark scrounged for titbits in the twilight.
“You wait here,” McCabe said, and issued more orders to the soldiers. “I have business.”
“Don’t be long, Brodie. You know how I miss you.”
McCabe ignored the jibe and wandered over to a big military surplus tent a few yards behind the campfire. He was holding Hunter’s canvas bag in his hand and glanced at his watch as he approached a man outside the tent.
“Is he in?”
“Yes.”
An amber glow lit the tent but there was no sign of anyone inside. When the man called out for someone, Hunter saw a tall man’s shadow fall on the front wall of the tent. Only his silhouette was visible, but whoever he was, he was a big, well-built man and as lean as a butcher’s dog.
When he saw the shadow, McCabe took a step back and started to fiddle with his free hand. “Gaius?”
“Come in, McCabe, and pray you bring me the good news I have been waiting for.”
CHAPTER THREE
Amy Fox drove to work faster than normal, overtaking cars on the Whitehurst Freeway like it was going out of fashion. The sun flashed on the surface of the Potomac River and she put on a pair of sunglasses, settling back in her seat. Cruising past Georgetown Park and Foggy Bottom, she tried to make sense of the voicemail that had summoned her into work so urgently.
The traffic was getting heavier, but up ahead she saw her exit. Pulling right and joining Constitution Avenue, she drove east past the Ellipse before turning left onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Traffic was heavier again, but she soon reached her destination and swept up to the security barriers outside FBI headquarters. She showed her ID to the guard and he raised the boom gate and waved her through.
She pulled down into the underground parking lot, killed the engine and stepped out of her neat BMW coupé. She locked the car, and paused to check her hair in the reflection of the driver’s door. She wore a crisp, white shirt under a smart, black suit. The understated pearl stud earrings sparkled in the artificial strip lighting, and her sunflower blonde hair was down. She decided against this, and tied it up into a neat bun before walking to the main building.
Entering the lobby, she passed more security and took the elevator up to her office. The Office of Antiquities had been her home for over three years now, but she still had a buzz of excitement at the start of every day. Even more when the director called her in halfway through her day off.
As expected, both her office and that of her boss, James Gates, were empty; the team was already in Briefing Room A, waiting for her to arrive. She hurried down a carpeted corridor and felt a wave of pride. The walls were decorated with pictures of the various ancient artifacts the team had rescued from the dark world of international smuggling and crime, and she had played an integral role in each one of them.
She pushed the door open with confidence and found the team assembled around a large fourteen-seater conference desk. Director Gates was at the head of the table and Jodie Priest and Quinn Mosley were sitting opposite one another either side of him. Sal Blanco and Ben Lewis were at the other end of the table. They all turned as she stepped into the room.
“Amy, thanks for coming in so soon,” Gates said. “I’m glad I got hold of you.”
“Your voicemail was kind of urgent.” She set her bag on the table and turned suspicious eyes to her boss. Repeating his message back to him in a question, she said, “Come into work immediately, this is the big one?”
Gates gave her that long, crooked smile of his. “Why do you think I ordered everyone in on their day off?”
“Not the quality of the coffee, that’s for sure,” Quinn said.
“Not the coffee,” said Gates, gesturing to one of the seats. “Please, take a seat and we can get started.”
“You get any tickets for the ride in?” Lewis said.
Amy looked at her grinning colleague. “I’m sorry?”
“I know where you live, Amy, and you got here fast.”
“Speedfreak,” Jodie said.
“Reckless breaker of the law,” said Quinn, making Blanco chuckle.
“What did you guys expect,” she said, “with a voicemail message like that?”
Quiet laughter as she sat down, and then Gates walked over to a large whiteboard on the wall at the far end of the briefing table.
Amy got comfortable in her chair. “So what is this about, Jim?”
“Operation Ratline. As you are all aware,” he began, “thanks to a lot of hard work and intel gathering we recently retrieved a large haul of stolen artifacts following a lengthy operation into a ring of relic smugglers headquartered in New York. They were bringing stolen antiquities into the United States and Europe from all over Mexico and South America, and we ended that.”
“Well aware?” Quinn said. “I worked until about two a.m. most nights.”
Gates looked at the young goth. As usual, her face was obscured behind thick layers of black and white makeup. “And your country loves you for it.”
“Really?” she said, pulling her hoodie up over her head and disappearing inside its shadows. “Because that’s not what my paycheck says.”
Amy gave the young woman a disapproving look and then turned back to Gates. “You were talking about the stolen relics.”
“Right,” he said. “We inventoried the stolen artifacts so we could begin to return them to their rightful owners. Some belonged to museums, others to art galleries and some were in private collections. During the cataloguing, our agents found some anomalous objects.”
Lewis and Jodie responded to the description with suspicion, but Amy went straight in for the kill. “Anomalous objects? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means they found something not corresponding to anything we have ever seen before.”
“You mean nothing on our records, at all?” Amy asked.
“Not just our records,” Gates said. “When I say we, I mean humanity.”
Jodie thought he was joking. “Wait, you’re trying to say something not from this world?”
“Right now, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“So what are we talking about?” Blanco asked flatly.
“We’re talking about some rings and other jewellery, plus some ceremonial daggers and a raft of black and white photographs, including a very intriguing one of a winged statue. The daggers are highly unusual and have the same winged figurines as we see in the picture carved into their handles, so they’re clearly linked. We have never seen anything like these things before, from any culture, at any time.”
“That’s as freaky as it gets,” Jodie said.
Gates looked at her with something approaching sympathy. “You’d think.”
“What does that mean?” Amy asked.
“The Nazis knew about them, too.”
Amy was shocked. “How do we know that?”
“The photographs had Nazi stamps on them, and we’ve dated them to the early nineteen-forties
.”
“Getting more intriguing,” Quinn said, raising an eyebrow.
Amy felt oddly numb as she took in the words. Gates was as solid as a rock, and twice as reliable. To say he gave conspiracy theories short thrift was an understatement, and yet the look in his eyes right now worried her. “And this stuff was definitely found on the latest operation?”
He nodded. “That’s right, in the haul we bagged coming into Miami. Judging from the condition of the photographs, especially the one of the statue, I’d say they’ve been circulating around the world on the black market for a long time. I suspect the whole lot came out of Buenos Aires before the raid two years ago.”
A round of serious nods. Everyone knew about the raid on Cavallo’s place.
“And where is all of this stuff right now?” Lewis asked.
“What do you think is in that box you’re all looking at, cigars?”
“Whoa,” Jodie said. “Way to freak me out, boss.”
Quinn jokingly rolled her eyes. “They’re not radioactive.” Turning to Gates, she raised her eyebrows. “Right?”
“They’re not radioactive, and yes, that was one of the many tests I ordered to be done on them.”
Amy leaned forward and pulled the box toward her. Clicking open the locks and lifting the lid, she saw the black and white picture on top. The winged statue in the image was as Gates had described, but being a pragmatic former US Navy officer he had left out how beautiful the ancient object was.
She was looking at a tiny figurine with the face of an angel, an arched back and outstretched arms beckoning her to come forward. The creature’s wings spread out from its back in gentle, shallow curves almost like a cupped hand. “This is incredible,” she muttered.
“Wait till you see the daggers.”
Jodie snatched the picture from Amy’s hands but the older woman never even noticed. Looking down into the box, she was instantly struck by the daggers’ beauty. The blades themselves were in carved sheathes, and the handles reflected the light streaming in through the window, each of them some kind of smooth, polished stone.
