A Covenant of Thieves

by Christian Velguth

  He drew a breath. “And you’re going to hate hearing this even more. The Ark is gone because I convinced the Kohen to move it, without letting Berhanu know -- you’ve met him by now, I’m sure. Tell him it was me. Tell him I’m sorry. I am sorry. It -- it’s the right choice. After what I’ve learned, what I discovered…”

  His expression darkened abruptly. “Esta. I knew they’d send you, but I hoped they wouldn’t. It’s too dangerous for you to get involved with Pharos. Something’s happening inside it -- a rot. I can’t explain, the less you know the better. But once I found out, I knew I couldn’t let them get the Ark. It’s too important, too powerful. I know that doesn’t make sense, but I can’t explain it. The less you know, like I said. Maybe later, when you’re safe, you’ll be able to learn the whole truth, but for now I need you to do something.”

  She was practically falling off the bed now, straining to catch his every word, even though there was no way she could miss any of it.

  “I need you to let it go,” he said. “Let the Ark stay hidden. Don’t go looking for it. Tell Nasim and Pharos that the project is over, that there’s no way to track it. If I’ve done my job, there shouldn’t be. It’s for the best. It’ll stay hidden, safe. Let it go, then --” He paused, licking his lips. “Then quit your job. Leave Radical Dynamics. Move, if you can. Go back to the States. You’ll be safe there.”

  He drew a breath. “Maybe this is overkill. I hope it is. But I can’t take that chance. They’re that big. And I know none of it makes any sense to you. But I know you, Esta -- if I explained, you’d only keep digging. You’d want to get involved, to move forward. That’s the trap. The one I fell into, thinking I could change things. Change the world. I couldn’t. Not the way I tried, at least. Maybe you can, but you need to take a different path. Do it the hard way. That’s always how it’s been, I think. That’s why they were hidden, erased from our memory. You can’t just give a child a gun and expect him to use it responsibly, he’s got to earn that wisdom.”

  “I don’t understand,” Estelle said aloud. Her father was rambling, making no sense at all. She was still struggling to process any of it. “Dad -- what are you talking about?”

  Martin Kingston rubbed his face, looking a bit deranged now. “That’s enough. Look -- I know how much you hate this. But you’re my daughter, and I’m your dad, and -- and you’ve been looking after me for so much of your life, and that’s not right. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. So I’m doing it right this time. I’m looking after you. I’m asking you to trust me. Forget this. Go home and live your life for yourself, like you always should have.

  “I love you, Esta. Know that. I always will.”

  He smiled a sad smile and raised a hand in farewell, and then her dad vanished from her life all over again.

  Estelle continued to stare at the spot where his image had stood, hearing the echo of his voice in her head. Her father’s final words, delivered so long after his passing. The shock of hearing them, of seeing him, was so great that it was minutes of stunned silence before his actual message began to sink in.

  Don’t let Pharos get the Ark.

  Leave your job.

  Flee Paris.

  She stood bolt upright as if the bed had sent an electric shock coursing through her body. The weight of what he had said, and what he hadn’t said, came crashing down on her, and for a moment Estelle felt paralyzed, frozen in place by the truth of her father’s life, of his death --

  There was a knock at the door. Estelle tensed, not moving, not even daring to breathe. A moment later she heard a voice.

  “Estelle?”

  Booker. Relief flooded her veins. She went to the door and opened it a crack. The sliver of Booker that was visible looked cleaned up, and he had changed into a fresh set of clothes.

  “Um -- hey.” He peered at her through the door, his expression bemused. “Are you --?”

  Estelle pulled the door the rest of the way open and poked her head out into the hall. She glanced up and down it, confirming that it was empty. Then she grabbed Booker by the shirt and pulled him inside, slamming the door after him.

  “Whoa -- what’s going on?”

  Estelle advanced on him. “Sit down.” She pointed to the bed.

  Booker glanced at it, then at her. “Again? I just showered --”

  “Sit!” She was gasping as if out of breath, her heart pounding. Booker blinked and quickly placed himself at the edge of the mattress, looking a tad frightened.

  “Estelle, what’s happening? Talk to me.”

  “Give me a second.” She hurried to the window, peering out before pulling the curtains shut completely. She turned, running a hand through her wet hair. “Ok. Ok, listen…”

  Booker was watching her as if worried she were about to explode. “Are you having an attack?” He half-raised himself off the mattress.

  “No. Maybe. Just sit. I need to think.” She paced back and forth a few times, collecting her thoughts, gathering the courage needed to say the thing that was lodged painfully behind her breast. “I think -- Booker, I think Radical Dynamics killed my dad.”

  * * *

  Estelle sat cross-legged on the floor, rocking slightly, watching as Booker viewed her father’s message. She’d thrust her glasses into his hands before he could respond to her confession, then watched as his expression slowly morphed from bewildered to confused to solemn.

  “Did you finish it?” she asked finally, unable to remain silent any longer.

  Booker nodded, slowly removing her glasses. He didn’t hand them back to her, or look at her right away. Instead he frowned at the wall as if reading something there.

  “Well?”

  “It’s…interesting.”

  She barked a laugh, having never felt less like laughing in her entire life. “That’s one way to put it, yeah.”

  He took a breath, finally meeting her eyes. Her heart fell as she saw the worry in them. “Estelle, I think maybe you’ve got the wrong end of this.”

  “No, I don’t,” she replied at once, leaping to her feet. “You saw the recording, you saw how terrified he was. Dad knew someone was going to come after him because of what he found.”

  “Ok,” Booker said calmly. “Let’s start with that. What exactly did he find out? What scared him so much that he decided to sabotage all of his work and leave you this message?”

  “Pharos has been killing people to get artifacts.” It came out in a croaky sort of whisper. Even to her own ears it sounded absurd, and yet it was the only thing that made sense. “It’s your case, Booker. It all connects. Pharos has been hiring thieves to steal these items, then killing them after so that there are no ties to the company. I’ll bet anything my dad was the one who sent you those anonymous documents. Somehow he found out what they were doing and knew he had to stop it, but he knew he couldn’t do it alone, so he sent it to you because he knew you were in the FBI -- that’s why he asked me about you!” The realization crashed over her like a wave of cold water. “The day he got sick! He asked me if we’d spoken lately, out of the blue. He -- he must have known he was running out of time. If we could have had dinner, I’ll be he would have tried to convince me to get in touch with you -- visit you, maybe. Get away from Radical Dynamics.”

  “Alright, that’s definitely possible. But I got those documents days after your dad had died.”

  “So he set up a timed thing, a dead man's switch or whatever. That’s a thing, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But let’s table that for now.” Booker was still speaking in a smooth, even tone that she found patronizing. “Here’s where I’m having trouble. Why would Radical Dynamics need to do any of this? Why kill people, why the subterfuge when Pharos already exists, when people like your dad were laying the groundwork to obtain these items legally? They have all the resources in the world, literally. There’s no need to expose themselves to that sort of risk when they could just throw money at any obstacle they encountered.”

  His objection felt ha
rdly worth her consideration. “Obviously Pharos is a front. Nasim said it was a cultural preservation project, but they’re not trying to preserve these artifacts, they’re trying to steal them. Pharos lets them get close, expose the artifacts, and then they send in the hired thieves to finish the job.”

  He was nodding in a way that didn’t necessarily signal agreement. “Ok. So, by that logic, Nasim hires your dad to go get access to the Ark. He finds out what the project is really up to and decides to turn whistleblower. Somehow Pharos finds out and has him killed, then secretly hires Rick and Kai to go get the Ark while also bringing you in to finish up your father’s work. Is that what we’re talking about?”

  “Maybe.” It sounded stupid when she heard it from him, in that tone of voice he was using. “I don’t know.”

  “Ok. Again, let’s table that. Why? Why go to all the trouble just for some artifacts? Are they selling them on the black market? Radical Dynamics doesn’t need the money. So what are they doing all this for?”

  “I don’t know, Booker!” She turned her back to him, grabbing fistfulls of hair and tugging until her eyes stung. Her frustrated reflection peered out at her from the black glass of the wall monitor. “Does it matter? My dad’s dead. Killed, just like your informant was. And Radical Dynamics is responsible.”

  Booker stood. She saw him rising in the monitor like a dark phantom. “I’m not sure they are.”

  She turned to him. “You saw the recording. You heard what my dad said.”

  “I did.” He was speaking slowly, each word deliberate. “And he never actually said he was afraid for his life. Or pointed the finger at Radical Dynamics.”

  “There’s something inside Pharos,” she shot back, echoing her father’s words. “A rot. They’re that big. Come on, who else could he have been talking about?”

  “We don’t know what that means, Estelle. Even if he was talking about Radical Dynamics, it could have been something else -- fraud or embezzlement --” She snorted. He took a step towards her, hands raised. “No, listen. The things your dad says in this recording -- they don’t make sense, Estelle. He talks about the power of the Ark, about things being erased from his memory.”

  She shook her head, a quick jerking motion. It hardly seemed relevant compared to the rest of the message. “What’re you getting at?”

  Booker took a breath, visibly steeling himself. “What if -- what if he was already sick? What if the malaria was making him delusional?” He raised the hand holding her glasses. “What if none of this was real, Estelle?”

  She stared at him, then at her glasses in his hand, and then back to him. “My dad wasn’t crazy,” Estelle said flatly.

  “Malaria causes inflammation of the brain, high fever, which can lead to impaired cognitive functions, hallucinations --”

  “He wasn’t hallucinating, Booker! Stop talking to me like I’m a child! I know how it all sounds, but he’s dead, just like your informant. You came here because you were convinced someone killed her to keep her quiet. You have proof that someone has been organizing these murders all over the world, that your Chicago thing is somehow connected to what my dad was doing in Ethiopia, proof that could only have come from someone who knew about what was happening. My dad sent it to you. He’s your source. Why are you acting like I’m crazy for seeing this?”

  He said nothing. Estelle glared at him, holding his gaze until he looked away. “It’s not crazy,” he said softly. “But we need to be careful. Really, really careful, moving forward. Radical Dynamics is huge, and if we go throwing these accusations around without solid evidence --”

  She snatched her glasses from his hand. “The evidence is right here. This, plus those documents my dad sent you. You have to take this back to the FBI, to your superiors. Call them now, Booker. It proves your case is real. They’ll be able to protect us while they deal with Radical Dynamics.”

  Booker said nothing. All at once he looked rather pained.

  “What is it?”

  He sighed, rubbing his face. “I can’t bring it to the FBI.”

  “I don’t think they’ll care that you woke them up once you explain --”

  “No, it’s not that, Estelle! I’m -- I’m on probation.”

  Estelle gaped at him. “For what happened in Axum? That’s ridiculous, it wasn’t your fault --”

  “No. For…for Jane Baum. She died on my watch, and there was an inquiry, and the Bureau needed someone to blame and they…found me. I’m suspended. Three months.”

  Silence.

  There was something whining in her ears, the high keening tone of a mosquito. “So…you weren’t sent here to follow up on your investigation.”

  He shook his head, looking miserable. “As far as the FBI is concerned, I’m a nutjob who screwed up his first big case and is trying to spin conspiracy theories to cover his own ass. I came here because I’m suspended. To try and work it out on my own. I thought that maybe if I could bring Rick and Kai back, get them to cooperate, I’d --”

  “Salvage your case,” she said coldly. “And save your own ass.”

  “Something like that,” Booker said quietly. “Listen, I’m sorry I lied, ok? But this wouldn’t have worked if Rick and Kai knew I wasn’t here in an official capacity.”

  “But you could have told me.”

  “I had no idea you would even be here, and by then I -- I didn’t want to risk them finding out.”

  That hesitation told her it was another lie, and she didn’t care what the reasoning behind it was. Estelle stepped away from him, turning her back on his imploring expression and going to stand before the window.

  “Estelle…”

  “My dad sent you those documents because he trusted you, Booker. He thought you would be able to help.” There was a chill creeping up from her gut, freeing her mind from the anger she should have felt in that moment. Allowing her to see things clearly.

  “I’m trying to help. Listen -- I’ll call the Bureau, ok? I’m suspended, and they might fire me after they find out what I’ve been doing, but screw it. With your dad’s message, they’ll have to listen. Even if I get fired, they’ll have to do something.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just -- just stay here, ok? I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then she heard him leave, closing the door softly behind him. Estelle let out a low, shaky breath. It seemed to travel through her limbs as well as her lungs, making them shiver. She felt hot and cold at once.

  Lies. Every single person who demanded her trust turned around and worked behind her back. Hid the truth, because they thought it was for the best. Because they were trying to protect her. Or so they said.

  Booker’s initial story had been a lie, but was this one the truth? Had he really been suspended, or was there more to it? Was he even with the FBI anymore? She realized there was no way of knowing. The crossing of their paths, always coincidental beyond belief, now took on new significance. Had that been arranged by her father? Or had he been sent by Radical Dynamics to keep an eye on her? To manipulate her? Was he really contacting the FBI right now, or had he left the room so he could speak to Nasim without her knowing?

  Nasim had revealed the secret Pharos Initiative to her, told her about her own father’s hidden life. But was that really what was going on? Or was there more to it? A sinister underbelly, as her father had suggested. Was Nasim ignorant or the orchestrator of it all?

  And what of her own father? How long had he been lying to her, keeping an entire part of his life secret? And now this message. The less you know, the better. Still trying to keep things from her. A lie of omission. For her own protection.

  She didn’t know what to do. Everyone who wore a familiar face and pretended to be her friend acted as if they weren’t. When everyone you thought you knew turned out to be a liar, who could you turn to? Who could you trust?

  Estelle pulled back the curtain and looked out on the Gondar cityscape. From the hill wher
e the hotel resided she could make out the complex of the University of Gondar Hospital, only a little over a mile away. And all at once she could see her next step just as clearly.

  Who was more trustworthy than an honest thief?

  * * *

  Booker sat at the small desk terminal in his hotel room, drumming his fingers on the keyboard and trying to work up the courage to call Helen Martinez.

  It would have been easier if he had still had his watch. His watch was safe, familiar. But there was something rigid and stern about using a desk terminal to call her. Plus, it would need to be a video call, and he wasn’t really ready to look her in the eye and explain his actions.

  You told Estelle you would, he reminded himself. She needs you to do this. You need you to do this.

  They couldn’t ignore the evidence, no matter how mad they were at him. It might be the end of his career, but at least he could go out doing some good.

  Booker drew a breath, then logged into his cloud account and navigated to the messenger app. He selected Helen from his list of contacts and placed a live call before he could chicken out.

  A new window opened and a small morphing icon let him know the call was in progress. Only a few seconds passed before the black box illuminated and filled with Helen’s face. She looked moderately surprised to see him.

  “Heeyy, Helen,” Booker began, wincing at the break in his voice. “What time is it there?”

  “Booker? It’s seven in the -orning.”

  The quality wasn’t great; Helen’s voice was tinny, the sound dropping out every few words, and her face moved like a series of still images. It did nothing to quell his nerves.

  “Ok, good, I wasn’t sure if I’d wake you. I am in Ethiopia,” Booker said. “In the city of Gondar.”