King Solomon's Tomb

by Preston W Child

  Reno was spent too. He put his gun away and hurled himself to his hands and feet. Reno crawled forward. He went about two yards before his hands hit something; he felt around it. It was the rubber shoe of one of the men he had just killed.

  Behind him, Tami had stopped screaming. José was coming over. He could see his figure; his eyes were adjusting to the darkness now.

  The bodies on the ground, too, were now more apparent.

  "Some people you might know?" Reno asked José.

  The detective crouched on the floor beside the bodies, examining them the best he could under the bad lighting circumstances.

  "Yeah, I know this one." He tapped the foot of one of them. "They called him Sucre. And this one I don't know. He may be a hired hand."

  "Why are they trying to kill us?" Reno.

  "Wish I knew. But Diggs called me earlier. He told me to come back and make sure Tami was safe. So, I think we pissed someone off. Someone who believes we are in the way of another big thing—"

  "Big like Machu Picchu?" Tami asked.

  They looked in her direction in the dark. She was hugging herself, rubbing the sides of her arms.

  "Maybe," José agreed.

  Reno said, "Or maybe for Machu Picchu. One thing, though, how are they tracking us?"

  None of them had the answer to that.

  Reno took the guns off the bodies. He and José hauled the bodies out to the cop car. A few dogs still barked nearby, but no neighbors were nosy enough to come looking for what was happening. Suddenly there was the sound of sirens coming.

  Neighbors have called the police.

  They finished cleaning the scene, and Reno led the way to the safehouse again.

  They were in another street soon, a lighted one without the dogs and dirty alleys. The safehouse was not a house but a bar that was out of use. The name on the tattered awning was Beatty-Beatty.

  They went in through the back.

  Reno said, "They will find us again if we don't find out they are doing it."

  José and Tami looked at each other.

  "How do we do that?" José asked.

  Reno nodded at Tami.

  —

  Olivia put her phone on the table. She picked up the book Rodriguez sent to her up and opened it.

  "Is Tami alright?" Diggs asked.

  She whispered, "I hope so."

  "What do you wanna do?"

  I'd like to go home, back to my life. But she knew the moment she stepped on the street, or on US soil, she would be arrested.

  She said instead, "I want to find Rodriguez's killer. Then I want to know why they killed him, and make them pay."

  Lawrence Diggs sat still, like a statue, his cold eyes on Olivia's face. He smiled, and it would have been gruesome if he didn't have a heart.

  "Where do you want to begin?" he asked.

  "I want to break into the autopsy room, or maybe where the police are keeping Rodriguez's things. His phone. I want to know who called him here, who he talked to before he died."

  She peered at Diggs.

  "Can you do that for me?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then I want to crack this book. Rodriguez sent it to me as a message. He was counting on me to crack the code in it. First, I have to find the code."

  Diggs took out his laptop and his phone and started connecting the two. He worked so fast Olivia couldn't keep up with his movements and the intricate connections he worked with.

  She went back to exploring the book. One phrase kept coming back to her.

  The wise man's lair.

  —

  Somewhere on Earth

  It was a simple plan, but even simple plans are rife with inherent complexities. Paul Talbot was sitting in a bar downtown somewhere, drinking gin and smoking a cigar. The bar was the front for a business that required certain secrecies. And certain secrecies needed the front of a bar. A black girl curled around a pole like a snake in the middle. Jazz music filtered slowly from a jukebox. Cigar smoke formed a white canopy between the floor and the dark ceiling where Asian-style lights shined.

  There were two billiard tables in the place, one on each side of the girl. Her skin was the color of roasted cacao, dark brown, shiny with oil. Her hair was even darker; it looked like rings of black, polished metal. Her eyes were large, sleepy, likely drugged. It was what it was; she was beautiful. Paul took his cigar out of his mouth and blew smoke up into the gloom above. He looked at the girl, and his swollen phallus pulled harder at the seams of his zipper. Her scanty clothing revealed firm tits, grabbable. She pulled her skirt up, and Paul gasped. Her hips most have been molded and then attached.

  God, he thought. He might have her later.

  "Enjoying the view?"

  "Uhuh," said Paul Talbot to the man who just joined him.

  Paul hadn't noticed him coming through the door, through the hanging mist of smoke, the empty silence of the place, and the soporific music. He had been carried away by the human chocolate on the pole.

  "Her name's Jen," the man said, following Paul's gaze.

  The man's name was—Paul looked sharply at him, remembering that no one knew his name. He just appeared when you needed him. He was many things all rolled into one. And none of the things the man is was good. Good was a relative word to describe someone, any human, with. Paul had been described as cruel by some and benevolent by others. Or even sexy. He wondered what the girl on the pole would think of him.

  He cast the girl's image aside and asked the man before him, "Where are we on the deal?"

  "A lot has happened since we last met. Some changes in plans, here and there—"

  "What changes are you talking about?"

  "Necessary ones. We are talking fortune that is beyond any of our imaginations. We can't afford to leave things to chance. Our sponsors want competence, not just numbers. They want the job done under the radar. They don't want the world reading about it the papers, or watching it on Saturday Night Live shit." The man paused; he looked at Paul.

  Paul stared back with equal curiosity. "Can you get to the point?" he said in a calm voice, but his heart was ready to jump.

  "We don't need the woman and her people. We need this to be as low-key as possible," the man said, then he quickly shrugged and spread his hands. "No, it's not me. I'm just an errand boy—"

  "We both know you are more than that."

  "They tell me what they want. I make what they want what I want, then I get what they want. Certainly, you know how this works, yes? So now we are assembling a new team for the job. You'll provide logistics, get the job done, get your cut—a handsome one I've been assured—then vanish as you always do."

  Paul was fuming. His heart had done that jump, and his face was red with the reaction. But this man seated before him in a rumpled grey suit, black shirt, and an even rougher tie was as wily as the worst cons. He was also a killer, Paul had heard. He was so cold he was hardly hired. Because if you hire him, he will deliver too much, and then you'd wish you hadn't hired him.

  Talbot heard a story about a Mexican warlord named Soga who hired this guy to do a job. He was supposed to kill a rival warlord, wipe out his family. This guy did, he wiped out the family of that warlord. But that family included Soga's only daughter, who had been given in marriage before alliances went sour. This guy killed her too, bunched all the heads in a bag, and sent it to Soga, even though Soga had given explicit directions to the contrary.

  Soga made full payment, then he added another Ferrari.

  "So, what do you say?" the man asked.

  Paul was even more scared of this guy than of the Men of the Table. These were the men who ran the commerce, the industry of the world. They were the men who wanted to do the ultimate heist. They had called Paul Talbot to help them do the job. He was going to call the most unlikely person: Olivia Newton and her team.

  "I'll lead the team."

  "Good. I'll pass your goodwill along." The man turned his head to the billiard table. The girl was on it now, roll
ing the balls around her thighs and her pubic area. "I could arrange her for you. For a hundred grand."

  "I lost my appetite just now. Thanks."

  The man looked at Paul sorrowfully. "I can imagine."

  He rose to leave. He said the clients would contact Talbot.

  "How about the old man?"

  "Oh, about that, I'm sorry it slipped my mind. The man is dead."

  Talbot stared in shock. "What the fuck is wrong with you people?" Paul snapped.

  The man straightened his suit and sat down again. He eyed Talbot's cigar. He licked his thin lips; his wide jaws worked, contracted. His benign grey eyes were soaked with pity. He placed his hand on the table and drummed.

  "I'll tell you what the fuck is wrong with us. In this business, there is a certain amount of publicity that's allowed. And a degree that gets you noticed by the wrong people. The woman and her team have been compromised. They are not to be associated with. A businessman of your stature ought to know this, Talbot. As we speak, Interpol is looking for two Americans with their description."

  Paul frowned. His head was doing a spin.

  "But not to worry, we are going to clean the mess. We don't want the authorities connecting this important job to the woman and her people."

  "Did you kill Rodriguez?"

  "What does he matter to you?"

  "He was just an old man—"

  "He was dispensable."

  "You could have left him alone."

  "Collateral damage."

  "Fuck you," Paul growled. He stuck his cigar in his mouth and sucked nicotine.

  The man rose again; he regarded Talbot with an amused stare. Paul preferred this look, not the piteous one.

  "You used to be CIA. I heard you were good back in your days. How many people did you kill in your time?"

  "None that I didn't, I have to. And if you knew who you were messing with, you'd have left the old man alone. She will find you and destroy you. You better be prepared for when she finds out who you are and what you did. For now, I'm going to pretend I don’t know what I know. You keep your mouth shut, your hands by your side, and watch me do the job. I don't want more deaths on my conscience."

  "Well, good for you. You do have a conscience after all—"

  "I suggest you grow one too. You'd need to sleep at night after a while."

  "And who said I sleep?" The man smiled.

  "Well, good for you then. You do not need sleep after all."

  The man nodded his head of blond hair and walked away.

  Paul exhaled. He breathed, "Fucking prick."

  He touched the button of his jacket; it clicked like a camera shutter coming to. He opened his jacket and took a device from it. It was a video recorder. He put it in his pocket; it was his insurance.

  Now he can search the man out, get his name.

  —

  Copacabana, Brazil

  The Policia Militar on R. Euclides da Rocha Street was about to receive an unusual visitor. The man first drank tequila in the Jacas Bar opposite the Militar office. Two cops sat on both sides of him because those were the vacant stools when the men came in from the bright day outside.

  This man wore a white shirt with flower prints on it—red, yellow, green. His shirts were brown khakis that had pockets on the sides, like those of soldiers’ camouflage. His hair was black and hidden under a fedora. His dark glasses hung from the pocket on the shirt. He sighed and drank his second shot of tequila; he knocked it back like an amateur drunk, and the big bartender with the shiny bald head and beard glanced at him, blankly. The bartender must be used to amateurs knocking strong liquor back like that. He poured drinks for the two cops who just entered.

  The two cops carried on their conversation about a particular cop who died not long ago while doing his thing. That was why cops shoot first and ask questions after. They started talking about the manhunt for the two Americans in the area. One cop said he was sure they were already flying out of the country.

  The man drinking his tequila suddenly said in fluent Portuguese, "Do you think the cops can help me find my phone? I lost it this afternoon."

  The two cops looked at his face curiously. One asked if he was a tourist; the man nodded that he was.

  "You think the police run a lost-and-found office?" one asked.

  The tourist shrugged and said, "You know, the police are your friend—"

  "For reals?"

  The cops laughed and asked the bartender to fill the tourist's glass. Then they went back to talking about the merits of shooting criminals first and then asking questions after. The tourist downed his drink, listened for a moment more, then slipped off his stool.

  He belched in the nearest cop's face, and the cop leaned away. He shook his head and mumbled something in low Portuguese that the tourist missed. Not that it would have mattered if he heard after all. He shuffled in his leather sandals across the bar and out into the sunlit day.

  He crossed the road, missed a biker who went by very fast. The biker advised him to watch where he was going. He added a cuss, for emphasis.

  The Militar office was a single building; two cop cars were parked in the front. The man sauntered through the double glass doors. It was cool inside and rowdy. He paused for a second to take in the commotion. No one noticed the shabby-looking tourist standing at the door.

  From where he stood, the tiles had a deep fade that went all the way to the wall where it struck left to a small office carved out of the large place with plywood. Officers in blue uniforms fitted with radios and pistols went in and out of there.

  The rest of the floor was filled with cops sitting behind desks talking on the phone or in conversation with another police officer.

  A red tag hung from the ceiling over a policewoman. The tag said, reclamacao.

  The tourist walked over to the desk and took the empty chair in front of her. She raised her face from the computer and said, "What?"

  "My phone's been stolen. I can't find it."

  The woman was fairly pretty. She had blackheads on her straight nose; her plump pink lips pursed at the tourist. She took a piece of paper and asked his name and what type of phone it was. The tourist told her, "My name is Aguero Elias, an iPhone X. It's like my whole life on it."

  She scribbled on the paper and then went on to type on her computer. She finished writing and said, "Check back in a week."

  The tourist's eyes widened. He said, "A week? Why don't you just tell me to get a new one instead? I can't wait that long—"

  "Well, that's the best we can do for you, mister. If someone finds it, hope they don't like iPhones, and they'd bring by. Then you can have your phone back. Meanwhile, get a new one in case it takes longer than that."

  The tourist sighed and looked around. The other cops continued to ignore him. More people came in by the way, mostly tourists with various complaints, locals being dragged in by policemen for crimes and misdemeanors.

  The woman gestured to the tourist before her to get off the chair so someone else can tell her how she could help them.

  He leaned forward and asked if he could use the toilet.

  "Go down that way," she said, pointing at the end of the hall.

  When the man got there, he found two doors, both opposite each other. There was, of course, the one with BANHEIRO on it. The other one said EVIDENCIA.

  He checked to see if anyone was looking. No one was looking. Wow, how easy this was going.

  He opened the evidence room and slipped in. The tourist was in there a total of twenty seconds. He came out, wiping his hands on toilet paper that was in his pocket all along.

  When he walked out, two unmarked cars were blocking the street. Cops with heavy guns had their sights.

  The tourist raised his hand slowly.

  —

  Arnold Hirsh of Interpol had given the Militar express instructions regarding the capture of the fugitives. He was to be contacted the moment they were apprehended.

  He was in a bar watching a stripper p
our chocolate-flavored vodka all over the bronze-colored skin of her thighs when he heard two men talking at a table nearby. The two men looked like factory workers; roughnecks like those he'd encountered in Milwaukee's timber coasts. Crumbs of dry mud were around their boots on the floor.

  So, it was this guy that's been on the news, the American. The one with a bottle of beer dangling from his hand at the back of the chair said.

  And guess where they caught him?

  Where?

  Right in the Militar office.

  "Oh, great…" Arnold said under his breath and bolted out of the place.

  —

  Borgo, Rome

  Former cardinal Emilio Batolini looked right and left before he crossed the road into the waiting limousine. It took him on a short trip through Borgo. The driver knew the drill. He would drive two blocks east, another block west, then back to the place where he started before driving south to the villa where Emilio would attend his meeting. When Emilio was done there, he would be driving the same way back.

  It was time-wasting, but it was necessary to make sure his tail was clean.

  This day, however, a motorbike was on his tail, and he could not shake it. Not that the driver of the limousine was aware he was being tailed. The tailing was the work of an expert.

  Two blocks after Via Fabia Massimo, the motorbike was back with its black-suited rider. He wore a black helmet and carried a bag on his back.

  Ten minutes later, the limo stopped in front of the building. The architecture was Byzantine. Four pillars held a patio at the entrance; gargoyles were sculpted on the steps, the top of the pillars, and the windows. The décor was gothic, old, and cold.

  Emilio's meeting would last thirty minutes.

  There were other cars in the vast parking lot. Emilio went in and joined his colleagues.

  The meeting of members of the Table was in session.

  —

  The motorbike rider parked his bike a block away in an alley. He walked the rest of the way.

  Andrew Gilmore walked past just as the limousine was turning around in the parking lot. He slowed his pace in front of the limo. The driver raised his hands questioningly.

  "Are you blind?" the driver yelled.

  "Actually, yes."