‘Paul, Jacob, do you have any pictures of the items stolen from the museum?’
Paul’s face smiled back, smugness about it, ‘I have already emailed detailed pictures to you my friend. Why?’
‘We have something here, and I think it is similar.’
‘How can that be, the stolen items were from an Inca city, and you said the boat is Chinese?’
‘Ship, Paul, a ship, fifty metres is not a boat, but yes I did. Look don’t worry.’
‘Anything else Jacob?’
‘Actually, how much damage was caused in the museum from the break in?’
‘None, very professional job, only the crates from the Inca site, and they were re-sealed afterwards, if it had not been for finding the sword, we would not have known for weeks.’
‘So the thief knew exactly which crates to open?’
‘He must have, who had that information, local security?’
‘No need for them, just the curator, display team, but not until next week, and the original dig team.’
‘Jacob, do you suspect anyone?’
‘Old habits my friend, I suspect everyone, until I can prove otherwise. The lack of chemical signature is the giveaway, careless really.’
‘Why I thought not having a chemical signature hides the user’s identity?’
‘Yes and no, the only people who insist on no chemical signature, and get it, are special ops.’
‘U.S. special ops? Surely not?’
‘No there are many agencies and units that use this. I will get back to you Paul, thanks.’
He dropped the connection and downloaded his email.
Moving efficiently and effectively Jacob linked his laptop to the monitors HD display, splitting the screen between the images.
He zoomed in and discovered similar glyphs and markings on both objects.
The team stopped as they all recognised the significance, even Lorraine.
She was first to speak, ‘Jacob what is that?’
‘That is an object found in Tupac, an Inca city on the coast Peru, and stolen from our museum last week.’
‘But the symbols are identical?’
‘They appear so, and now you need to discover why two objects have the same symbols, one in a Chinese wreck and the other in an Inca temple both from the fifteenth century.’
The group separated, Jacob walking over to Lorraine, who had removed her hands from the thick gloves, and was staring at the screen behind her.
‘Jacob, what have we stumbled upon?’
‘I am not sure Lorraine, but the similarity in these two objects cannot be coincidence.’
Outside in the hanger a car horn sounded, a few sharp toots, and Jacob craned his head out the door, Jean had arrived back.
Jacob could see his jeep towing what looked like a burger van, ‘What is this Jean branching out!’
Jean smiled and waved, beckoning Jacob over, the young scientists followed.
‘Jacob my friend, I have borrowed this from a friend, thought I could cook you breakfast.’
‘Jean, you are a mind reader, last thing I ate was on the plane.’
‘That is not food, but what I have, is the best!’
‘Greasy burgers and sausages?’
‘Non Môn ami, this is the best cuts of bacon, and homemade sausages, along with tomatoes, French toast, barn eggs.’
By now all the people in the hanger were listening intently, no one had stopped working all night, and a hearty breakfast would be welcome.
‘Right my friends help me set up, get this table up and cleaned, and can someone shut the hanger door, it is a little windy.’
The storm that Jacob and Jean outran earlier had caught them up, and was now buffeting the exposed hanger, the tin roof flexing in complaint. Within half an hour, Jean had begun taking order and serving food, insisting that all the goods he brought were eaten, and the hot freshly ground coffee was flowing freely. Jacob relaxed and the group spent an hour listening to his war stories, and questions on the Institute and its meagre beginnings.
Eli Rothwell, who was eating at his desk, avoiding getting sauce on the keyboards, came over, ‘Mr Mathias, a call for you from Ecuador.’
‘Lovely, Laurent no doubt, I shall have indigestion after this.’
He reluctantly moved to the communications desk, Laurent and Jacob had never agreed on anything, Jacob did not like Laurent’s ethics, of lack of them, and Laurent did not appreciate Jacob’s methods either.
They had an uneasy truce, Jacob tolerated Laurent as he found many sites and relics no one else could or had, and Paul said he was fairly cheap.
Jacob sat heavily in Eli’s padded chair, the screen in front of him blinking a connect icon, he selected it and was surprised by the smiling face that greeted him.
ELEVEN
Forty miles south of the Coiba National Park, in International waters Isla Joya Verde had belonged to the U.S. government on a fifty-year lease from Panama. First established to test US Submarines and missiles in the late forties and fifties, it contained a variety of re-enforced angular grey structures. There were discreet but extensive underground laboratories and test facilities carved out of the bedrock and lined with concrete. Many buildings had also survived above ground, some recently renovated, others left for the surrounding jungle to reclaim. The island had a seaport, allowing hovercraft and seaplanes to land and ascend a ramp to a secure docking area. The original submarine docks long since destroyed and abandoned, were a hazard to most conventional shipping, increasing base security and isolation.
Today the dock welcomed a former European dictator, and recent client of Unit Zero 3, he had been invited to come for a tour before investing funds. His guide was Head of Operations and original Unit Zero 3 operative, Colonel Tom Briggs. At six foot tall, with short-cropped blonde hair, the muscular former SEAL Commander was imposing. His client was a pasty man, wearing a suit from Hong Kong, handmade shoes from Italy and a watch that was the same value as a family car.
He stepped warily off the seaplane, savoured the comfort of solid ground; a hand extended by Colonel Briggs was ignored.
‘Where is The General?’
‘He is currently attending to some other business, and will join us later.’
‘I see he does not have time to greet me, but sends a messenger instead.’
‘Sorry Mr Roditz, I am Colonel Briggs, Head of Operations.’
‘I am sure. Can I see what my money is buying now?’
With a professional smile, Briggs led the way to a tour of the facility, a small golf cart taking the portly politician to save the stress on his costly shoes.
They saw the assault course, firing range, hangers containing various helicopters and combat aircraft. All of which appeared not to impress Mr Roditz.
They dismounted the cart and entered the operations area, taking an elevator down thirty feet below the concrete complex. Finally Mr Roditz appeared impressed by the vista that opened before them. The Unit Zero 3 and Protection Incorporated joint operations room. A bank of monitors gave satellite feeds, online communications and displays from all active missions across the world.
‘Mr Briggs, I see you run a very professional outfit, despite your external appearances.’
‘The island is meant to be an environmental research facility, so having permanent hardware above ground would compromise our operational integrity.’
Briggs ignored the lack of rank, which he had legitimately earned prior to creating Unit Zero 3 with The General. The group moved around to the research labs, and The General greeted them. He was only five feet ten tall, but held himself with the stature of a larger man. His piercing grey eyes scanned the room, assessing its occupants. A subtle smile fixed, poker face. His hair was swept back, flowing away from his high forehead, abandoning the crew cut years ago, vanity overriding function.