She snatched Yasmeen from her grandfather’s arms and applied the Heimlich method from behind, taking care not to break the girl’s ribs. The greasy crumbs were expelled after a few tries. Yasmeen let out the cry that had been stuck in her throat. It was the sweetest sound Cait had ever heard.
The girl’s mother came running from the house and scooped the bawling girl from Cait’s arms. She and her father had a rapid conversation, then she turned to Cait, smiled, and said, “Thank you.” She disappeared back into the house with the girl.
“Sorry to grab her away,” Cait said. “I took a basic CPR course once.”
Amir took her hand, bowed slightly and pressed it to his forehead.
“Please. No apology. I am in your debt. I would consider anything you wish to be my command.”
Cait spent three nights as Amir’s guest. He gave her a tour of the lake, showing her where the track once entered the valley, but there was no evidence of ruins. The bandits who had swarmed the area were nomads and left no clue behind. He said that an expedition had explored the area years before, supposedly led by a rich American named Kurtz, but it left suddenly, abandoning the touring car, which Amir had found being used as a chicken coop and restored.
He drove Cait to the air strip on the third day. Before she climbed into the plane, Amir told her that she would always be welcome. She never dreamed that three years later she would take him up on his offer.
Cait took a deep breath, exhaled, and jerked on the rope.
“Lower away,” she shouted.
She began her plunge into the blackness. At one point in her descent she looked up. The opening was a rectangle of blue sky that seemed no bigger than a postage stamp and getting smaller. The dank air triggered coughing fits.
Amir’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“Yes, fine.”
She wasn’t quite telling the truth. The support timbers were deteriorated and many were missing. She snapped off photos with her digital camera to divert her precarious state of mind. She was engrossed in her task when a shocking cold wetness enveloped her feet and ankles.
Water!
Then something grabbed at her legs. Her headlamp revealed what looked like the writhing coils of a thick black snake. She pointed the camera down and punched the shutter with a vague notion in her mind that the flash would scare it away.
She tried to dig out her radio, but in her haste it slipped from her hand. She jerked on the line. Instead of being pulled up, she continued her plunge until the water and coils were around her waist. She was almost frozen in panic. Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to scream, but the sound caught in her throat.
The water was nearly up to her chin when the descent stopped. The rope tenders had detected a change in tension and began to reel her up. She popped out of the water, feeling one last horrifying brush of the coils along her legs. Her elbows and knees scraped the sides of the shaft, but she was no longer worried about a cave-in. She wanted out! She was shivering like a leaf when Amir’s men pulled her into the sunlight.
Seeing Cait’s muddied clothes and pale features, Amir said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fi-fine, thanks,” she said.
He escorted her back to the car and ordered his men to get a blanket from the car’s trunk. She sat in the passenger seat, with the blanket wrapped around her body, and sipped strong tea.
Once her shivering was under control, she looked at the photo she had taken in the shaft then showed to image to Amir.
“It looks like a section of rubber hose,” he said.
Cait nodded. “Kurtz dug that shaft to try to get down to the treasure cave, but the hose suggests that his diver died in a wall collapse,” she said. “After that happened he wrapped up his expedition and headed home. Which is probably what I should do. I don’t want to end up the same way. Sorry to waste your time, Amir.”
He slid in behind the steering wheel, started the car and put it into gear. “You must not be discouraged. Remember that a river is made drop by drop.”
The Kahn had sprung his enigmatic proverbs before, but she was in no mood for homespun Afghan philosophy. She had spent too many years and traveled too many miles. Her patience was exhausted.
As they drove off, she glanced at the lake with yearning eyes and made a reluctant admission to herself.
For all intents and purposes, her Prester John theory was as dead as the diver buried in the mine shaft.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The headquarters for Global Logistics Technologies occupied the top floor in one of the faceless buildings that cluster around Washington like suckling young around a mother sow. With its minimalist design, the three-story glass and aluminum structure easily blended in with the other corporate lairs along the Lee Highway in Fairfax, Virginia. The architectural anonymity was no accident. Many of GLT’s world-wide operations handled military contracts that demanded the utmost in secrecy.
Abby liked the bee-hive atmosphere generated by the scores of offices and cubicles. The busy environment, with its sharply delineated, yet integrated roster of duties, reminded her of the aircraft carrier she had served on during her navy career and suited her no-nonsense personality. She kept the door of her comfortable but plainly-furnished office open so she could simultaneously absorb and broadcast the energy flow.
As with every morning, she had arisen at 5:30 and had a breakfast of Kenyan coffee, fruit and whole grain toast without butter. She watched the morning news as she ran on her treadmill, then she showered and slipped into one of her conservative dark outfits that were as close as she could get to a Navy uniform without looking as if her designer was John Paul Jones.
She had driven her silver-colored Mercedes SL convertible from her country home in Leesburg, arriving in her office promptly at seven o’clock, and had glanced first thing at the agenda for the staff meeting scheduled for 8:30. She jotted a few notes and had started to go over a contract to provide army depot support when she felt what ghost-hunters call a presence. A feeling that she was not alone.
She looked around the edge of the oversized computer monitor. Hawkins was leaning against the door frame. He was wearing a visitor’s ID in the lapel of his blue blazer and had a lopsided grin on his bearded face.
Abby’s jaw sagged in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Don’t you remember our phone conversation a few hours ago?”
“Of course I do!”
“Then you’ll remember telling me I had to get here by eight.” He pointed at the wall clock, which read 7:55.
“But I never imagined—”
“That I could be here as promised?”
“Well, yes.”
Hawkins wouldn’t have imagined it either. After he contacted Abby the night before, he had used the special number Fletcher had given him to call if he needed support services. In this case, back up had come in the form of a ride on a private jet and the use of a car with government plates. Having Fletcher’s number was akin to having a genii in a magic lamp.
“How’d you get here so quickly?” Abby asked.
“I caught a ride to Washington on a Navy plane,” he explained. “My Woods Hole ID got me past your security.”
Abby remembered the outrageous statements Matt had made after his Navy discharge and wondered if his off-the-wall claim was the sign of a mental relapse.
Forcing a smile onto her lips she crooned, as if talking to a dim-witted child, “Matt, you’re not even in the Navy anymore.”