He drew nearer, walking with a slight limp, and the professor saw that he clutched a copy of the latest book Cait Everson had written on the ancient trade routes. The professor’s smile clicked into place automatically and he stepped into the man’s path.
“I see you’re a fan of Dr. Everson’s writing,” Saleem said.
The man glanced at the book’s cover which showed a string of camels silhouetted against a red desert sunset. The Title was: “Trading Post Archaeology: The Role of the Silk Roads in Globalization.”
“I picked this up at the college bookstore. Have you read it?”
“Oh yes! Some people might find it dry, but it’s a well-written exposition. Dr. Everson is one of the foremost experts on ancient trade routes.”
Hawkins turned the book over to show the photo of Dr. Everson on the jacket. “You sound as if you know her.”
“I am Professor Akram Saleem, a colleague of Dr. Everson’s.”
Hawkins extended his hand in a vise grip. “Nice to meet you, Professor. My name is Matt Hawkins. I run a non-profit outfit called SeaSearch. We find lost ships, purely for educational and historical purposes.”
“What brings you to the history department?”
“I was researching old trading routes and came across a reference to Dr. Everson. I happened to be in Washington, and decided to see if I could talk to her.”
“I’m very sorry,” the professor said. “Dr. Everson is on indefinite leave of absence.”
“It was a last-minute impulse. Maybe another time. I’m not surprised she’s away. She says in the introduction to the book that she spends a lot of time doing field work.”
“Yes, she’s fearless when it comes to research. She believes there is no substitute for physically being at a historic site. Is there any area of particular interest to you? Perhaps I could be of help.”
“Thanks, Professor. Dr. Everson and I are both detectives of sorts. She researches land routes. I do the same on the sea. I wanted to compare methods.”
“I can put a note in her mailbox, if you’d like.”
Hawkins took a business card from his billfold, jotted down a note on the back asking her to call and handed it to the professor. They chatted a few more minutes, and then Hawkins glanced at his watch and said he had to go. Hawkins thanked the professor for his time and headed for the parking lot. The professor watched thoughtfully until Hawkins disappeared around a corner, and then went back to his office.
He looked for SeaSearch using Google and called up an impressive website that displayed photos of the dozen or so shipwrecks that Hawkins’ organization had found. He clicked on a picture of Hawkins and read the biographical sketch, starting with his most recent career at Woods Hole developing robots for underwater exploration and salvage. Then he came to the part about Hawkins’ service record and a frown crossed his usual smiling face.
Hawkins is a navy veteran with the rank of lieutenant. He served with a SEALs unit in Iraq and later in Afghanistan.
Saleem’s eyes narrowed. Why would a former navy diver and specialist in underwater salvage come looking for Cait? Coincidence? He read the biography again and looked up a number of related links that added texture to Hawkins’ background.
The professor’s interest went beyond mere curiosity.
With his friendly absent-minded professorial manner and warm smile, Professor Saleem epitomized the old descriptive cliché: a gentleman and scholar. He had gained the respect of faculty and student alike for his firm grasp of Mid-East and central Asian history. He was a bona fide historian who had gone to school in the United States and had made numerous friends along the way, qualities that gave him the ideal cover for his real job as an agent for the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence or ISI, Pakistan’s foremost intelligence agency.
He had been recruited by his cousin Mohamed, a high-ranking ISI official, who had realized the professor had the two greatest assets for a spy: accessibility and invisibility. Mohamed sent him through training and bundled him off as an exchange professor to Georgetown, hoping that his professorship would allow him to worm his way into corners of the U.S. establishment that embassy spies could never enter.
His on-going assignment was to ferret out hints of a U.S. raid that would wipe out Pakistan’s nuclear capability, a paranoid fear of the ISI and the military. The arrangement promised more than it produced. Most of what he sent home was interesting but useless. He had little access to the real power centers of government, but kept his assignment secure by sending snippets of academic cocktail party gossip to his cousin.
At times the informational well went dry, and that’s when he became desperate. It was during one of these dry spells that Dr. Everson told him her latest Prester John theory. He’d listened politely, not thinking there was any value to the information. When she mentioned sending a letter to the State Department, his ears perked up. He had transmitted the story to Pakistan, not because he believed that Prester John and his treasure were real but because he had nothing else at the moment. Mohamed had given the report short shrift, as expected, but when Saleem’s cousin got the follow-up message pin-pointing the treasure site, he set in motion an elaborate and risky plot.
The professor reached for his phone and punched out a number. The call was patched through several blind circuits that would make it difficult to trace.
A male voice answered, “Good to hear from you, my cousin.”
“You won’t think so when I tell you the news. We have a problem.”
“What sort of problem?”
“A very big one.”
Hawkins drove directly to the airport from Georgetown. He was preoccupied with his thoughts, and unaware of the black Chrysler van that had been waiting for him at Reagan airport and had followed him, first to Global Logistics, then to Georgetown University.
The van tailed him back to the airport car rental return. The man behind the wheel had premature white hair and icy blue eyes. His passenger, who was acting as spotter, was his identical twin. The van pulled up at the departure entrance and the passenger got out. The driver made a loop around the airport and when he returned, his twin was waiting for him.
He got in the van and reported that he had followed Hawkins as far as the security line. As they drove away from the airport he called a number on his cell phone.
A gravelly voice that had been digitally altered came on the line.
“Report.”
The passenger gave a detailed description of their surveillance.
There was a pause, and then the altered voice spoke again.
“I want you to concentrate on one thing and one thing only,” the voice said.
“What’s that?”
The order was short and chilling.
“Terminate Hawkins. Make him disappear. And do it as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER NINE
Calvin Hayes stood in the tower of the 25,000-ton Handysize class bulk carrier and watched a man in a thirty-foot Superboat bobbing in the water below bring a pipe-shaped object to his shoulder. A starburst blossomed from the tip of the pipe and a brilliant white streak shot across the carrier’s high bow. Hayes’ eyes followed the rocket’s trajectory and his mouth stretched in a wide grin.
He was dressed in a tailored olive suit and dark green shirt that went well with his dark chocolate complexion. A custom-made yellow silk power tie was knotted around his thick neck. Hayes was always impeccably dressed, but no one would mistake him for a fop. Hayes shaved his scalp and his ears were close to his bullet head. The nose between the high cheekbones had been flattened by a hard right during a boxing match, a match he had gone on to win. A broad-shouldered, six-foot-one physique rounded out the picture. But the tough guy look was tempered by the mischievous gleam in his molasses-colored eyes.