“Was the tomb shown to you by a local? Sometimes natives will salt a ruin with fakes.”
“Its location was based on my research. The tomb seems to have been plundered, but the robbers dropped this coin.”
“As you said on the phone this is a very unusual specimen. Highly unusual I might say. Prester John was a controversial figure. Many scholars believe that he and his kingdom never existed.”
“I am in the minority that believes Prester John and his kingdom were real. I was hoping that your examination of the coin would prove it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, but there are a number of possibilities.”
“I’d like to hear them.”
“This could be a coin from Prester John’s kingdom. Or this coin could have been minted by someone who peddled it to gullible buyers. Another possibility is that it is a fantasy item, which memorializes something that may not be real. Like a winged horse or a unicorn. Bottom line, I can’t confirm that this was currency minted in some long-lost kingdom.”
“I knew it was a long shot.”
“Don’t be disheartened. What I can do is tell you it is, in fact, an ancient coin, not a more recent fake.”
“Well, that’s something, at least.”
Black gave a crisp laugh.
“Further tests, like a spectroscopic analysis, may prove me wrong, but if I’m correct, and regardless of its origin, we are looking at one of the most important numismatic finds in the past hundred years.”
Black’s statement echoed in Cait’s ears as she drove back to Arlington. The coin tucked in her purse seemed to be emanating rays from the past. Even if the treasure were never found, the existence of the coin would bolster her Prester John theory and spur even further research.
Back at her apartment, she slipped out of her Indiana Jones outfit, showered, and crawled into bed. She fell asleep, thinking that she couldn’t wait to see the faces of her colleagues who had described her work as “pop research.”
She would have slept less soundly if she had known that Marzak was only a few miles away.
Marzak had a network of contacts around the world. After slipping out of the hotel in Islamabad, he had called a number and told the person at the other end that he had to get out of Pakistan as soon as possible. He was told to hang on and after an excruciating wait, he was instructed to go directly to the airport. A first-class seat was waiting on a commercial flight to London where he caught a British Airways plane to Washington.
Upon arriving, he had taken a taxi to an apartment building on the outskirts of the city. The unit ownership was under one of his many false names, and the big beehive of an apartment complex offered a degree of anonymity. The two-bedroom unit had served as a crash pad for him and his brother and a storage place for an array of weapons that would have supplied a small army.
He checked the security camera that kept watch on the apartment, but no intruders had been recorded. He laid some weapons on his brother’s bed and stretched out on the couch. He stared at the ceiling and fell into a watchful half sleep that ended when his eyes blinked open at the chirp of his cell phone.
The voice on the line belonged to one of the freelance operators he and his brother had employed for special jobs. “We picked up a signal from the transmitter we put in Dr. Everson’s car.”
“Let me know when she reaches a destination.”
The phone chirped again an hour later.
“She went to National Harbor, stayed around forty-five minutes and drove back to her apartment.”
“Where did she stop?”
“At a private residence. We checked. It’s owned by Nelson Black, a coin expert.”
Interesting.
“Put her under surveillance,” Marzak said. “Let me know if she has visitors or if she leaves again.”
He stretched out on the couch again to martial his physical and mental resources. His prime target was Hawkins, but he had learned long ago that low-hanging fruit was better than no fruit at all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The military jail at Camp Kurtz was a dilapidated barn-sized shed that had been used as a mausoleum for dead mining equipment. The rough-hewn building was crowded with rust-covered, derelict machines, huge wheels, cylinders, riveted boilers and spring-like coils that looked more like industrial art than the mechanical guts of a busy mining operation.
Sutherland sat on the dirt floor of the shed, her right wrist handcuffed to a giant cable spool. She had been there for hours. Slivers of light sifting through gaps in the boards had provided the only illumination, but even those had disappeared and she was in near total darkness.
She was uncomfortable, thirsty and hungry. She would have killed for a bag of potato chips. Mostly, she was angry at herself for breaking her own rule against letting her computer out of her hands. She should never have left it in the barracks. She didn’t blame Hawkins for his ill-timed message. She had been hoping he would contact her, but he could never have dreamed that his words would be seen by hostile eyes. But there on the screen, for Kurtz to see, was Hawkins’ mangled attempt at texting shorthand:
AAS. THX411. CONGRATS. ACKKurtz=PJ$ Home2moro. T2UL. Hawkins.
A grating sound cut into her ruminations. The shed door swung open and a flashlight beam hit her face. She shut her eyes to block the light. Boots crunched on the dirt. A hand grabbed her by the wrist, unlocked the cuff and pulled her to her feet. Her arm was yanked behind her back and she was cuffed again.
“March,” Krause ordered.
He shoved her through the doorway. The Jeep was waiting to drive her to the mansion. They escorted Sutherland through the front entrance and down a long hallway. Wallpaper was peeling away and the corridor had a musty odor. Krause stopped in front of a door and knocked.
The general barked: “Enter!”
Krause opened the door, pushed Sutherland into the room and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
Kurtz sat behind an antique desk of gargantuan proportions that was carved with Gothic motifs. The top of the desk was bare except for a riding crop and an old-fashioned goose-neck lamp that provided the only light, but it was enough illumination for her to see that the suits of armor flanking the desk were rusty and missing parts.
“Sit,” the general said, pointing to a plain wooden chair.
Sutherland did as she was told. Kurtz opened a drawer and pulled out her computer, which was on. He placed it on the desk, screen facing him.
“Who’re you working for? ATF? DEA? FBI?”
“You forgot the BVD.”
“What’s that stand for?”
“My father wore BVD underwear. He said it stood for Buster V. Davenport.” She paused. “It was a joke. Coalminer humor.”
He tapped the computer with the riding crop.
“This,” he said, “Is no joke. It’s code. Tell me what it says.”
The message from Hawkins said: Alive and Smiling. Thanks for the information. Congratulations. Acknowledge Kurtz has Prester John treasure. Home tomorrow. Talk to you later.
“It’s not code, it’s texting shorthand. Any teenage kid could tell you what it says.”
“You tell me what it says.”
“It’s a message from a friend of mine. It says that he’s on his way home and will call tomorrow.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“An ex-navy guy. I know him from Iraq.”
Kurtz leaned forward and glowered.
“I might have believed you corporal, except for one thing.” He slowly spun the computer around so that the screen was facing her and tapped it with his riding crop. “That’s my family name in your friend’s message. How come?”