“It’s getting so that you can’t trust anyone these days,” Hawkins said. He rose from his chair. “Thanks for the brandy and the smoke. I’ll be going along now.”
Fletcher brandished the gun. “I’m afraid this isn’t over.”
“It is for you.” Hawkins pulled out the microphone from inside his shirt. “My partner has monitored our entire conversation.”
Fletcher replied with a feral smile. “Recordings can be doctored. You think anyone will believe your crazy ramblings?”
“Maybe not. Which is why my partner is calling 911 to say there’s been a shooting at the Fletcher mansion. Dead man. Your gun. Your fingers on the gun. Even if you stay out of jail, your days as a wheeler-dealer are done.”
He picked up the envelope with his discharge and started for the door.
“Come back, Hawkins. Let’s talk. We can work this out.”
Fletcher’s shouts became fainter, drowned out by thunder as Hawkins descended the wide stairs to the first floor. He stepped out under the porte-cochere. Headlights were approaching through the slanting rain. Calvin was coming to pick him up.
As the storm raged around him, he realized something was missing.
For the past five years, even on bone dry days, he had lived with a gnawing sensation in his bum leg, and with this much moisture in the air the old wound should have been cranking out knife-edged spasms. But as the car stopped in front of him and he opened the passenger side door, his lips spread in a gargoyle grin and he let out a cry of joy.
“Hoo-ha!”
The pain that had plagued him for five years had vanished.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The antique Cadillac touring car arrived at the warlord’s house in the gray light of the pre-dawn. Amir had assigned two of his most trusted men to escort me to the ruins. Their names were Ghatool and Baht. Both men were armed with automatic rifles, and from their belts hung pistols and knives. Although the air was cool, we drove out of the village with the convertible top down and traveled for about an hour through the rugged countryside until we came to the remnants of an ancient paved road that led to the front gate of the abandoned caravanserai. As I gazed with wonder and excitement at the centuries-old caravan stop, I had no idea of the mystery, and the danger, waiting beyond the silent walls.
Cait leaned back in her in her chair and stared at the words she had typed into her computer. Her mind was thousands of miles and hundreds of years away from her Georgetown University office. She only half-heard the soft knock at the door and assumed it was the graduate student helping with her research.
Without taking her eyes from the screen, she said, “Come in and put the files on my desk if you can find room.”
The door opened and clicked shut. Someone approached and a deep voice said, “Sorry to interrupt. I happened to be in the neighborhood and hoped you could sign this.”
She looked up over the neatly-stacked piles of paper, books and folders that rose above the desktop like castle ramparts. Hawkins stood there holding her Silk Roads book. He had a wide grin on his wind-burned face. Her heart skipped a couple of beats. She smiled with pleasure, told Hawkins to have a seat and took the book from his hand.
Turning to the title page, she said, “Anything in particular you’d like me to say?”
He nodded. “Please dedicate it to your biggest fan.”
Her smile grew impossibly wider. She wrote in the book and passed it back to Hawkins, who read her words aloud:
“To Matt, my biggest fan, from his biggest fan.”
“Perfect,” he said, a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. He thanked her and tucked the book into a canvas rucksack he had slung over his left shoulder. He surveyed the stacks covering her desk. “You didn’t waste much time getting back to work.”
“Research material.” Pointing at the computer screen, she said, “I’m sketching out a first draft of my book on the Prester John treasure.”
Hawkins shifted his tall body in his chair, glanced out the window, and brought his attention back to Cait.
“About that treasure,” he said.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I met with the rest of the team before I came over here.”
“And—?”
“Before I tell you what we talked about, maybe you could answer the question we asked ourselves. What do you think would happen if news of the treasure’s discovery went public?”
“It would be the biggest archaeological event since King Tut’s tomb was found. It would be all over the news. Every major museum in the world would compete to put the treasure on display. There would be television specials galore. It would change our view of history.” She tapped the computer screen. “And there would be dozens of books written.”
“That was pretty much our assessment,” Hawkins said. “Have you given any thought to who owns the treasure and the income it might produce?”
“I’m not a lawyer, but I can follow the historical trail of ownership. Prester John intended the treasure as a gift to the Pope, so the Vatican might put in a claim. Hiram Kurtz found the treasure; it’s possible his descendants would say it belongs to them. The families of the archaeologists on his expedition might want a piece. The government of Afghanistan could say it is rightfully theirs. It was found on Amir’s property and he might say he owns it.”
“Which means that given the treasure’s murky history, the litigation would involve dozens of lawyers worldwide.”
“It would take years and the ownership issues might never be resolved,” Cait agreed, but she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “Even so, there is no reason the treasure couldn’t be displayed and its earnings put in trust until the ownership is cleared up.”
Hawkins was well acquainted with Cait’s persistence, and was prepared to deal with it.
“That might work.” He pointed to the computer screen. “But the treasure didn’t materialize out of nowhere. How did you plan to describe its discovery without mentioning me or the rest of my team?”
Her stubborn smile vanished. “That would be extremely difficult.”
“To say the least. Especially if you factor in the fact that our mission was top secret.”
“In that case it would be virtually impossible to tell the complete story,” she admitted. “But—”
“One more question. What would be the political reaction to the scepter?”
“That’s even more complicated than the ownership issue. The scepter symbolizes the ancient divide between the Christian and Islam worlds.”
“And that symbolism is why the Shadows wanted the scepter, hoping to stir up long-held animosities,” Hawkins said.
“It’s hard to say what would happen, with all the changes in the works stemming from the Arab spring. Everyone hopes that despotic regimes will be replaced with democratic rather than extremist governments.”
“This doesn’t seem to be a good time to turn up the heat,” Hawkins said.
She sighed. “I see where you’re going, but I can’t say I like it.”
“Sorry Cait, but it was the team’s unanimous decision that the scepter and the rest of the treasure remain secret. Abby will keep it stored in her vault. Only five of us will have access.”
Cait blinked. “Five?”
“We’d like to include you.”
“I appreciate your trust,” Cait said. She stared bleakly at the screen. “Damn. I would have loved to have wiped the smug smiles off the faces of my colleagues who scoffed at my claim that Prester John was real.”
“Maybe you still can. There is more than one kind of treasure.”