“Probably wasn’t breastfed as a child.”
“He invaded India, and after he did his conquest thing, he looted the country, which was seriously prosperous at the time.”
“That’s the treasure?”
“Sort of. The legends tell of a caravan over a hundred and fifty miles long of treasure bearers. Elephants, cattle, horses, carts, you name it, toting massive amounts of gold and jewels.”
“Wait. I did read something about that. Wasn’t the Iranian throne part of the take?”
Spencer had cleared his throat. “That’s right. The Peacock Throne. But that’s a replica. The original vanished without a trace, although some of the jewels reappeared and are now part of the British crown jewels.”
“It disappeared? What happened to it?”
“Nobody’s sure. But the likeliest is that the Brits confiscated it and melted it down.”
“Bummer. But where does that leave your bud?”
“He’s not after that. Apparently, part of the convoy got waylaid as it passed from India to Pakistan or Afghanistan. It’s unclear exactly where, but the stories have it that a big chunk vanished when the final group got separated from the main column in a monsoon, and the treasure’s never been found.”
Drake paused to absorb Spencer’s account. “And your guy thinks he knows where it is?”
“That’s right. He’s located a relic that he believes has the clue he needs to locate it precisely. He’s got a general idea of the area, but this apparently is like a treasure map.”
“X marks the spot?”
“Nothing’s ever that easy, but you get the gist.”
Drake sighed in resignation. “How much does he need, Spencer? What are we talking?”
“It’s not just the money. He could use some help. He’s not a young guy.”
“How much, Spencer?”
“Hundred grand to start.”
“That’s it?” Drake said, clearly relieved. “I’ll wire it to you and still have time to catch some curls.”
“No, you need to call Allie and get on the first plane out. He read all about you, and it’s a package deal. I told him you’d be overjoyed.”
“You what?”
“Drake, you’re a treasure hunter. This is treasure. Time to go hunting.”
“I still have bruises from our last cluster fu—”
“Pack a bag, bring some cash, and hop the next flight here. Charter something if you have to. Clock’s ticking, and he’s afraid this one’s going to get away from him.”
“What does he need the hundred grand for?”
“He located some icon that he’s sure describes where the treasure’s stashed. He made a deal to buy it, but he only has until Friday to come up with the rest of the money. Like I said, he’s retired, and he’s burned through his savings chasing the treasure.” Spencer hesitated. “Come on. It’s not like you’ve got a board meeting or something you can’t miss.”
“I do. A longboard, to be precise, and the waves are calling.”
“I need your help, Drake. You and Allie. I’ll take care of the rooms.”
By the end of the call, Spencer had been able to talk Drake into a mad rush to the airport, where he’d jetted to Singapore and from there caught his current flight to New Delhi. Now, twenty-four hours later, Drake was dropping from the sky like a disgraced Greek god on little more than a whim, and his only consolation was that he’d somehow managed to entice Allie to join him.
Drake’s thoughts turned to her, and he pressed back in his seat, his lower back sore from sustained confinement. A vision of soft brunette curls and the most gorgeous eyes he’d ever seen flooded his imagination, and it took a hard bump from rough air sending a shudder through the fuselage to jar him back to the present. After the Myanmar adventure, Allie had returned to Texas and was scheduled to move to California to be with Drake — or at least to pursue their budding romance and see where the trail led. After they’d discovered Paititi, they’d become gazillionaires — but Allie had quickly discovered, as had Spencer, that money brought its own problems, and litigious parasites had come out of the woodwork. But she was settling the legal actions that fortune hunters had brought, and Allie had assured him that she was ready to start a new life on the left coast. And now she was only days from making the move, which Drake had been anticipating with the optimism of a toddler waiting for Santa.
The landing gear descended with a groan and the wing flaps rose to slow the plane’s speed, and then they were bouncing along the runway, deceleration pushing him forward against the seatbelt as the terminal lights blurred by. Once at the gate Drake freed his duffel, containing little more than a few shirts and a couple of pairs of shorts, from the overhead bin. He wasn’t planning to be in India for long, and if he ran out of clothes, he figured he could just buy local to get through.
Drake passed through customs and immigration and exited the terminal into sweltering pandemonium. Voices cried out over the pitches from hotel touts and tour guides, and an anxious crowd waved at new arrivals from illegally parked cars of every imaginable variety. Drake made his way to a long taxi line, and after a ten-minute wait, took a seat in the back of a well-used sedan and gave the driver Spencer’s hotel name. The man nodded and made a cursory attempt at friendly banter, but Drake was too tired to engage; the long flights had been too rough for him to get much besides snatches of inebriated sleep.
Traffic was beyond awful as the cab worked its way along the boulevards, a rush-hour stop-and-go nightmare of kamikaze motorcyclists, stalled vehicles, cars cutting each other off for a few feet of perceived advantage, and general mayhem unlike anything Drake had ever seen. And everywhere there were the unfortunates, many of them disabled and wearing little more than rags, seated on stoops and curbs, pleading for alms or trying to hawk items they’d found or stolen.
The taxi’s air conditioning did little to alleviate the misery of muggy congestion, and by the time they neared the hotel, Drake’s T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. At the hotel’s parking entrance, Drake got his first taste of New Delhi hospitality when the car was surrounded by beggars, desperation in their eyes, every sort of infirmity on display as they pressed against the glass. He winced at the sight of seeping open sores on one man’s arms and was fishing in his pocket for change when security guards approached wielding batons, scattering the panhandlers so the car could get through.
“Bloody layabouts,” the driver muttered as he rolled forward, his tone hard.
The car pulled to a stop beneath a gilded overhang, where orange flames licked from two clay vessels that framed the entry. Drake paid the driver while a doorman stood by in an outfit that would have done an admiral proud, and once free of the taxi he stepped through ornately wrought iron and glass doors into the cool interior. The lobby was a stark contrast to the grime and misery of the street, all polished vanilla marble floors and sparkling chandeliers and pert, crisply attired attendants beaming welcoming smiles.
One of a dozen staff behind the reception counter hurried to greet him, her silky hair shining in a raven cascade, a traditional turquoise sari complementing her sparkling almond eyes.
“Yes, sir. Welcome to the Royal Jasmine,” she said, glancing at his small duffel with a neutral expression. “Do you require assistance with your bags?”
“No, I’ve got it. You have a reservation for me. Drake Ramsey?”
She tapped at a keyboard and nodded. “Yes, sir. Right here. A suite on the second floor. May I see your passport?”
Drake handed it over and waited while she retreated into the rear offices. Several minutes passed before she returned with a look of concern. “I’m sorry, sir, but our Xerox machine seems to be down. Would you mind leaving your passport until we can run a copy?”