“You bet, mon. Take it slow, you hear?”
“Is there any other way?”
Daniels’ voice sounded slurred, even to him, but he didn’t care. His life had fallen apart, but like the proverbial phoenix, he’d been reborn. Over his career it had been child’s play to secret away enough money in offshore locales to be able to run – so much cash sloshed around in the system that you had to be a fool not to see the possibility. The trick had been to avoid being greedy, and to shave off a sliver at a time, which was never missed. “Shrinkage,” he muttered to himself, smiling at the retail term for pilferage. “Just a little shrinkage, mon. T’aint no thang.”
He’d covered his tracks sufficiently and was enjoying his fourth night on Ambergris Caye, Belize’s best kept secret, as far as he was concerned. It was a country that boasted more spottings of fugitives on the FBI’s most wanted list than any other, no doubt a function of labile borders and English as the official language, as well as a reputation for discretion from a populace that had its own affairs to contend with.
He padded along the beach to his hotel, the reef in the near distance glowing from abundant marine life with each surge, and didn’t register the two islanders who darted from one of the darkened bungalows that lined the strand until it was too late.
Neither man spoke, letting the steel in their hands do the talking for them. When they ambled away thirty seconds later, Daniels had been stabbed eighteen times. The terminal stroke had penetrated his skull through his eye. The tallest of the pair slid a wad of hundred-dollar bills from Daniels’ wallet and threw the empty billfold far into the water. Neither looked back at the dead man lying half in the surf, his blood staining the white sand inky in the moonlight. Violence against tourists was an increasing problem as the beleaguered country battled drug gangs intent on moving in from Honduras and Mexico, and the headlines would meet with disapproving head shakes over breakfast as the vacation spot ramped up for another long day under the tropical sun.
Chapter 58
Malibu, California
Drake reclined in his Herman Miller Aeron chair and eyed the blue Pacific stretching to the horizon. Spencer shifted on the sofa and gave an exasperated sigh.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Allie’s voice on the speakerphone sounded equally impatient. “Positive. There’s no such thing as the Myanmar Archaeological Committee, and the government is stonewalling us. There’s no official statement about the find, no return calls, nothing. It’s been the same thing for, what, coming up on three weeks?”
“My contact at the State Department said we’re screwed through official channels,” Spencer said. “As to the general, apparently the Myanmar dictatorship isn’t big on publishing the names of its ranking officers. Or anything else, for that matter, so that’s another dead end.”
“There has to be something else we can try. What they’re doing is criminal,” Drake griped.
“The good news is we bought another lot of icons and coins, this time through a dealer in Hong Kong,” Allie said. “That makes the third lot so far. They’re really wasting no time, are they?”
“I can’t believe there isn’t a way to shut it down. It’s not theirs to sell,” Spencer said.
“Possession is nine-tenths, apparently,” Drake offered. “The Cambodian Government has filed formal complaints with everyone that will listen, but it’s had no effect. Oh, it also expressed its continued gratitude for our generosity.” Drake and Allie had been taking turns buying the temple treasure when it appeared at private auctions and gifting it to the Cambodian people. So far, the lots had run a couple of million dollars, and they’d set aside five apiece to restore the treasure to the rightful heirs of the Khmer Empire. It wouldn’t begin to buy everything, but the hope was that it would go a long way into shaming the Cambodian bureaucracy into creating a fund to finish the job.
“Still no word on the Buddha?” Allie asked.
“Nope. Silent as the grave.”
“A relic of that significance won’t stay hidden forever. When it comes on the market, we’ll hear about it. I’ve got all the usual suspects putting out word of our interest.”
Their foray into the world of illegal antiquities had been eye-opening. There was a thriving market for illicit statues, parchments, and relics of all shapes and sizes, from Sumerian to Aztec to Greek and Roman – wherever there was big money looking to be deployed, mansions to furnish, friends to impress, there was demand for the rarest of the rare: one-of-a-kind artifacts unavailable to the great unwashed. A network of specialized outlets ringed the world, and live auctions were conducted by invitation only – or, in some cases, items were just sold outright when a match between buyer and seller could be arranged.
Allie and Drake had established contacts in that black market through legitimate art and antique houses, and had let it be known that they wanted first right of refusal for any of the Khmer items. They’d believed it might take a year for the initial buys, and had been surprised by how rapidly the general – or the Myanmar government – had been selling off the temple contents.
“But as of now, I’m hosed on any chance of a finder’s fee,” Spencer grumbled.
“Yeah, looks that way. That’s how the ball bounces. We’ll make it up on the next one,” Drake said, ignoring Spencer’s eye roll.
“How’s your financial quagmire going, Spencer? Getting it all figured out?” Allie asked.
“The hedge fund says they can account for every penny, but so far they haven’t delivered anything in writing,” Spencer said glumly.
“And no money?” Allie said.
“Nada.”
“That sucks.”
“Tell me about it. I’m accepting donations. I’ll paint your house, whatever you want.”
Drake laughed. “He’s got a cardboard sign: will work for spare millions.”
“You should consider televangelism, Spencer. You’d be good at it,” Allie said.
“Get a tent and take it on the road,” Drake agreed. Spencer gave him the finger and Drake picked up the handset, taking the call off speaker. He walked out onto the deck and shielded his eyes from the sun with his free hand. “How much longer are you going to stay in Texas?”
“The depositions should be done within another week or so.”
They’d spent three days in Bangkok, waiting for new passports to be issued by the embassy, during which time Allie had been badgered by her attorneys, who insisted she needed to be back immediately to deal with the lawsuits. The return to civilization had been jarring, and she’d grown distant almost immediately as her energy had gone into multi-hour conference calls to discuss strategy and new hurdles.
Joe had returned to his village a millionaire, taking the seven figures they’d offered him as thanks over the chance at more from the treasure. He’d been in the region long enough to understand the odds of ever seeing anything more in payout, and had taken the bird in the hand. His parting words had been typically cheerful.
“Dude, you ever want someone to hang with on another one of these, you know where to find me. Hut’s always open for business. Stay positive.”
“I’m not sure we can afford any more wisdom, Joe.”
“Some things are priceless.”
Drake spotted Kyra inside her house and waved. She returned the wave and gave him a ‘hang loose’ hand sign. “What’s that?” he said, distracted and not catching Allie’s last sentence.
“I said, hopefully I won’t have to be here until these go to trial, although my team says I’d be smarter to settle. That’s all these parasites want, a few bucks. Their attorneys are banking on me caving just to get them off my back.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Drake said.
“Over my dead body. I’ll spend my last dime fighting them – I’m not going to reward anyone for trying to take advantage of me.”
“Sounds like your lawyers have job security for a long time, then.”
“Maybe the suits will go a
way when their guys figure out there’s going to be no easy payday.”
“Hope’s always good.” Drake paused. “Have you thought about what we discussed? Moving out here for a while, seeing how you like it?”
“Of course. It’s on my mind a lot.”
“Spencer’s got a condo in Malibu now. We could all be neighbors.”
“What happened to his house?”
“Construction. Place is falling apart. They’re ripping out the foundation piece by piece. He got robbed. It’s unlivable, and he says he can’t stand to look at it anymore.”
“Poor Spencer.”
“I can’t believe you’re feeling sorry for a guy with a Lambo and a private jet.”
“Don’t forget the boat.”
“Right.” Drake had to laugh. “So are you going to come out?”
Allie sighed. “Yes.”
“When?”
“No more than two weeks from now.”
“That’s awesome,” Drake said, trying to keep the excitement to a minimum. “You want me to start looking for a place?”
“I’d rather pick my own. I can stay on your couch or something while I look, can’t I?”
“Of course.”
After a few more minutes, Allie signed off, and Drake went back inside. Spencer grinned at him from the sofa.
“What was that all about?”
“She’s going to be here in a few weeks. Said she’d give California a try.”
“Sweet. Do you get to keep Kyra on the side?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Just asking.”
“When are you going to get the car out of my garage?”
“Still waiting for parts. Damned thing won’t even start now.”
“Handmade,” Drake reminded him.
“Italian. I understand they can be temperamental.”
“And expensive.”
Spencer reached for his soda can and shrugged. “You don’t say.”
“I know what will cheer you up. Boat ride!”
“It’s in the yard.”
“Take the plane up and buzz around?”
“On charter this week.”
Drake thought for a few seconds and then smiled. “Then there’s only one thing left.”
They both smiled and cried out at the same time.
“Pizza!”
Epilogue
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Two nubile young women in thongs and skimpy tops, their bodies glistening with oil, danced to the languorous techno beat throbbing from hidden poolside speakers. Several young men floated on inflatable rafts in the Olympic-size pool, its glass tiles translucent in the late-afternoon sun, creating the illusion that the depths continued to infinity. A bartender stood behind a granite station in a full tuxedo, staring into nothingness, seemingly impervious to the heat.
The men laughed at a ribald joke at the expense of one of the women, both of whom smiled, not understanding the language. They were Czech and communicated in English with the men, although they hadn’t been hired for their conversation skills. Part of a rotating retinue of hospitality provided by the host, they spent a month in Dubai at a time, earning six figures before returning home. The agency that specialized in providing the entertainment could arrange for whatever the guests’ tastes ran to, be it a Parisian model, a Russian dominatrix, Vietnamese twins, or a Venezuelan beauty queen. In a world where there was no limit on cost, anything was possible – for a price.
The swimmers were the scions of wealthy Saudi royalty, their petro-dollars incalculable, and as such they were accustomed to their every whim being instantly met. Weekend gambling trips to Monte Carlo, shopping sprees in London or Milan, heli-skiing in Alaska, African safaris for endangered species – nothing was off-limits, resulting in the ennui only apparent in the super-rich, a perennial boredom in a world where, because cost was no object, nothing had any value. Two of the three men had been in rehab in a private Swiss clinic more times than most rock stars, and the other had criminal charges awaiting the customary acquittal after sufficient money had changed hands. They were on break from their studies in Europe, enjoying their fathers’ offer of diversion with one of the wealthiest men in Dubai.
Sheik Ahmed Suliman was infamous for his sybaritic pursuits; his hedonism was whispered about in royal courts and scandal sheets the world over. An invitation to his forty-thousand-square-foot villa was a rare treat, and the men had been enjoying it for the last few days. They spent their mornings jet-skiing in the Persian Gulf, their afternoons skeet shooting, and their evenings dining on the offerings of a Michelin chef while swigging Château Pétrus like mineral water.
Inside the villa, Suliman lay on a massage table in a specially designed room, its temperature and humidity controllable to within a tenth of a degree, the light adjusted to a warm glow. The room was silent, as he preferred it after spending an hour in his isolation chamber, where he floated weightless as he meditated.
His corpulent form spilled over the edges of the table. A towel with his initials and family crest embroidered on it covered his hirsute lower back and mountainous buttocks. A statuesque blonde in a white silk kimono entered, carrying containers of heated, scented oils, and placed them on a rolling table by his side. He cracked open an eye and grunted.
“My back is at it again,” he said in accented French.
The blonde nodded. “I know just how to fix that.”
His porcine cheeks quivered as he smiled. “You are a miracle, Yvette.”
She smiled warmly, if not entirely sincerely, and he closed his eyes; but not before he eyed the green statue sitting in one of the backlit niches that lined the room’s walls, and snuffled in satisfaction. His latest acquisition, there was only one other like it in the entire world – in Thailand, where it was revered by royalty as a national treasure.
The Emerald Buddha’s countenance regarded him impassively as the Swiss masseuse began her ritual, its timeless eyes beaming as she shed her clothes and reached for the oil, the bruises on her thighs and abdomen a small price to pay for the riches her benefactor regularly bestowed upon her.
<
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(Book II in the Drake Ramsey series.)
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Go back to Contents
Table of Contents
Books by Russell Blake
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2) Page 32