Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  “You got time for a beer?” Spencer asked.

  “You buying?”

  “Cheapskate. Sure. But no imports. Domestic only.”

  “Deal.”

  They walked down the block to a small tavern and entered the dark room, its polished wooden walls evoking a time long past. Drake selected one of the many empty tables and ordered from a bartender who offered them a sour expression. He brought their beers and Spencer toasted with his bottle.

  “To the future.”

  “Hear, hear,” Drake agreed with a clink of glass. “Although I still hate all the attention. Don’t people have anything better to do?”

  “You’re a celeb. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “Yeah, right. Enjoy it. I’ll remember that.”

  They discussed vague ideas about how they would spend their time now that they were of secure means. Neither noticed the two men who entered until they approached the table. Drake looked up and his heart skipped a beat. It was Gus, accompanied by an older man in a gray suit who looked like he’d lost one too many street fights.

  “Mr. Ramsey, what a small world,” Gus said, pulling up a chair.

  “What do you want?” Drake demanded, his voice tense.

  “To congratulate you on your success. And introduce you to someone who wanted to meet you. This is Jed Abby. He’s with the same outfit I am. But higher up.”

  Abby sat down and crossed his legs, studying both Spencer and Drake before speaking.

  “Mr. Ramsey, I wanted to meet you because I had an idea, and I wanted to see your reaction to it. Call it a proposal, if you like.”

  “I’m not in the proposal market. Thanks anyway. Is that all?” Drake snapped, annoyed that the CIA still seemed to want more out of him.

  “You haven’t heard it.”

  Spencer eyed Drake and tilted his head in warning.

  Drake took the hint. “Fine. But make it quick.”

  “Of course – you’re obviously a busy man. Here’s the proposition. There might come a time when we need someone like you to help us, as you did this time. Someone who isn’t a pro. Money obviously won’t be the motivator anymore, because now you’re rich. And you apparently think we’re liars and cheats, so I can’t appeal to your patriotism.”

  “You can’t buy me or pump me up.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why would I want to help you?”

  Abby took a long time to answer. “Because I’ll tell you the truth about what’s at stake so you can decide for yourself. And because it will be the right thing to do. Like with Palenko’s ore. It might take another twenty years, but we’ll figure out how to replace power plants with it. Not make bombs. There’s no need for bombs anymore. Now it’s all about economics. Cheap resources to power a hungry planet.” Abby paused. “If I get in touch, it’ll be because I need you, and only you, to do me a favor.”

  “And what do I get?”

  “I could say you get to live, but that’s old school. What you get is the chance to do the right thing. Plain and simple.”

  “The right thing? What are you talking about?”

  “You’re famous. And I presume from your statements to the Secretary of State that you intend to pursue other…adventures. Since that’s the case, there may come a time when we need help with something, well, delicate. Where having someone with a rock-solid résumé could prove useful. It’s just an idea. That’s all. There’s no specific event at present. But there could be…in the future.”

  “I see. And if I agree, you’ll leave me in peace?”

  “Why, Mr. Ramsey, I’d like nothing better than to never speak with you again. You have my word that if I call, it’ll be because I have no other alternative.”

  Spencer and Drake exchanged a glance.

  “Do you have a card?” Drake asked. “I’ll think about it. That’s all I can promise.”

  “I don’t carry cards.”

  Gus and Abby pushed back their chairs and stood. “Good luck with your future ventures, young man,” Abby said.

  “Wait. How will you get in touch? I don’t even have a cell phone.”

  Abby smiled, a humorless gesture with the warmth of a freezer. “Oh, don’t worry about that.”

  The two men left as abruptly as they entered, leaving Spencer and Drake staring at their backs as they pushed through the door.

  Drake took a long pull on his beer and shook his head. “Tell me that wasn’t freaky.”

  “Sorry. No can do. It was completely freaky.”

  “I know. I mean, how did they know we were here having a drink, or that I wired money…” Drake’s prior suspicions about Spencer’s relationship with the Agency flitted back through his thoughts, but he kept his expression neutral.

  “They’re the CIA. I told you. Just assume they can do anything. Because they can.” Spencer finished his beer. “But it doesn’t sound like they want to hurt you. It was actually interesting. I wonder what they have in mind?”

  “Whatever it is can’t be good for me. I’m pretty sure of that.”

  “Maybe. But it sounded pretty open-ended.”

  “I don’t like either of them.”

  “I got that. It didn’t seem like they have you on their Christmas list, either. But in my experience, if the CIA comes knocking, it’s best to pay attention. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Drake signaled to the bartender and a second round arrived. They watched the game on TV, silently nursing their drinks, lost in thought. When they finished their beers, Spencer paid the tab. As they walked to the car, Spencer took a deep breath, the spring aroma of blossoming flowers heavy in the air.

  “Well, buddy, you gotta admit. Life’s interesting, if nothing else.”

  “That it is.”

  “Are you going to think about the Southern Cal thing? Or do the nomad bit for a while?”

  “I could check it out. I really have no plan.”

  “Sometimes having no plan is the best plan.” Spencer stopped and felt in his jacket pocket. “Oh, before I forget. Jorge made me promise I’d give this to you.” He handed Drake a manila envelope.

  Drake opened it and slid a large color photo out. It was one of the pictures from the treasure chamber. Spencer had his arm around Drake’s shoulder, and they were both beaming as one of the gold relics was craned from the cenote in the background. Drake read the inscription across the bottom: two words scrawled in black felt pen.

  He shook his head. “I wish they wouldn’t call it that. It’s embarrassing.”

  “What?”

  Drake turned the photo so Spencer could see it.

  “Ramsey’s gold,” Drake said, tapping the script with his fingertip.

  Spencer grinned.

  “Get used to it, Señor Hero. That’s how everyone refers to it. Ramsey’s gold. Not the Paititi treasure. Not the Inca treasure. Ramsey’s.”

  Drake stopped and gazed at the traffic rolling down the wide boulevard. Just another blustery day with ordinary folks going about their business, hurrying to whatever important destinations they’d filled their lives with, immersed in their individual dramas.

  “My dad would have been…” He couldn’t continue, his voice cracking.

  “Yes, he would have,” Spencer said, eyeing the photo of the magnificent artifact, a depiction of the Inca sun god, Inti, rising from the water like an avenging spirit, its stylized glower seeming to fix on the two tired men as they smiled for the camera. “Yes, he would.”

  <<<<>>>>

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  Emerald Buddha

  Excerpt from Emerald Buddha

  © Russell Blake 2015. All rights reserved.

  Prologue

  1431 A.D., near the Laos/Burma border

  Steam rose from the surrounding jungle as a score of warriors made their way toward the giant karst formations jutting into the dawn sky. Peach and orange streaked the heavens as the men marched along a trail that traversed the side of a mountain, dense white fog stretching like a carpet below them. A ranking member of the Khmer royal court sat atop a wooden cart drawn by a pair of fatigued oxen, his eyes vigilant even after many sleepless nights on the run.

  Inside the ungainly conveyance rested chests containing the Khmer Empire’s treasure, both holy relics and gems of immeasurable value. But the most priceless possession was wrapped in a thick blanket: the legendary Emerald Buddha, whose smaller twin resided with the royal family in Thailand, now at war with the Khmers.

  The Khmer Empire had been no match for their rival from the south, and only weeks ago the temple city of Angkor Wat had fallen to the Thai army, which had sacked it and taken its inhabitants captive. King Ponhea Yat had made a summary decision when he’d heard from his spies that the Thais were approaching the beloved landmark, and had entrusted the nation’s riches to his deputy, Chey, who was now relegated to holding the reins of two truculent beasts of burden as the rest of the Khmer court retreated north to safety.

  Birdcalls echoed through the trees as the jungle awakened to the new day. An occasional rustle sounded from overhead as monkeys chattered and hopped from branch to branch, watching the interlopers with curiosity. The Khmer soldiers were on their last legs, their provisions nearly depleted, but the knowledge that they might soon find a suitable location to hide the treasure drove them on. They were sure that they hadn’t been pursued, having fled in the dead of night, but other dangers lurked in the mountains. The hill tribes were savage and aggressive, and their fierce territoriality had already resulted in some near misses as the procession dodged their patrols.

  The cart rounded a bend in the trail, and Chey pulled on the reins, drawing the oxen to a halt. He squinted at a pair of stone monoliths rising from the fog ahead, and pointed at the valley between them.

  “That is where we will rest. Judging from the limestone, there should be caves. We will find one that is suitable and carve a temple from the rock within its depths, as the King ordered.”

  The leader of the warriors grunted. Sihanouk was one of the fiercest fighters in the entire kingdom, and clearly resented having been assigned to this duty when there was battle to be joined against the Thai invaders. It was not his choosing to skulk around in the jungle like an old woman. But orders were orders, and he would follow them whatever his feelings.

  “The King is a great man,” Sihanouk said. “But I’m not sure that the treasure will be any safer at the end of the earth than at home, surrounded by loyal warriors. Although the valley is as well hidden and desolate as any I’ve seen.” He spit to the side of the trail. “This track is unfit for more than a goat.”

  “Let us pray that we find an auspicious location. We should be able to make it before nightfall. From there, it is out of our hands.”

  “Fate has been kind to us so far, I’ll concede,” Sihanouk said. “Let’s hope that the cursed Hill People leave us be until we’re able to finish our work.”

  “We are on a holy mission. Have faith that all will turn out well.”

  Sihanouk eyed Chey skeptically. “While I appreciate your optimism, I’ll still keep my sword close at hand.”

  Chey nodded. “I would expect nothing less.”

  There was no love lost between Chey, widely considered by the soldiers to be a schemer and sycophant, and Sihanouk, who had distinguished himself with valor. The King’s choice of confidantes was irritating, but in the end Sihanouk served at his pleasure, and if he had to comply with Chey’s instructions, he would. But the slimy royal court eel gave Sihanouk doubts, and he would be glad when this mission was over and he could defend his people honorably.

  Chey snapped the reins and the oxen pushed forward, their hooves slick with mud. The game trail eventually petered out at a small brook, and the column was forced to hack its way through the dense brush as the terrain grew more inhospitable. As dusk approached, they emerged beside a river that cut through the valley, and the men drank greedily from it before they made camp for the night. Sihanouk forbid a fire, lest it alert any hostile tribes, and after a meager dinner of cold rice and gamey meat they settled down to sleep, three of twenty standing guard until relieved during the night.

  The next morning the men awoke to impenetrable fog, visibility so poor that they could barely make out the far bank of the river. Several of the soldiers set out lines to try for fish, and within the hour they had sufficient catch to provide the first fresh breakfast in weeks.

  The fog burned off later in the day, and Chey led Sihanouk along the river’s course, looking for an auspicious cave. As he’d hoped, there were several, though the water’s erosion of the limestone had been inconsistent over millions of years, and all but one proved too shallow for their purposes. But the final depression was perfect – a narrow opening practically impossible to see from the river’s present course, with a passage into a larger cavern that fed into several smaller chambers.

  A month went by, the days long as the men carved the soft stone to suit their needs, and on the final morning, Chey supervised the unloading of the cart and the placement of the chests inside. The final item to be situated in the newly created temple was the Emerald Buddha, which glowed in the torchlight, its golden robe nearly blinding even in the dim light of the cave.

  The following morning the soldiers retraced their steps. The cart had been dismantled and its beams sent adrift down the river to obliterate any trace of their passage. Chey followed the column rather than heading it; he’d discharged his obligation and found a haven for the treasure, and was happy to trail the men as Sihanouk led the way.

  They spent the evening at the base of the mountain they’d descended to enter the hidden valley. After eating his fill of the fish they’d brought, Chey stood near their small fire and removed a cask from his bag.

  “My friends, congratulations. The King authorized me to offer you this, the Khmer’s finest rice wine, as a reward for a job well done. Gentlemen, I salute and honor each of you for your part.” Chey broke the seal on the cask and took a long pull from it, and then handed it to Sihanouk to pass around to the men. In no time the vessel was drained, each man having eagerly taken a brimming mouthful and savored the liquor’s pleasant burn. Chey excused himself and went to relieve his bladder in the brush, and when he was finished, rejoined the men, lingering at the edge of the small clearing they’d occupied, watching the dance of the orange flames.

  Half an hour later the fire was little more than glowing embers, and the soldiers were passed out, the sleeping agent in the wine having worked its magic. Chey had taken an antidote before he’d drunk, but the rest of the men were lost to the world, sprawled around the fire pit, their snores the only sign of life.

  Chey moved to Sihanouk and drew the warrior’s sword. He paused as he inspected the wicked blade; and then, without hesitation, thrust the point through the Sihanouk’s throat. Sihanouk stiffened and his appendages twitched, but he never made a sound. Chey stepped back from the lifeless body and repeated the act until he’d slaughtered all the men in their sleep. He glanced around at the corpses, his face impassive, and nodded once to himself before retrieving Sihanouk’s belt and cinching it and the scabbard around his waist.

  He moved to the bag with the provisions and tested its weight. It was heavy, but he could always jettison food if he tired of carrying it. Better to have too much than too little, he reasoned, as he shouldered the sack and set off by moonlight for the trail that would lead him back to an uncertain future and to his king, who’d authorized the murder of his loyal men in order to keep the treas
ure’s hiding place secret.

  Now, only Chey knew the truth. And Chey was a survivor. Whatever awaited him in his homeland, he would fulfill his oath, and bring to the king the location of the temple, for which he was sure he would be rewarded lavishly.

  All he had to do was make it back alive.

  Chapter 1

  Islamabad, Pakistan

  Stars glimmered overhead through a light haze of smog near Rawal Lake. Traffic had slowed to a trickle from the city, and the raucous noise of poorly muffled vehicles had faded as darkness fell. Now the air was filled with the sound of televisions blasting from open windows and the dissonant keen of polyrhythmic music from radios as the suburb of Bhara Kahu settled in for the night. Largely working class, the area was only five miles from Islamabad, connected via a highway that skirted the lake.

  A garbage truck rumbled down a dusty street, pausing in front of the cinderblock homes to empty an assortment of metal cans stuffed with refuse. A lone dog trotted stiffly behind it, a hopeful look in its haunted eyes. Lights glowed behind iron barred windows, the small homes encircled with high walls topped with broken glass.

  Four local men sat outside a tiny café at a circular glass-topped table, playing cards and smoking strong cigarettes, serpentine coils of pungent smoke corkscrewing into the air before dispersing into the light breeze. A boy, no older than ten, carried out to the men a red enamel tray loaded with four cups of coffee the consistency of crude oil. He set each down carefully before scuttling back inside. The men laughed at a joke, toasted, and resumed their betting, insulting one another good naturedly as they traded coins back and forth.

  A battered Nissan sedan with glass tinted so dark it was nearly opaque crept down the street and slowed as it approached the café. The men visibly stiffened, and one reached beneath his baggy shirt, and then relaxed when the passenger side window rolled down and one of his friends waved and called out a greeting.