Tear of the Gods

by Alex Archer

“Does it make any sense to you,” he asked his partner casually, “that our would-be thieves would ransack the place looking for items of value and then leave the gold lying there on the ground in plain sight?”

  Clements frowned and then shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Me, either. That means we can probably rule out simple theft as our motive here.”

  “Maybe whatever they took was worth so much that they could ignore the smaller pieces?” Clements suggested.

  Beresford thought about that for a minute and then ruled out the possibility.

  When his partner pressed him for an explanation, Beresford answered simply, “If you were a thief, would you leave any of the gold behind?”

  Clements didn’t bother to answer. He knew the other man was right. “So if they didn’t kill all those people over money,” he asked, “what did they kill them for?”

  Beresford didn’t know.

  Not yet at least.

  Clements’s cell phone rang. The conversation was short and when he got off the phone Beresford could see by the expression on his face that something had just changed with regard to the case.

  “Tell me we’ve been reassigned and I’ll buy your lunch for the next month.”

  Clements grinned, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Sorry. We’re stuck with this one it seems.”

  “Bloody hell!” Beresford said. “Give me a good shoe bomber any day.” He turned serious and asked his partner what the call had been about.

  “We’ve got two more bodies,” Clements said with a twinkle in his eye. “And this time it looks like we’ve got a couple of the bad guys.”

  HALF AN HOUR later Beresford was standing by the side of the road, looking down at the bodies of the two men in the roadside ditch below. One of the local detectives was just climbing back up the hill toward them.

  Beresford flashed his badge and asked the other man to fill him in.

  “Bodies were found by one of the patrol cars. Both male, both in their late forties or so. No IDs in the wallets and nothing in their pockets, either.”

  The officer pointed back up the embankment at an angle. “There’s a pretty big bloodstain on the road over there, which is how our guy knew to take a look. Seems like whoever did it killed them up there, then kicked the bodies over the side. They rolled down the hill and ended up where you see them now.”

  Beresford pictured it all in his mind and decided the other man was probably right.

  “Coroner been notified?”

  “Came and went. We’re just waiting on the wagon to come pick them up at this point.”

  Beresford nodded. “You finished up down there, then? Mind if I take a look for myself?”

  “Go right ahead,” the officer said, and then wandered back toward his patrol car to have a smoke.

  Beresford made his way down the embankment to where the bodies lay, Clements on his heels. He crouched down next to the first body and directed his flashlight beam over it. Right away he noted two things; the pockets of the man’s pants were turned out and the man’s head rested at an unnatural angle.

  The first was probably a result of the work of the cop who’d just left, but the latter certainly wasn’t. At least they wouldn’t have to wait long for the cause of death to be determined, he thought. A broken neck was a broken neck, unless, of course, the injury had occurred postmortem. The coroner would certainly be able to tell them that at least.

  He moved to the second man, while behind him Clements began his own examination of the first. Two sets of eyes were always better than one, Beresford thought, and he’d made it clear to his new partner that he was to always look for himself and form his own conclusions in such situations. One of these days, it would probably save their lives.

  The second man was smaller than the first, though not by much. A massive bloodstain colored the front of the man’s shirt, however. Beresford took a pen out of the pocket of his sports coat and used the tip to push back a piece of material that was covering something on his chest.

  Doing so allowed him to see the massive stab wound that had been previously hidden.

  What the hell kind of blade would it take to do that? he wondered, then shook the thought away. He’d know soon enough; the autopsy would at least help him narrow it down. But still, it looked like the man had been stabbed with Excalibur, for heaven’s sake….

  “Hey!” Clements called. “You need to see this!”

  Beresford stepped back to the first body. Clements had done the same thing he had, pushing a piece of clothing aside to reveal what was underneath, but in this case it had been the open collar of the first man’s shirt.

  On the man’s shoulder was the tattoo of a red hand, fingers held together, palm facing out.

  Both men recognized the mark.

  You couldn’t work terrorism in the United Kingdom, particularly close to Ireland, and not do so.

  It signified the dead man had been a member of one of the last few remaining terrorists groups in Northern Ireland.

  A quick check revealed that it wasn’t just blind luck that the dead man had such a tattoo, either.

  The other man had one in the same place.

  “I guess they needed CT, after all,” Clements said.

  16

  Shaw was confident that the torc would soon be his; he was certain the problems Trevor Jackson was experiencing were only temporary and so he continued with his preparations for both the auction and what he planned for the torc after that.

  He’d already selected an appropriate recipient, so he moved on to the next piece of the puzzle, arranging the specific delivery method.

  He decided to use the Russian, Ivan Perchenko, to make the necessary arrangements. Perchenko had a good supply of product and could be counted on to maintain the strictest level of security with regard to his operations. Of course, anything he told the Russian would be a complete fabrication. That way, if word of what he was up to surfaced somewhere, he’d know exactly where the story originated and could take the necessary measures to ensure that it never happened again.

  He would hate to kill the man, as he’d found the Russian and the materials he could lay his hands on rather useful so far, but he wouldn’t hesitate to do so if it proved necessary.

  Shaw opened his safe and removed a military-grade scrambling device from inside. The scrambler had been taken off a patrol unit of the Royal Irish Regiment a year before. It was slightly dated, but it still worked quite well for his purposes. With it, both the location of the call and its contents would be untraceable.

  He plugged the scrambler into the telephone and waited for the two devices to shake hands with each other. When they were set, he dialed the Russian’s number.

  “Da?” came the man’s scratchy voice. Perchenko had once served on the outskirts of Chernobyl and his scarred face and vocal chords were a constant reminder of how life can depend on the simplest of things, such as a shift in the wind at a critical moment.

  “Hello, my friend,” Shaw replied, knowing the other man would recognize his voice immediately. “I’ve decided that I’ll take that consignment offer you made last week, after all.”

  “The price has gone up ten percent. I have another interested buyer.”

  Shaw laughed aloud, though inside his blood began to boil. “I was told it was an exclusive offer,” he said, trying to see if the man was just giving him a hard time.

  “It was,” the Russian replied. “Now it is not.”

  “I should take my business elsewhere,” Shaw replied, letting a hint of his anger show in his voice.

  “Go ahead,” Perchenko said easily. “I will sell it to the Libyans for twice what you are offering.”

  Shaw knew he was not going to get the man to budge from his position. The Russian was useful, but he was also stubborn. Once he’d made up his mind to charge Shaw an extra ten percent, he’d prefer not to make the deal at all if he didn’t get what he was looking for.

  The Libyans had no use for the package, Shaw knew,
but he wouldn’t put it past them to purchase it if the price was right and then store it away until they could make use of it. That might be never, but then again, it might be next week, given the state of unrest in the world and the potential availability of the other pieces they needed to utilize the package. Shaw was the type of man who approved of violence in order to achieve a desired end. He certainly didn’t object to a few civilian casualties if that would help the cause. But the idea of the package being in the hands of the Libyans was something that made even a man of his dubious ethical standards think twice.

  No, it would be best if he simply accepted the additional ten percent penalty for not completing the deal a week earlier and take the package off the market.

  “All right,” he told the former Russian commando. “Four million, plus another ten percent for your willingness to cut out the competition.”

  “Done.”

  “I will contact you in a day or two with delivery instructions.”

  “Da, I will be here,” Perchenko said.

  With that, the two men hung up.

  17

  It was almost noon by the time Annja awoke. She lay there in bed, blinking the fuzziness from her thoughts and trying to get a handle on everything that had happened. In the past thirty-six hours, she’d witnessed the murder of a good friend, she’d been shot at, knocked unconscious, dumped in a bog and left for dead. She’d had a Mercedes with armed gunmen try to drive her off the road and then had been forced into a showdown on a backcountry road where she showed them that trying to kill her wasn’t going to be as easy as they thought. And to add insult to injury, she’d been forced to walk the last few miles when the car she’d “borrowed” finally gave up the ghost.

  On the plus side of the equation she was still alive and reasonably unscathed. But she still possessed the ancient necklace that seemed to be the root cause of this whole mess. She was going to need it in order to get to the bottom of things.

  It was clear that she couldn’t turn to the police for help. The gunman’s presence on the team that had responded to her distress call made that evident enough. She had no idea what role he played in the investigation or what his place in the police hierarchy might be. If she went to the authorities with what she knew, she might find herself in an interrogation room with the very man who had ordered the deaths of her colleagues. And if that happened, there seemed little doubt that she’d become the victim of a convenient “accident” as a result.

  No, she was going to have to figure this one out on her own, it seemed.

  She slipped out of bed, took a quick shower and dressed in the same set of clothes she’d been wearing when she’d arrived late the night before.

  As she dried her hair with a towel, she turned on the battered old television set that sat atop the dresser and was startled to see her own face appear on the screen.

  It was an old photo, one taken several years ago at a symposium in Brussels, where she’d been forced by circumstances to defend the possible existence of the abominable snowman thanks to the machinations of her producer, Doug Morrell. The photo might be old, but it still did a decent job of showing her face and it wouldn’t be hard for anyone who saw it to recognize her on the street as a result. But it was the headline below the picture—Cable TV Host Missing, Presumed Dead—that really caught her eye.

  Annja tossed the towel aside and turned up the volume, catching the announcer in midsentence. “…as more officers are called in to deal with this horrific tragedy. Among the dead are Oxford professor Craig Stevens, as well as Paolo Novick, a visiting professor from the University of Turin. Noticeably absent is the body of renowned archaeologist Annja Creed, who is thought to have arrived on-site just a few days before the devastating attack. Creed, who also serves as the cohost of the cable television program Chasing History’s Monsters, has been missing in action before, most notably in the wake of the tsunami that devastated the Kanyakumari region of India early last year.”

  The image shifted back to the announcer, a blonde woman who would have been quite striking if it hadn’t been for her unfortunately large teeth. “As we stated earlier, authorities are uncertain as to Creed’s whereabouts. Searchers are combing the woods and the boggy areas surrounding the dig site, in the hope of finding some clue as to her condition. For now, let’s go to our sister station in New York, WTXC, for a few words with the producer of Chasing History’s Monsters, Doug Morrell.”

  The anchor desk was replaced by a live shot outside of the network studios in New York, where a reporter had caught Doug as he was trying to enter the building earlier that morning.

  “What was Annja Creed doing in England, Mr. Morrell? Do you think she had any involvement in what happened at the site of the massacre?” the reporter asked, shoving the microphone in front of Doug’s face as he drew closer to the entrance.

  Despite his relative youth, Doug was the consummate professional when dealing with the media. He smiled easily at the reporter, his tone light and unconcerned.

  “The idea that Annja had anything to do with what happened at the dig site is simply preposterous, as I’m sure you realize. She was there on assignment for Chasing History’s Monsters. The entire staff and I are praying that she’s all right.” He turned and faced the camera directly, “And if she is, I’m sure she’ll be in touch soon with answers to all of our questions.”

  Annja let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. While Doug was a great guy, Annja was also too well aware that he’d do anything to promote the show. Like that time she’d been forced to go into hiding after that tsunami in India. A local website had run a story that she’d perished in the natural disaster and Doug had jumped to capitalize on the situation, creating the Best of Annja Creed memorial DVD with clips of all her fan-favorite moments from the cable show. He’d even tried to get her to stay in hiding when he saw how well the DVD sales were doing. At least this time around he was giving her a chance to get in touch before doing something crazy; his last line had been directed at her, after all.

  She’d been too tired to check in with him when she’d reached the hotel last night, but there was no reason to put it off any longer. Doing so would only give Doug more time to wreak potential havoc.

  Annja glanced at the clock. It was just after one, London time, which made it around 8:00 a.m. in New York, so Doug was probably on his way into the office. She didn’t have her BlackBerry or laptop anymore, so she couldn’t simply text or email him. Nor did she want to call him directly from the hotel phone, as she had no idea who might be listening in and didn’t know how extensive the police investigation had gotten while she’d been out of touch for the past several hours.

  Rather than risking the possibility of giving away her location, Annja went in search of a pay phone.

  Thankfully it didn’t take long. She found one outside the tube station just a couple of blocks down the street from her hotel and used her company-issued calling card to try and reach Doug’s cell phone. When she couldn’t reach him there, or on his office line, she left a message on the latter.

  “Doug, it’s Annja. I’m all right, but I’m going to need your help getting to the bottom of this craziness. I’m calling from a pay phone because my BlackBerry is busted. Until I can get a new one, you can’t call me so I’ll plan on calling you back just before lunch instead.”

  That should be enough to keep him from doing anything crazy, she thought as she hung up the phone.

  At least I hope so.

  She caught a cab over to a local shopping district and spent the next hour or so replacing some of the things she’d lost at the dig site. A surplus store offered up two pairs of cargo pants in her size, while a nearby fashion boutique gave her fresh T-shirts, socks and underwear. She snagged a prepaid cell phone from a tobacco shop and activated it while standing on the sidewalk outside, feeling slightly less isolated once she’d done so.

  Her last stop was at an electronics shop, where she bought a secondhand laptop to replace the on
e she’d lost and then requested that the files on her old hard drive, which she’d rescued from the dig site, be transferred to a DVD so she could access them on the new one.

  The kid behind the counter wasn’t thrilled with the idea of having to actually do some work, it seemed, for he winced at the request. “Yeah, ya know, we’re pretty busy in here today. It’s gonna be a few hours before I can get to it,” he said, shaking his head at the very thought.

  Annja waved a twenty-pound note in front of him. “How about half an hour, instead?”

  The money disappeared in a flash and the kid got to work.

  While she waited, she grabbed some lunch from a fish and chips shop down the street and used her new cell phone to call Doug. “Doug Morrell.”

  “It’s me,” she said, not wanting to identify herself in case anyone in the restaurant overheard her.

  Doug, however, wasn’t paying attention apparently.

  “Me, who?” he asked.

  “Me,” she insisted.

  “Look, me, I don’t know who you are, but I’m waiting for an important call. You’re just going to have to…”

  Annja counted to three. There was no way she was getting to five, never mind ten.

  “Doug, if you don’t shut up and listen to me, I’m going to fly back to Brooklyn and—”

  “Annja! Why didn’t you say it was you?”

  She used her free hand to rub her temples. Talking to Doug usually gave her a headache and this was turning out to be no different than usual.

  “Did you get my message earlier?”

  She could practically see him nodding. “Yeah. What the heck is going on over there?”

  There were only a couple of other patrons in the place, but Annja figured it was better to be safe than sorry. “Hang on a sec,” she said. She wrapped up the remains of her meal in the newsprint it had come in and then threw the trash into the bin by the door on her way out. Once on the street she felt better about not being overheard.

  “Okay, listen up.” She gave him a quick rundown on the events of the past two days, including the appearance of the armed gunmen at the dig site and their later attempt to run her off the road.