by Don Hoesel
4
When Esperanza entered the store, the violence with which she thrust open the door displayed the anger she’d carried with her from her office and through the streets of Caracas. Even as she let the door swing shut behind her, she reminded herself that none of this was Romero’s fault.
Romero, on the other side of the store and with his back to her, did not turn away from his customer to see who had entered. From Esperanza’s position, she could just make out the Campeche stele artifact Romero was showing the man, and she guessed the price of the piece hovered in the level most people would call obscene. Romero, though, seldom dealt with anyone unprepared to drop that sort of money. And despite the anger that had brought Esperanza there, she kept close to the door until he completed the transaction.
Her brother—the proprietor of the high-end antiquities shop situated off Bolivar Avenue in the Caracas business district—did just that, with Esperanza picking up only bits and pieces of the conversation but getting the impression the customer was thrilled with the stele and would likely have paid more than what Romero had asked for it. Not long after the handshake and necessary delivery arrangements, the well-dressed gray-haired man was gone, aiming a conspirator’s smile at Esperanza as he left. The smile was mirrored by Romero as he turned to watch the man exit through the metal door that would take him down to street level. Only when the door swung shut behind him did Romero turn his attention to his sister, giving her a once-over before crossing the room.
“It’s none of my business,” he told her.
“He’s late,” Esperanza said.
“He’s always late, Espy.”
“Which is exactly my point,” she said, her voice rising. She saw her brother frown and offered him an apologetic shrug, to which he responded with a smile.
“When you are in one of these moods I’m used to my customers suddenly remembering other places they need to be, so this is an improvement.”
For some reason, she found Romero’s remark irritating, and with a flash of her eyes she ignored it and walked over to a display of Saxon pottery, which like everything else in his store was arranged with taste and simplicity, the items charged with selling themselves.
“When was he expected back?” Romero asked.
“Two days ago.” Espy’s small hand reached for a dish that she knew her brother would only sell with the complete set.
“For Jack, getting back anywhere within three days of when he told you counts as being on time.”
Espy looked up from studying the pottery and fixed her brother with a look she suspected he knew well. It was a look that would have caused others to walk gingerly around the rest of the conversation. But Romero simply sighed. He looked as if he would speak, and Esperanza waited for whatever sage advice he would render, but before a single word left his lips his mouth snapped shut and he shook his head.
“I’m not getting involved,” he said after several seconds. “The two of you are adults and should be able to work this out on your own.”
Esperanza nodded. “I’m finally doing what I should have done three years ago.” At Romero’s raised eyebrow, she explained, “I’m done with him strolling in weeks after he says he’ll be back, and then disappearing again on a whim. I mean, when you think about it, our relationship right now is just like it was before he left to teach. Nothing’s changed.”
Even as she said it, she knew her accusation was not entirely true. After all, they’d both returned from Australia markedly different. With all that had happened during the hunt for the bones—an odyssey in which Jack had made her a participant—how could they not have been changed in some profound ways?
She had lapsed into silence, her eyes on the ancient text that covered much of the pottery, a language that, unlike most of Romero’s customers, she could read. She’d almost forgotten her brother was in the room until he spoke.
“I can’t pretend to understand everything that happened between the two of you when he was working for Reese,” he said. “But what I do know is that Jack returned from that job a different person.” He paused and added, “And so did you.”
Espy turned to face Romero, his words pulling a small smile from her. “I thought you weren’t going to get involved,” she reminded him.
“I’m taking a calculated risk that my involvement will get you out of my store sooner than would my silence.”
“Touching,” she said, turning her back on him and making a pretense of studying the pottery again.
“Where is he?” Romero asked. “I remember something about Europe?”
“His itinerary had him in Milan and then London. He was supposed to be back on Tuesday.”
“And when he finally does return?”
“I’m not waiting for that,” Espy said.
Romero raised his eyebrow again, except that this time Esperanza could detect a hint of worry in the expression.
“He’s out of chances,” she said. “And I’m going to make sure he knows that—on my terms.”
“Which means?”
“Which means I’m catching a plane this afternoon. I’ll be in London by tomorrow morning.”
It was one of the few times Esperanza could remember her brother rendered speechless, and she enjoyed watching the progression of thought visible on his face.
“Aside from calling him to find out where he is, which would undoubtedly ruin the effect you’re trying to achieve, how will you orchestrate this unhappy rendezvous?”
“Sturdivant,” Espy said.
She saw Romero frown and then follow that up with a thoughtful nod. “He’s selling to the museum, then?”
“Technically he was supposed to have already done that, but he’s three days late for that meeting.”
At that, Romero offered a sly smile. “At least you have the comfort of knowing you’re not the only one who suffers from Jack’s fluid relationship with time.”
She responded with a smirk. “I can’t wait to see his face when he shows up at the museum.”
“If he shows up,” Romero said. “It’s not uncommon for Jack to miss appointments.”
Esperanza’s head was shaking before Romero finished. “Not when there’s money involved,” she reminded him. “He might be late but he’ll always show.”
She knew Romero had to grant her that, and he did with a resigned sigh. She suspected there was a good deal more he wanted to say, but he knew her well enough to realize that none of it would matter.
5
They’d retreated to a small village seventeen kilometers outside of Al Bayda, and while fires burned in several of the small homes on the fringe of the desert, the night felt as complete as any Martin had ever experienced. He’d traveled enough to know that little could compare to the isolation of a Middle Eastern village, the thought of the desert stretching for hundreds of miles beyond the border. The night here always impressed him with its weight.
But it was something with which he was familiar, and so he could not blame it for his inability to sleep. Instead, he was forced to place that unease where it belonged—on the occasion of a simple plan that had gone awry.
From a purely logistical standpoint he understood that his big mistake had been in letting others—namely Imolene—convince him not to let Hawthorne go. In retrospect, that was exactly what he should have done. He and his team should have come out of the cave with their trophy and allowed Dr. Hawthorne to go his own way. There’d been no reason to keep him once they’d recovered the artifact. In truth, Martin didn’t begrudge Hawthorne the attempt at stealing it out from under their noses. From what he knew about the man, he would have expected nothing less.
But he’d allowed Imolene to talk him into holding Hawthorne, though it was true the Egyptian did not have to twist his arm much. In fact, the moment Martin recognized the man, he’d marveled at the unlikelihood that he’d been dropped in his path. Either way, once he understood who had encroached on their operation, he’d known that there would be no simple cessation of that a
cquaintance.
For Imolene, it was a matter of leaving no witnesses. He’d reminded Martin who it was that had hired them to liberate the artifact from its thousand-year-old tomb, and what they would expect him to do with a witness who could recount details of the recovery and pick the principals out of a lineup. As far as Martin was concerned, it wasn’t that simple, because the man who had been dropped in his path was perhaps the only person on the planet who could supply answers to questions that he himself had been pondering for the last three years.
He knew the rumors—that Australian police had held Dr. Jack Hawthorne on suspicion of murder and theft. How those charges had been dropped, with the American allowed to leave the country. And how the records of all those involved were later sealed.
Hawthorne had been on his radar since then and, as if making up for Martin’s failure to track the man down and demand answers, it seemed some cosmic force had initiated the introductions for him.
Once they’d gotten off the mountain, the renowned archaeologist trussed up between the ones named Benton and Phillips, they’d skirted Al Bayda and driven the jeep directly to the village. They’d left their gear in the cavern, and Martin wondered if any of it would ever be found. When they’d entered the cavern he’d felt as if his were the first steps across that ground in many centuries and he found it easy to believe that another century might pass before someone else stumbled upon it.
He reached for the glass of wine he’d poured but not touched. He downed half of it in one draught and then, releasing a deep sigh, rose from the table. The room had one small window, and he crossed to it and looked out onto the empty dirt lane that bisected the village. Not a soul moved out there and he could hear nothing coming from the adjoining room. He suspected he was the only one awake, except perhaps for Dr. Hawthorne. And if the man was awake he was no doubt wondering what had happened—how the retrieval of an ancient artifact had ended with violence and captivity.
Turning his back to the window, Martin let his eyes fall on the bundle at the foot of the cot. He’d studied it for some time after retreating to the room, holding it in his hands, trying his best to make out the text along its slim length and having only limited success.
He only knew bits and pieces about the artifact, yet that didn’t stop him from appreciating it. The age and mystery of an item about which even the biblical record had little to say. He couldn’t help wondering if the people for whom he had procured the artifact knew much more about it than did he, aside from the fact that it was a part of their history in a way it could never be for him.
He moved back to the table, picked up the wineglass, and drained it. He’d meant it as a celebratory bottle, one to be shared with the others after successfully taking the artifact, but that was no longer appropriate. He set the glass down and glanced at the bottle, thought of finishing it. Instead, he replaced the cork, doused the lamp on the table, and started to make his way to the cot set against the wall opposite the door, resolving to get at least a few hours of sleep before he had to make a decision in the morning.
He had just settled onto the cot when he heard a knock at the door, which opened even before the sound had finished echoing in the small space. As the dim light produced by the lamp in the adjoining room filtered in, it silhouetted the Egyptian, and despite the fact that Martin seldom felt fear, he sensed something akin to it touch him now.
“Yes?” he said when it seemed Imolene would not move from the threshold.
Yet the silence stretched on after his inquiry, forcing Martin to remain still, to avoid the appearance of unease.
Finally the large Egyptian stepped into the room. With a lighter pulled from his breast pocket he relit the lamp Martin had just extinguished. That accomplished, Imolene turned and closed the door, Martin using that time to rise from the cot and take a step toward the table.
“We must decide what to do with him,” Imolene said as the door latch clicked. When he turned back to face Martin he regarded his employer with an expression Martin could not read.
“And we will,” Martin answered. He paused and tried to study the Egyptian, but as had been the case since the day the man had joined the team, he remained inscrutable. “The problem is that you don’t just get rid of someone like Jack Hawthorne. Killing him will bring us more attention than we want right now. And believe me, the Israelis don’t want that kind of attention.”
Even at that, the statue that was Imolene did not say anything right away. After a few long moments he took a single step further into the room and asked, “And who is this Hawthorne that we could not put a bullet in him back in the cavern?”
It wasn’t the nature of the question that caused Martin’s eyes to widen; he’d come to expect cold appraisals from the Egyptian. Rather, it was the content of it that surprised him, because it indicated that Imolene did not understand the importance of the man they held.
“You’re kidding,” he said, but one look at Imolene told him that wasn’t the case. Despite himself, he released a harsh laugh and then took a seat at the table. “What you don’t realize is that we’re holding one of the most well-known archaeologists of our time.”
Imolene did not move, nor did his expression change.
“Over the last three years Jack Hawthorne has done more to further the understanding of a connection between ancient Egyptian and Mayan cultures than anyone in history,” Martin said.
At that, Martin saw the other man’s face change at last. Imolene might have been a hired gun, but he was an educated one, especially when it came to his own culture.
“He is the one who is said to have been involved in the incident in Australia?” Imolene asked.
Martin nodded. “Nothing much came of it, but whatever happened there, it’s credited with taking Hawthorne out of the classroom and back into the field.”
Imolene appeared to ponder that, his eyes fixed on the cot Martin had vacated. “I still do not understand how keeping him alive is less dangerous to us than killing him and taking his body out into the desert.” The Egyptian shifted his gaze to Martin. “Unless, perhaps, there is some reason why keeping him alive serves us.”
The statement gave Martin pause. He wondered if Imolene had discerned whether there was something more at play than a professional interest in Hawthorne.
“I think the Israelis are the ones who have to make that call,” Martin said.
It was a perfectly reasonable response, since they were the ones paying the bills, but Imolene still seemed unconvinced. However, rather than question Martin further, the Egyptian turned soundlessly on his heel and left him sitting there alone. After he closed the door and Martin once again extinguished the lamp, the darkness that filled the room held a quality that promised him a fitful night’s sleep.
There was little Jack knew for sure, but the one thing he felt most solid about was that he was in a populated area. The smell alone told him that—the odors of cooking, animals, and of commingled humans. But the lack of significant noise told him he was in a village rather than a larger town. A safe house some distance from Al Bayda. Whatever his captors had tied around his face, though, didn’t allow him to validate that hypothesis.
He didn’t know how long he’d been out but suspected it was less than a few hours, and it would have taken his captors a good portion of that to bring him down off the mountain. He’d been awake for around twenty minutes and had done his best to remain still, to try to get a feel for his surroundings before anyone knew he was conscious. He couldn’t be certain but he thought that someone shared the room with him. After coming to, he’d heard movement, the sound of a door opening, the hum of conversation, then what sounded like someone coming back into the room. He hadn’t heard anyone leave, and things had been silent for a while now. He thought he’d heard other noises coming from farther away, yet even those sounds had stopped now, leaving a silence that seemed as if it might stretch into forever.
He remained still for several more minutes, which taxed his resolve as the
hard floor and awkward position had generated a sharp pain in his side, along with an arm that he knew would go through a severe bout of pins and needles once he was able to extricate it from beneath him. After a while, the fact that he couldn’t concentrate on anything but his growing discomfort forced Jack to test the waters.
His first effort involved trying to move his hands, which were pulled behind his back. He raised his eyebrows when he felt what appeared to be a full range of motion; his captors hadn’t bound him. The surprise gave way to a sigh, though, when he realized the lack of bonds hinted at a prison secure enough to render secondary measures unnecessary.
He took a breath and tried to push himself up, grimacing against the pain. His first attempt was unsuccessful, but a second try brought him upright. And while that position was the one that offered him the best chance of escaping, it also sent a wave of pain through his skull. He frowned beneath whatever blocked his vision as the reason for the sudden headache came back to him.
He wondered where the man was who had pushed him into the wall. It was a sobering thought that did much to get him moving. His hands free, he raised them to his head and found the edge of the fabric that blinded him, but it was pulled too tightly for him to work his fingers in. He moved to the back and found the knot and tried to find someplace to loosen it. Several seconds of worrying with it produced nothing aside from accentuating the pain in his side. Irritated, he again moved his hands around to the front, grabbed as much of the fabric as he could with his fingertips and yanked downward with all of his strength, rewarded when he was able to liberate his eyes.
The problem was that all that greeted him was darkness.
With the blindfold resting on his nose, he squinted into the blackness but couldn’t see anything. Instead of moving, he stayed where he was, letting his eyes adjust. It seemed like a long time before he could differentiate one shadow from another, disparate shapes that could have been anything. And once he’d decided that the shapes wouldn’t resolve any more than they already had, he began to move.