Shrouded in Secrets

by Kim McMahill

  As Señorita Ruiz stood and pointed a trembling finger at the door, demanding they leave, glass shattered, showering them with shards. Diane tackled Señorita Ruiz and dove for the couch, shielding the old woman’s body with her own, while yelling at Professor Sanchez to hit the floor.

  Cash retrieved his gun and rolled toward the window. He dared a peek out, expecting to find Señorita Ruiz’s guards firing at them. Instead, their bodies lay strewn across the courtyard contorted into unnatural poses of struggle and death. He fired several rounds in the direction of the shots. He couldn’t spy anyone, but wanted to send the message they, too, were armed.

  All went silent. Cash crept over to where Diane, the professor, and Señorita Ruiz huddled against the gunfire.

  “We need to get out of here,” Cash stated.

  Heads nodded and waited for instruction.

  “Diane, you and Sanchez take her and head toward the other wing of the house. I’ll grab the crystal and go in the opposite direction, letting whoever is shooting at us see I have the relic. They’ll come after the artifact and leave you three alone. As soon as you’re sure the professor and Señorita Ruiz are safe, get to the car and pick me up down the road. Here’s the keys,” Cash said, tossing Diane the ring.

  “No. Don’t touch Juan Pablo,” Señorita Ruiz screamed, clutching Cash’s shirt. “We will all die,” she cried as Diane pulled her grip from Cash and dragged her out of the room.

  Cash had no time to worry about the dire predictions surrounding the head right now. He kept low as he crept toward the case, avoiding the occasional bullet still coming through the window. With the butt of his gun, he broke the glass and an alarm instantly blared throughout the estate, adding to the commotion. He shoved his gun into the back of the waistband of his jeans and grabbed the artifact with both hands. As the weight came off the pedestal, he heard a click.

  “Oh crap,” he hissed as he tucked the heavy crystal under his arm like a football and dove out of the room.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  September 25, 4:00 P.M.

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  MARJORIE AND DIEGO arrived at Interpol headquarters without incident. Exhaustion threatened to claim her ability to think clearly, and her slinged arm ached after the long flight, but she did not intend to mention her discomfort to anyone after Cash almost sent her back to London. She was furious with the arrogant American agent. Though not formally trained, she could be a valuable member of the team.

  After what happened in Egypt, the compulsion to make Kamal and Ahmed sorry—for both making her life hell for months and for trying to kill her—dominated her thoughts. But most importantly, she wanted them to pay for destroying the irreplaceable Sphinx. Marjorie doubted they believed she survived the explosion, and she couldn’t wait to see their faces when they learned the truth.

  “Do you need to stop for a rest before we get to work?” Diego asked as he led Marjorie toward his office.

  “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. Otherwise, I’m fine,” she replied as she dropped into the soft chair facing Diego’s desk.

  He picked up the phone and spoke to someone. He took off his jacket, sat down behind his desk, and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. She suspected they drew attention everywhere they went, which wouldn’t make it easy to secretly retrieve an ancient relic, even if they found one. Her blonde hair was almost as white as the skin she had gone to extreme lengths in Egypt to protect from the sun, and her eyes were as pale as Diego’s were dark. A shadow of stubble had formed above his lip and on his chin, but didn’t make him look any less ready for a formal function. His penetrating eyes, when narrowed, could no doubt intimidate the most ruthless criminal, but when directed on her, they were kind and compassionate.

  He looked up and smiled at Marjorie, but said nothing else until his assistant came in with a thick file and two steaming mugs. Marjorie blushed and averted her gaze, embarrassed he’d caught her analyzing him. She accepted the cup and took an indulgent sip while Diego flipped through the pages.

  “Are these your assistants?” he asked, sliding two black and white photographs toward her.

  “Yes. That’s Kamal and this one’s Ahmed. Have they been located?”

  “We know they left Egypt the morning after the bombing and flew to Afghanistan. After that, we lost them. They have been linked to some small-scale terrorist activities, but never as part of an established group. Until now, they merited only minimal attention.”

  Marjorie mulled over Diego’s information and wondered if the connection would have popped up if she’d possessed the time and money to do background checks on her assistants. A private sector investigation wouldn’t have been as thorough as Interpol’s and might have come up clean anyway, so she wouldn’t beat herself up over the lapse in standard protocol.

  “Ah, here’s what I was hoping for.”

  Diego’s heavily accented English brought her focus back to their true purpose for coming to Argentina.

  “Did your staff find a lead to where we start looking for the next artifact?” Marjorie asked.

  “They located a contact who might harbor information. The man lives a long way from here. I’ll have my staff assemble the supplies we need, and we’ll depart in the morning. Salta is a two-day drive. I’d rather not buy airline tickets in either of our names, especially yours, since two of our thieves believe you are dead. So driving is the only option. You’re safest if Ahmed and Kamal think their Egyptian witness is no longer a threat. Who knows? Maybe we can even use that to our advantage at some point.”

  Diego stood and stretched. He slid a large white erasable board out from behind a number of others. The board contained a map of the world. He pulled a paper out of the file and started making red dots at various locations. Marjorie noted the first was in Egypt, where the Sphinx had been located. He then made marks in London, Washington D.C., Paris, Mexico, Bimini, and Peru. The points seemed so scattered and random they made no sense to Marjorie.

  “Hmm. Do you see anything in this?” Diego asked.

  “No. Maybe they are connected somehow and intersect somewhere, but I wouldn’t have any idea where to begin.”

  “One of my assistants can play with the concept. In the meantime, I must respond to a few urgent messages, so I’ll call for someone to drive you to the hotel. You need rest. Tomorrow’s journey promises to be an interesting adventure.”

  Marjorie didn’t argue as she accepted his business card and followed a young man out of Diego’s office. Exhausted and in dire need of a shower, she craved some quiet time to do a little research on her own. Ever since Marjorie witnessed the intriguing artifact in Egypt, she had been trying to learn everything possible about the mysterious relics. Nothing she discovered seemed to make sense, or explain why someone would go to such lengths to retrieve them all. A couple of her colleagues back at the museum had taken a renewed interest in the heads since her near-death experience, and the desire to find out if they had uncovered anything new concerning the British Museum’s crystal pushed back her hunger.

  The artifacts were rumored to possess great power and harbor immense knowledge, but there seemed to be little agreement in the historical community whether the legend held any truth. If the tales were true, so far no theories had surfaced on how to extract the information or harness the power, but apparently someone now had an idea.

  Marjorie contemplated the striking Navajo woman whom they had met in Arizona, reportedly a legends expert. The CIA was combing every scientific angle. Diego’s staff was researching all historical and archeological documentation available, as well as keeping close tabs on the flow of information through the antiquities black-market and monitoring international chatter in case any clues on the thefts showed up, or anyone tried to sell the artifacts. Cash’s team was racing around the globe trying to find the remaining relics before it was too late. Too late for what? The question nagged at Marjorie, making her head ache.

  After a quick shower and a few bites of a meal
ordered from room service, Marjorie logged onto her computer and checked her email. One new message from her friend at the museum held an interesting piece of information. She quickly signed out and dialed the number on the card Diego had given her just before she left his office.

  “Erase the red dot in London and place one at Boke, Guinea in Africa,” Marjorie stated without even saying hello.

  “Who is this and what are you talking about?” Diego replied with an intoxicating accent she found often distracted her.

  “Sorry. This is Marjorie. I just got a message from a colleague. He’s been trying to track down where our relic originated. He’s uncovered some evidence that makes him relatively certain it came from Guinea. In order to connect the dots and come up with answers, we need to ascertain where the museum artifacts originated, not where they’re currently housed. Paris, Washington D.C., and London can’t have any bearing on this bizarre set of circumstances at allthose locations are too modern. My colleagues will keep working on the Smithsonian and Trocadéro Museum artifacts.”

  “Excellent. I’ll ask my people to work that angle as well. Now, rest. You’ll never heal if you don’t take care of yourself. Have you eaten, or do I need to bring you some food?”

  Marjorie was torn between annoyance at being treated like a child and feeling touched by his concern. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cared whether or not she had supper or gotten enough sleep. Diego seldom spoke more words than necessary, but his concern for her welfare showed clearly. With that thought, she decided not to be oversensitive, and assured him she had eaten and would go to bed the minute she got off the line. Thanking him for his offer to bring food, she hung up the phone.

  Despite her promise to Diego, sleep eluded her. Marjorie stood on the balcony of her suite and stared at the magnificent city stretched out before her, enjoying the mild temperatures of early evening. The blending of European architecture and Latin culture created an interesting and energizing vibe. A young elegantly dressed couple tangoed in the plaza below as people gathered to watch. In the waning light of dusk, the scene looked so idyllic that she envied the woman being romanced by the dance. It had been too long since anyone held her, and she couldn’t help but fantasize about being in Diego’s arms, joined in a passionate embrace like the one on display below.

  The tranquility vanished in an instant, replaced by a whirl of images. Flashes of Ahmed, Kamal, the rubble that was once the Sphinx, and heat and light shooting out of the eye sockets of a crystal head, spun through her mind. She had never been accused of living a dull life—maybe a lonely career-absorbed existence, but never a boring one. That didn’t look likely to change anytime soon.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  September 25, 9:00 P.M.

  Bimini, Bahamas

  PETE RECHECKED IAN’S gear before strapping on his own tanks. An accomplished diver, he had explored the waters off Florida’s coasts more times than he could count, but he had never been to North Bimini and nerves fluttered uncharacteristically in his stomach. The strong bottom currents surrounding the island located within the infamous Bermuda Triangle plagued even the most skilled divers. The true purpose for their expedition only served to increase the potential danger and his level of anxiety.

  The serenity of the early morning hours provided the best and most benign environment for diving, but they didn’t have the luxury to wait for safer conditions. From the way Olivia talked and Cash behaved, Pete sensed they were in a race against some powerful force no one yet comprehended.

  Based on the coordinates Pete had obtained for the Bimini Road, they had crossed over the feature somewhere in the middle of its half-mile length, and now idled between the mysterious blocks and the shore of North Bimini. Dropping anchor, they conducted one last check of their gear and communications equipment. Without anyone topside to monitor their status, Pete wanted to be sure they had the ability to talk to each other while searching the seabed for clues.

  “Hand me my torch,” Ian said as he balanced on the side of the boat.

  It took Pete a minute to understand what Ian wanted.

  “You mean a flashlight? A torch would go out the second its flames hit the water,” Pete replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he handed Ian the light.

  Ian’s broad grin and shrug drew a tentative laugh from Pete, making him wish they were diving for fun. Unfortunately, the sensation of being followed continued to trouble him. Only the lights from town, as well as the moon and stars, pierced the night, but the tranquility he usually derived from a dive eluded him, filling him with dread.

  He hesitated as the British agent rolled backwards off the edge of the boat and disappeared beneath the gentle waves. Pete put the strap of his underwater light on his wrist, checked the dive knife secured to his bare thigh, and followed Ian into the dark water.

  Pete caught occasional glimpses of wary predators following their lights as they glided toward their search area. Olivia doubted the sacred relic rested under the limestone blocks of the roadway where many had explored before and suggested they focus on the salt-water mangrove forest. She instructed them to find the Healing Hole located at the end of a network of winding tunnels. During outgoing tides, the channels pumped cool waters laden with natural lithium and sulfur into the pool. The blend was believed to have curative properties, and some even linked the healing powers to the proximity of a mystical crystal.

  According to Olivia, some theorized the blocks of the Bimini Road were part of an ancient sea wall which had protected Atlantis from storms, but eventually the carefully constructed megalithic stones caved to Mother Nature’s will. Further conjecture claimed that between the Bimini Road and land, somewhere near the Healing Hole, a great temple once stood. If they could identify the sunken ruins, maybe they would find a clue as to the location of the relic—the one left behind, too powerful to risk a hasty ocean journey as the ancient ancestors fled destruction.

  Pete stopped and waited for Ian to catch up. “Stick close so we appear a little bigger to the sharks I’ve glimpsed stalking us. They don’t usually bother divers, but then again, smart ones avoid the predators during the nighttime feeding hours,” Pete stated over their scratchy two-way radio.

  Ian stood a few inches shorter than Pete, but had broader shoulders and more weight on his frame, so Pete hoped collectively they looked too intimidating for even a hungry shark to chance.

  Flicking his fins, Pete propelled himself toward the cocoa-colored waters of the mangrove. About the only thing he hated worse than diving at night was lingering near the transition zone between land and sea. The risk of getting tangled up in the roots existed, if you got too close, and the habitat, which nurtured new life, also attracted a host of predators.

  By the time they caught sight of the outer edge of the mangrove, less than eight feet of water concealed their bodies, and low tide would draw the level down further. They cautiously flexed their fins in order to avoid stirring up any more sediment into the murky waters. Ahead, the seemingly impenetrable tangle of the mangrove’s prop roots came into focus. The roots arched up until they joined with the tree’s trunk just above the waterline. In the resulting small gaps, tiny fish darted about, safe from most predators. Pete hoped he and Ian were as free from danger.

  The mangrove forest followed the coastline for a mile or so of North Bimini’s seven-mile length, and they hovered somewhere near the middle. As Pete glanced from left to right, trying to locate something to guide him, nothing stood outthey had no idea which direction the Healing Hole might be from the sea. He wondered if they should have begun their search from land and hired a guide. The hesitancy to announce their arrival ultimately resulted in their decision to approach from the sea. Making the forty-mile journey by boat from Florida provided them with a bit of anonymity.

  “This will be like finding a decent cup of tea in America,” Ian muttered into his mike.

  “I hate doing yet another stupid thing tonight, but what do you think of splitting up so w
e can search more ground?” Pete asked. “We aren’t carrying enough air to be down for too long, and the water level will drop as the tide goes out. If we don’t catch a break right off, we’ll have to try again tomorrow, when the tide comes back in.”

  Pete followed Ian’s gaze, tracking the dark silhouettes that seemed to be getting bolder and closer by the minute. He knew what Ian was thinking, and he didn’t like the idea any better, so he wouldn’t push his colleague. He silently hoped Ian would nix the plan, placing the blame on the MI6 agent for their lack of success and for delaying the search until morning.

  “What do you have in mind? I’m always up for one more stupid thing. In fact, I’ve built my career and reputation on that exact premise,” Ian stated.

  “You go for the boat and head south until you can skirt the mangrove and reach the shore. Keep an eye out for any anomalies along the way, but don’t waste too much time. I’ll stay down here and search the outer edge of the mangrove heading north. Once you’re on the beach, examine the coastline. If what we’re looking for is between me and you, splitting up will increase the odds of finding it.”

  Without further discussion, Pete turned in the opposite direction and glided through the water until he swam out of view of Ian. He swept his light across the mud of the seabed, made dark by decaying leaves, before fanning the beam toward shore, trying to pierce the murkiness of the root maze. His progress slowed as he tried to watch his back as much as possible and avoid kicking up silt that would further hamper his visibility. In all his years of diving, he had never experienced such an uncomfortable sensation. Hairs at the back of his neck tingled as the perception of being studied and silently herded into a trap increased. For once, he hoped the “students and herders” were sharks.

  The water became even shallower, but less murky. The urge to locate a way out and onto dry land overwhelmed Pete. He doubted a direct route to shore was likely, and it was a good swim either north or south to go around the mangrove. The smartest thing to do for now was keep his cool and not panic, continue to search until he got low on air, surface, call for Ian, and wait for the boat to pick him up.