“Colonel, what are you saying?” Percy said. “Is Gabriella in danger?” He grabbed Donohue’s arm.
The Colonel recoiled, repressing the reflex that would judo flip Percy to the ground. His stare alone shoved Percy back two steps. Churchill yapped, sensing the sudden tension. Donohue gathered up the little dog in his powerful arms. “I can have boots on the ground in Colombia in forty-eight hours,” he said. “Retired military. Good men. They can retrieve anything or anybody, and won’t ask questions.”
“When did these commandoes go on the move?” Christa asked. She had pointed Contreras in Gabby’s direction and suddenly commandoes go into action. That couldn’t be good.
“Ten minutes ago,” Donohue said. “Locals, but an elite group, ten of them, armed with rapid fire weapons.”
“What did Gabriella tell you?” Christa asked. She would never have told him about the Breastplate, so why, beyond being a good neighbor, was Donohue risking his reputation, and, possibly, his life for this? “Why did she suddenly return to Colombia?”
Donohue frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Classified,” he said, “a matter of national security.”
Percival clamped his fists and drew in closer. “My wife is in danger,” he said. “My child is in danger.” Churchill growled, fierce for a poodle.
“Your child?” Donohue let Churchill leap to the carpet.
“Lucia,” said Percival, “she’s been kidnapped. The kidnapper met with Christa, just a few minutes ago. It’s Baltasar Contreras, the head of NewWorld Pharmaceuticals, Gabriella’s boss.”
Christa wanted to punch Percival. She had to salvage this, fast, before the Colonel’s commandoes went into action and Lucia was killed in the crossfire. “We’ve got this under control,” she said. “All he wants right now is Gabriella’s journal.”
“Baltasar Contreras,” Donohue said. He crossed to the library window. He squared his shoulders as if expecting the wind-bullied oaks to snap to attention. No sign of her imaginary specter. Was she even thinking clearly?
“That’s not all he wants, Christa,” said Percival. “He wants the impossible, those two gems from the Breastplate of Aaron.”
Donohue released his grip on Churchill’s leash. The dog, sensing his master’s tension escalate, didn’t scamper around the room, but cowered at his feet. “The Breastplate of Aaron,” Donohue said, “brother of Moses. As written in the Book of Exodus.”
Percival raised his eyebrows. “That’s right,” he said, “in the Old Testament. Designed by God, so it says, to be some kind of direct line to Heaven. Used in the Inner Sanctum of the Temple of Solomon. Thaddeus Devlin has spent his life trying to find those stones. He thinks it’s going to resolve mystery of life after death or some such nonsense. Now Baltasar Contreras expects us to find the sacred Turquoise and Emerald within hours. You’ve got to help us, Colonel. We’ve got to rescue Lucia.”
“Life after death,” Donohue echoed. The man’s gaze grew distant.
Percival cringed. “You’re a military man. You can’t possibly put any credence in that.”
“I have held the hands of men as they die,” he said. “I remember each one. Command number one I tell my team before a special op. Do not fear death. Death is not the end of life.”
Her head throbbed. Dad’s obsession with the Breastplate spawned from a death, Mom’s. She rubbed the scar on her forehead. It still hurt, after seven years, her grief, the alarm and bitter regret in Mom’s eyes on that mountain road in Peru, before the bullet hit Christa and it all went black. Two weeks later, she woke up in a California hospital. Mom was already buried. “It’s close enough,” Christa said. “And I will never let that happen to Lucia.”
She paced across the room. Percy should never have told Donohue about the Breastplate. And to make it worse, Donohue didn’t react with skepticism, but with astonishment. Nothing was more dangerous than drawing an unknown element into the secret of the Breastplate. Dad had hammered in that the repercussions could be catastrophic. Right now, any distraction from finding Gabriella’s journal and figuring out why it was so important could get Lucia killed.
Percy jammed his finger at her. “I know what you’re thinking, Christa,” he said, “that I spilled your father’s precious secret. But Gabriella told me to trust Colonel Donohue. Now our daughter’s life depends on it.”
“Colonel Donohue,” she said, “if you expect us to trust you, then you have to trust us. Gabriella had to have a good reason for going to you for intelligence reports on Colombia. Why? And don’t say it’s a matter of national security.”
Donohue pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “This information goes no further than this room,” he said. “Homeland Security hired NewWorld Pharmaceuticals as a private contractor. Research only, to determine the potential threat of a terrorist attack using bioweapons, botanically based. Poisons. Antidotes. On the WMD level. Gabriella was gathering evidence. NewWorld is a pharmaceutical titan, with offices around the world. She believed that Contreras had the means and the motivation to produce a weapon of mass destruction involving a poison from a rare rainforest plant. A poison that has an antidote so elusive that even she couldn’t find it. Whoever controls that antidote could hold the world hostage.”
CHAPTER 23
Braydon Fox eased over to the curb two houses away from Hunter’s. He checked his watch. It had been forty-five minutes since he received the text from Torrino. He read it again. Im back in NJ. Prophet plan kidnap Hunter girl, then Im hurt, at clinic. Sign says turn off cell. As soon as he had read it, Braydon had rushed out of the Waldorf’s banquet hall, his boss fuming in his wake. “When? Where?” He texted as he ran through the lobby. No answer. Damn the man, why pick now to follow the rules, and clinic rules at that?
Braydon broke any number of laws as he sped out of Manhattan to get to this bucolic neighborhood in Princeton, New Jersey, weaving in and out of traffic, using every lesson of his agency-honed driver training to avoid the loss of life or limb for himself and those around him. His thoughts raced equally fast, repeatedly dissecting his operative’s text message. Had Contreras already kidnapped the little girl, or would he wait for Torrino to return from the clinic before moving in on her? Torrino couldn’t have been badly hurt, since he was able to send a text, but that was the first he’d heard from him since he saw him last night in the desert.
Braydon raised his camera, zoomed in on the plate on the purple Volkswagen bug. It was Christa Devlin’s, not exactly indistinctive. Devlin might be infuriating, but probably a decent woman caught up in something she didn’t understand, even if she did ditch him at that hospital in Arizona. He lowered the camera and scanned Hunter’s house. A mom in a minivan drove past it. The mother glanced over to the home, its gingerbread eaves dripping with holiday lights, the glittery pink tree on the porch a sure sign of little ones waiting eagerly for St. Nick. The mom smiled with the sadly mistaken reassurance of peace on earth. But a darker truth gathered like the storm clouds above the house. Gabriella Devlin Hunter, loving wife and mom, had suddenly left the country for Colombia. Now her little girl was in mortal danger from her boss, Baltasar Contreras, but why?
A light illuminated what looked like a library through the large mullioned window facing the street. Christa came into view. She paced in front of the window. He focused the camera on her, clicked off a few shots. She’d changed into a leather jacket, short skirt, tall boots. She’d let down her hair which now fell in long, brown waves. The way Julia used to, as soon as she got home from work. But Christa Devlin was definitely her own woman, fiercely independent, and on the wrong side of the law. That meant trouble. She was gesticulating wildly, clearly upset, probably arguing.
Hunter came up behind her. He looked just like his photo on the Princeton mathematics department webpage. A geek, complete with plastic frame glasses and loose-fitting button down shirt and khakis, except he was taller and better built than expected. They looked like they were arguing.
Hold on. A third player. Male. Sixties.
Buzz cut. In better physical condition than most men half his age. Didn’t need a uniform to know the guy was military. Probably a command position. Had a dog with him. Poodle, with a red and green sweater. So the guy was likely retired military. Maybe a neighbor. Braydon clicked off several shots. It wouldn’t be hard to identify him. But if this was Christa and Percival Hunter’s idea of calling in the cavalry, they clearly didn’t know who they were up against.
He scanned for that armillary sphere spirited out of the Navajo Reservation. Contreras wanted it, and it wasn’t just to model the known universe of the sixteenth century. But why not just overpower them and take it? Two college professors were no match for Contreras’s thugs. Unless that sphere wasn’t what Contreras wanted. It could be a clue to the location of something more valuable, and Contreras needed the professors to figure it out for him. That was more the “Prophet’s” style. Or it could be connected to Gabriella Devlin Hunter and her sudden trip to Colombia. If a new plant-based drug she had found could cure cancer, or give people a new, organic high, it could make Contreras one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. That would be something to kidnap and kill for.
Then there was the Lux et Veritas sword. Contreras knew Braydon was overseeing its security, and figured, correctly, that now that Braydon had saved Christa’s life, he felt responsible for her. Contreras might be using the kidnapping as a diversion, to draw him away from the sword.
Braydon fished out his cell phone and punched in the number for the prepaid cell he had handed Jared Sadler when he arrived in the States. As Britain’s Crown Jeweler, Jared was entrusted by the Queen, personally, to transport the ceremonial sword to the banquet. Braydon had practically held the man’s hand to escort him through the airport. Jared had been excessively nervous, and his overdressed young wife overtly flirtatious.
Jared answered on the first ring. “Agent Fox, is something amiss?” Jared sounded more nervous than before, when he should be safely ensconced in the hotel room for the duration.
“Where are you?” Braydon asked.
“In my room at the Waldorf,” he answered. “No visitors, no phone calls but from you, as you instructed.”
“The sword?”
“With me. I’ll not let it out of my sight.”
“Good,” said Braydon. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just stay put.” He flipped the phone closed.
Contreras had an obsession for ceremonial gems. He could be after the sword, the real reason behind his generous hosting of tonight’s G-20 banquet, rather than an blatant attempt to grease the insides of the politicians and diplomats so he could more easily peddle his drugs in their countries. It seemed a ridiculously high price to pay for an item whose value was more honorary than monetary, but, then, the same held true for the set of Abraxas stones stolen in San Francisco. Both items were unique. Neither could be bought, legitimately. Acquired as ransom, a definite possibility. Lucia Hunter was now the priority. Contreras had set his sights on the little girl, and, like a bunny being hunted by a hawk, she had precious little time.
CHAPTER 24
Christa sank into the desk chair. Percival stopped in mid-step, too stunned to move. Gabriella had been working on an antidote for a poison that could be used as a weapon of mass destruction. She suspected that Baltasar Contreras had plans to deploy the weaponized poison, once he had control of the only antidote. The antidote that Gabby probably hadn’t identified yet. And Lucia’s life hung in the balance. Along with potentially thousands of other lives. That’s why Contreras was willing to kidnap and murder for Gabriella’s journal.
“My God,” Percival said, “the letter. People going mad. Villages destroyed. A promised elixir.” He swept up her translation of Salvatierra’s letter and thrust it at Donohue. “Thaddeus Devlin found this letter in Morocco. It was written by a missionary named Salvatierra in 1586. Salvatierra was the last man to see the Breastplate intact. It was deep in the Colombian rainforest.”
Christa yanked opened the top desk drawer and rummaged through it, panic swelling in her gut. She no longer cared if Donohue knew the secret of the Breastplate. Percival was right. They needed him. Contreras had to be stopped. “Gabriella’s journal has to be here somewhere,” she said. “She’s too smart to risk taking it to Colombia.” She only found Lucia’s crayon drawings of rainbows and Liam’s scribbles that passed as smiley faced trains. She slammed it shut.
Percival spilled out an executive summary of Salvatierra’s letter as Donohue scrutinized it and Christa continued searching the desk. She bent down to force open the sticky file drawer. The old scar on the back of her shoulder pinched. She’d gotten it protecting Lucia. She’d been hiking with Lucia on a family vacation in the Smoky Mountains two years earlier. Lucia got between a mother bear and her cub. Christa quickly got between the bear and Lucia. She could understand a bear protecting her young, but a man like Baltasar Contreras, how could she fight him?
Donohue pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “Does Contreras know about this letter?”
“He sent that man here this morning to steal it,” Percival said, “along with Thaddeus’s journal.”
“Not for Dad’s journal,” said Christa. “Contreras can’t possibly know about that letter. He was after Gabriella’s journal. He thinks she’s found the antidote and is keeping it from him.”
“This letter identifies the conquistador who brought the Breastplate of Aaron to the new world,” said Donohue, “as Alvaro Contreras.”
“Yes,” Percival said. “Baltasar’s ancestor, no doubt about that now.”
“Baltasar Contreras is out to finish his family mission,” Christa said. His crazy tirade at the playground was beginning to make sense. “Salvatierra was a priest. The Vatican sent him to stop Alvaro Contreras. Salvatierra destroyed the Breastplate. He ripped out seven of its twelve stones and scattered them around the world. Baltasar Contreras thinks I can get two of them, the Turquoise and the Emerald.”
She pulled the laptop closer and tapped in a website address. She turned the computer screen towards Donohue. “This is an artist’s drawing of the Breastplate, based on the Bible passage.” It depicted a painting of a man dressed in robes, wearing a golden, bejeweled Breastplate. The old, bearded man raised his arms in supplication, his expression of adoration heavenward. “The Emerald ended up on the bottom of the Atlantic when Salvatierra’s caravel sank in a storm. My father has a man aboard the treasure hunter ship that’s trying to locate the wreck. His name is Ahmed Battar.”
Donohue crossed his arms. “Sounds like an Arab Muslim,” he said.
“Ahmed is a friend,” said Christa, “and our only chance of getting the Emerald that might save Lucia’s life.”
Donohue grunted. “What about the Turquoise?” he said. “Do you know where that is?”
“Cibola,” she said.
“The legendary lost city of gold,” Donohue said.
All right, that he knew that was impressive, very impressive. But he didn’t know the whole story. “Back in the sixteenth century, Fray Marcos, a missionary, explored the area. He returned to New Spain with stories of the seven cities of gold and of Cibola, which alone held more gold than all of the Incas. Coronado was sent out, with hundreds of conquistadors, Indian mercenaries and slaves, leaving death and destruction in their wake, almost starving themselves, only to find a rather ordinary pueblo, and no gold. Marcos was spared death at the hands of the enraged conquistadors, but returned to New Spain in disgrace.”
“That’s why they call Cibola a legendary lost city,” Donohue said. He was losing patience.
“All legend is based on some truth,” she said. “There was, indeed, a lost treasure, of incalculable value. The Turquoise.”
“You want me to believe that this Fray Marcos,” said Donohue, “really wanted a Spaniard to find not a golden city, but the Turquoise, one stone.”
“The Yikaisidahi Turquoise. The real goal of Coronado’s quest was a well-kept secret. You won’t find it in any history books,�
�� she said. “A Navajo shaman told me that his ancestors guarded the secret, that the Spaniard brought Yikaisidahi to the people of that pueblo. He warned them to hide the stone away, in the innermost heart of the cliff dwelling. He warned them that the Turquoise held the power to destroy the world. They believed him. The tribe formed a cult, centered on keeping the Turquoise hidden.”
Percival crossed to the bookcase where she had placed the armillary sphere. He grabbed the sphere and held it towards Donohue. “Christa found this in the abandoned cliff dwelling in Arizona. It’s an armillary sphere, an early model of the universe, probably Spanish in origin, sixteenth century. It may be a clue to the location of the Turquoise.”
Donohue narrowed his eyes at it and frowned. “I don’t care if it can align the stars,” he said. “A five hundred year old clue is not going to help. Our country’s security, and your daughter’s safety, is at risk. We need to take action.” Donohue reached into his trench coat, extracted a folded paper from its inner pocket. He opened it and flattened it on the desk. “When Gabriella came to me with her suspicions, I took the liberty of attaining a satellite photo of the Contreras estate. I’ve worked up three attack scenarios.”
The Seventh Stone Page 14