They trudged down the tracks to the far side of the bridge, jumping over holes where the surface had collapsed into the river below. Spencer shared his worry about the hair dye supplies when they were near the bank, and Allie patted his arm.
“Not to worry. I bagged it all and brought it with us when we went to the morgue. Tossed it at the market, so your secret’s safe – for now.”
“That was good thinking,” he conceded. “You might just make a decent field operative yet.”
She glanced at Drake. “I’ve been told not to quit my day job.”
“I never said that. I think you’re amazing,” he protested.
“Amazingly hot and sweaty – and don’t forget grubby from our little jaunt.”
“You look awesome to me.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “I take back everything I said about you. Maybe you stand a chance after all.”
“Everything you said?”
“We can talk about it later,” she said softly, the promise in her eyes unmistakable.
“I don’t mean to break up this mutual admiration society, but how do you think they were able to remotely erase Carson’s phone? I know it’s possible to track one, but erase it?” Spencer asked.
Drake’s moment of ebullience quickly faded as he considered the question. “I don’t know. But the real question isn’t how…”
Allie nodded and finished his sentence. “Right. It’s why.”
They plodded along in silence, the ramifications troubling.
Spencer broke the quiet first. “Maybe Reynolds didn’t tell us everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, but all along, it’s felt like we’re being used for…for bait, or something.”
“I told you I didn’t trust him,” Drake said.
“That was the driver, Roland,” Allie reminded him.
“Him either.”
“He kind of saved our asses just now,” Spencer said. “Assuming he didn’t call the cops himself.”
“But why would he do that? What would the motive be?” Allie asked.
Spencer stepped from beneath the overhang of the trestle bridge and into the sun. He looked back at her with a frown.
“I don’t know. But there’s only one way to find out.”
Chapter 19
Rawalpindi, Pakistan
High horsetails of clouds streaked the afternoon sky like white smoke over the Pothohar Plateau, the celestial blue of the heavens so vivid it seemed painted. A cluster of dwellings encircled a clearing where young boys kicked a soccer ball with competitive enthusiasm. They were watched by a few old men who, with their working years behind them, spent their days gossiping and condemning the wicked ways of a world that had left them behind.
A silver Toyota Hilux truck pulled away from one of the modest houses and tore down a dirt road that led to town, the driver one of several men renting homes in the area, who kept to themselves. When he reached the main intersection, he made a left and headed south, away from the city, and kept going for fifteen minutes, at which point he pulled onto a tributary and then rolled onto the drive of a walled compound.
An armed guard studied the driver as though he’d never seen him before, a ritual that was repeated whenever the Toyota appeared, and the guard spoke into a handheld radio, fingering the trigger guard of the Kalashnikov AKM that hung from a shoulder strap, its curved magazine iconic and instantly recognizable.
The radio crackled and a voice brayed from the speaker. The guard nodded to the driver and moved to slide the heavy iron gate open. Inside, two men joined him in heaving the barrier aside, and the truck rumbled down the gravel drive toward the two-story main building.
A bearded man with a stern expression, wearing a flowing amber robe, a turban, and sandals, waited at the entrance. Intelligent eyes beneath a thick brow watched the truck approach, and when it stopped, he nodded to the driver, who returned the gesture as he stepped from the vehicle.
“Welcome, Abdul Aziz. It is good to see you,” the bearded man said.
“It is an honor, as always, Razzaq,” the driver replied.
Razzaq led him into the house, which was surprisingly cool thanks to overhead fans and thick walls, and they sat together while an attendant served them tea. Once they had sipped the pungent brew appreciatively, Abdul Aziz glanced around to ensure they were alone and leaned toward Razzaq.
“We have received the funds,” Abdul Aziz said. “Yesterday. They are ours to use as we wish.”
“Excellent. Will there be any problem withdrawing it in cash?”
“No. It was delivered in two suitcases. All euros, as requested.”
“Perfect. I trust you have it in a safe place?”
“I guard it with my life. There is no one so foolhardy as to attempt to steal from us, even in these difficult times. My oldest son watches it as we speak.”
“I am blessed to command such loyalty.”
“We would gladly lay down our lives for the cause.”
“Thankfully Allah has a different destiny in mind for you.”
“It is like a dream. To be so proximate to the avenging might of the will of the Prophet, peace be upon him.”
“Nothing can stand in our way. We will bring the sleeping dogs to their knees. Too long have our lands been used as pawns in their game. Too long have our people suffered at their hands while they go about their business like fat, spoiled children, blind to the damage they inflict. But all of that will change, and then we will have the upper hand.”
“I await the moment with every fiber of my being.”
“As do I, brother, as do I.”
They discussed the logistics of transporting the cash across the border. Razzaq was the leader of a particularly extreme sect of Islamic radicals who, in addition to buying whole cloth the most draconian interpretations of holy scripture, had developed a highly sophisticated funding network – contributions from mosques all over the eastern seaboard filtered through investment firms and, once pooled, were concentrated in offshore hedge funds, who laundered the money by investing in the unregulated over-the-counter derivatives market, where hundreds of trillions of notional value contracts traded hands, with no reporting required, completely outside of the safeguards of the banking system.
“It is laughable how the governments have clamped down on financial freedom in an effort to stop crime, when it’s well understood that real money operates completely outside of their banking system,” Razzaq observed, the theme a favorite of his. His cousin ran a fund that operated in the British Virgin Islands, and had engineered the mechanism which would soon allow Razzaq to become the most hated and feared figure in the world, and a hero to his fellow adherents.
He’d learned from watching ISIL that access to capital was the key to recruitment, and was one of a new breed of freedom fighter, as he thought of himself, educated in the American Ivy League university system, the son of prosperous parents. He was far more sophisticated than his predecessors and was equally at home discussing credit default swaps or oil futures as he was issuing scholarly and invariably militant interpretations of the Koran. Which made him extremely dangerous – or as he liked to say, a Renaissance man who understood his adversaries’ weaknesses well enough to exploit them for his own purposes. With a substantial war chest, there was no limit to what he could achieve, and his years subjecting himself to primitive conditions in Pakistan and Afghanistan would soon be over.
When Razzaq and Abdul Aziz had concluded their discussion, the older man led Abdul Aziz to the doors, which a servant had closed to keep out the dust that blew across the area from the nearby desert. Abdul Aziz embraced Razzaq, who returned the salutation in kind, and then watched the Toyota drive away, leaving the large courtyard empty except for the gunmen who protected him round the clock and several chickens frightened from the shade by the sound of the vehicle.
Tomorrow Razzaq would travel to Abdul Aziz’s humble
abode to count the cash and confirm the amounts – some earmarked for the border guards, some for the customs officials, and the majority for his contact in India.
Allah indeed worked in mysterious ways, he thought as he watched the gate shut behind Abdul Aziz’s vehicle. Mysterious, and wondrous, for the patient man – and Razzaq had perfected the art of waiting.
But now, finally, the time was at hand.
Chapter 20
New Delhi, India
The taxi let Drake, Allie, and Spencer off in a crowded downtown area packed with electronics shops and Internet cafés. They’d asked the driver where they could find the best deals on phones and computers, and the man had been unhesitating in his recommendation. Now, on a sidewalk teeming with humanity, the street clogged with rickshaws and bicycles, their near escape from the police seemed worlds away.
“That looks promising,” Allie said, pointing at a sign advertising “Finest Splendid Internet Coffee.”
“I hope they use purified water, or we’re going to be in trouble,” Spencer said.
“We’ve been okay so far,” Allie pointed out.
“You’ve been here, what, a dozen hours?”
“Have I mentioned I bore easily? Where’s this treasure I keep hearing about?” Allie fired back.
“Probably not a terrible spot to use as home base for a few hours,” Drake said, inspecting the interior of the café through the picture window. “I mean, it could be worse.”
“Nobody’s milking cobras or anything, you mean?” Spencer asked.
“I was more thinking that the equipment looks pretty new. Come on. Let’s get something to drink.”
They entered the shop, which consisted of a half dozen small circular metal tables in front and a rear area boasting a dozen computer stations, and took a seat. The air conditioning was thankfully set at arctic, and the cold air washed over them as they looked around the place. A young waitress dressed head to toe in black, her hair dyed blue, came up with laminated menus and tossed them on the table. “How’s it going?” she asked in perfect American English.
“Fine, I guess,” Drake said, obviously surprised.
“What’s your pleasure?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and staring holes through Spencer with a smirk.
“You have coffee?” he asked.
“We have anything you want,” she said, cocking a hip, her skinny jeans clinging to her like a second skin.
Allie cut in. “Do you use purified water?”
“Of course, although all the hot drinks are boiled, as well,” she said, still addressing Spencer.
“Well, then…three cups of coffee,” Spencer said.
“Do you like them dark or light?” she asked.
Spencer looked her up and down. “Depends. Can you bring some cream or milk on the side?”
“For you? Whatever you want,” she said, and sashayed away. Spencer’s eyes followed her across the room.
“Seems like you have a fan,” Allie said.
“Must be the makeup. Some girls like that kind of thing,” Drake said.
“Maybe she’s just flirty and bored,” Spencer said. “Not a lot to do all day, I’ll bet.”
“You going to help the poor thing out with that?” Allie asked innocently.
“We’re sort of busy trying to stay alive. Think I’ll focus on that.”
“Might make it all the sweeter – the danger element,” Allie mused.
Drake held his tongue.
“Why don’t we take another look at your images instead of discussing my romantic possibilities?” Spencer said with a smile. “Specifically, the dagger.”
Allie slid her phone from her pocket, selected the image of the blade, and zoomed in on the characters. “Looks like Sanskrit,” she said.
“Can you plug it into an online translation engine?” Drake asked.
“Should be able to. The problem is finding an input mechanism.” She offered a small pout. “I didn’t get the Sanskrit option on my gear.”
“I can’t take you people anywhere,” Spencer grumbled.
“Maybe one of the computers?” Drake suggested.
“We can ask Spencer’s new paramour when she gets done spitting in my cup,” Allie said.
“Only spitting?” Spencer asked, earning Allie’s glower for his trouble.
The waitress returned and placed their coffees on the table, leaning closer to Spencer than necessary, and Allie winked at him.
“Do any of the computers have Sanskrit keyboards?” Drake asked.
The girl looked at him like he was crazy. “No, but you can go to websites where you can select characters and string them together.”
“Oh. Of course,” he said. “Do you know any?”
“Try Googling it,” she replied, and departed with a swing of her hips.
“An Indian Miss Congeniality, your little blossom is, my friend,” Drake said to Spencer.
“I don’t know. She’s got a certain something. She could probably make me miserable for a few months as well as anyone.”
“Gotta have a dream,” Allie said, sipping her coffee after inspecting the cup. “No flies in it, at least.”
Allie connected to the web from her tablet and found a site where she could enter a Sanskrit phrase. She duplicated the characters on the blade and then cut and pasted it into a translation engine.
“Here goes nothing,” she said, and clicked on the translate button.
Two seconds went by, and then an unintelligible string of gibberish appeared. Drake sat back with a scowl. “So much for that.”
Allie switched to another site and got the same result. She continued working at it as Spencer and Drake conversed in hushed tones, and then she looked up at them, her expression clouded. “Here’s a site that substitutes one character in Sanskrit for another. Apparently that was a common practice and was a skill that the Kama Sutra recommended learning: the art of secret writing. Want to bet this is encrypted?”
Spencer nodded. “Makes sense. Which means we’re screwed if we don’t know the key or have nothing but time to try every possible variation of character substitution. Like I said before on the other character string – substitution ciphers have been around forever.”
“Can I check my email while we’re preparing to slit our wrists?” Drake asked.
Allie tilted her head at the computers. “Might as well rent some time. Nothing’s going to happen fast, and there’s no point slowing things down by only using my tablet.”
Drake spoke with the waitress and she directed him to one of the systems. He pulled up a chair and tapped in some commands, and then studied his emails, reading quickly. When he was done, he stood and rushed back to where Spencer and Allie were sitting. Allie looked up at him.
“What is it?”
“Betty. She figured out what that string I sent her is.”
“Really? That was fast.”
“Yeah. She’s working pretty late. Anyway, it’s a bitcoin key – a public key.”
“A…what?” Spencer asked.
“Have you been living in a cave?” Drake said.
“Worse. Laguna Beach. I’ve heard of bitcoin, but I don’t know how it works.”
“There’s a wallet with a private key. To do transactions, you generate a public key – that’s what you use to send and receive money.” Drake hesitated. “I mean bitcoins. Same difference.”
“How did she know that was what it was?” Allie asked.
“She’s a big fan. A lot of people think it’s going to replace our monetary system eventually and do away with the need for banks for transactions.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“She sent me a site where you can see the transactions that were done for a public key. It’s all transparent.”
“Really?” Spencer asked.
“Yup. She ran that one, and there were only two transactions. One receiving bitcoins, probably where Carson made a buy of them
in dollars, and the other sending the same amount to another public key.”
“That’s awesome! Then all we need to do is contact the owner of the public key, and we’ve found the dagger,” Allie said.
Drake shook his head. “Afraid not. There’s no way to know who owns it – it’s anonymous. There’s no registry we can access. That’s part of the appeal of crypto-currencies: they’re largely anonymous for users who want to keep it that way.”
“Then how does that help us?” Spencer asked, frustrated.
“We can run the other address and see what transactions it’s done. We might be able to pick up a thread we can follow.” Drake sighed. “Worth a try, right?”
He returned to the computer and went to work as Allie continued researching Sanskrit. When he next appeared by her side, his expression was excited. “The other address looks like almost all the recent transactions are with one key. Sending money. And that one’s not anonymous.”
“Who is it?” Spencer asked.
“An online magazine. Here, in New Delhi. Specializes in advertisements – kind of like a high-end paid Craigslist.”
“That would make sense,” Spencer said. “Carson mentioned he found the relic from a dealer.”
“Sounds like we need to pay a visit to the magazine. They might have the seller’s contact information,” Allie said. “And while we’re at it, we can stop by the university.”
“University?” Drake asked. “Why?”
“I ran a search for that Dr. Rakesh Sharma. There’s only one that comes up – a linguistics professor at the University of Delhi.”
Drake nodded. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Allie smiled. “Not a lot of reasons Carson would have had the name of a guy who could help him with Sanskrit, are there?”
Chapter 21
Allie and Drake neared the building that housed the magazine, a three-story structure painted Day-Glo orange, the bottom floor retail shops, with offices above. They’d agreed to split up, leaving Spencer to research the satellite imagery and mosaic at the café after buying a cheap cell phone next door. The owner of the shop had activated the device without seeing any identification, handing it to Allie after she promised to return with her passport later.
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