Chaos

by David Meyer

  Calm down, Cy. She’s just another girl.

  But she wasn’t just another girl.

  She was Beverly Ginger.

  Giving up on my appearance, I walked over to the dilapidated, unmarked door. Lifting my fist, I rapped on the surface.

  “The door’s open.”

  Her voice, spicy yet melodic, sent shivers down my spine.

  Get a grip on yourself, you idiot.

  Twisting the knob, I opened the door. “I got it. I…”

  My tongue tied as my eyes fell upon the woman sitting at the small table. With a classic hourglass figure and long, cascading chestnut brown hair that seemed to dance as she moved, Beverly Ginger was a strikingly gorgeous woman. Her tanned facial features were those of a classic beauty and radiated a youthful glow. Her eyes, a deep violet, seemed to peer right into my soul.

  She wore a tight blue t-shirt that curved in all the right places. Her khaki pants hugged her hips and tapered downward, accentuating her long, shapely legs. A pair of slender boots completed her eye-popping look.

  She was a goddess, an unobtainable, unreachable goddess. It wasn’t her face or her body that gave me butterflies. Nor was it her clothes. It was something else, something intangible. She possessed that rare, indefinable quality that turned men’s heads and caused women to shrink into their shoes.

  She was, for lack of a better way to put it, Beverly Ginger.

  Beverly looked up at me, batting those long eyelashes. Her smile vanished, replaced by a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

  “Nothing that a cold shower and a hot meal can’t fix.”

  She grinned. “Then you came to the wrong place.”

  I glanced around the room, surprised to see no bathroom or kitchen. In fact, there wasn’t even a bed. There was nothing, except for the table and two chairs. “Do you live here?”

  “No. But I wanted to meet someplace private.”

  I walked over to the table, opened my satchel, and removed the cacique. “As promised.”

  She took it into her hands, coddling it gently, like a baby. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such workmanship.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  She placed the cacique on the table and stared at my bruised face with concern. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you into this.”

  “I recovered an artifact for your museum and got to kick Standish in the face. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better day.”

  “I’d love to hear all about it. That is, unless you’re busy.”

  “As long as you don’t mind hanging out with a human dirt pile, I’m all yours. What did you have in mind?”

  “First things first. I owe you money. Five million Colombian pesos right?”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds like a huge score.”

  She smiled. “It converts to about three thousand of your American dollars. Not exactly earth-shattering money.”

  “I’m not really an American,” I replied. “These days, I’m more of a nomad. How’d you raise all that cash anyways?”

  “I rustled it up from the locals. They’re just as mad as I am about Standish stealing my dig site.”

  “That’s awfully generous of them. I bet they can’t wait for you to open your museum.”

  She stood up and crossed the room. In the corner, she picked up a small shoulder bag. “They’re excited all right. When we open next July –”

  “Next July? I thought you were opening this year.”

  Returning to the table, she rifled through the bag. “Did I say July? I meant December.”

  My nerves began to tingle. “Wasn’t it November?”

  “I’m sorry, Cy. I really am.”

  She pulled a metal object from her bag. Startled, I reared up, knocking my chair over.

  A crushing, tingling sensation erupted from my chest.

  I fell to the ground, writhing in pain. I tried to fight, tried to resist, but my body refused to respond.

  As my eyes began to close, I tilted my head upward. Beverly Ginger looked down at me, hands on hips. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she gave me a saucy smile.

  My vision deteriorated. Desperately, I fought to hold on to consciousness but it was a losing battle. Finally, my mind drifted away and I hurtled into darkness.

  Hurtled into the unknown.

  Chapter 4

  As I stumbled forward, handcuffed and blinded by the coarse woolen bag tied around my head, I felt a profound sense of shame. It was the sort of shame that wrenched the gut and extended to every last cell of my body. But for once, it wasn’t caused by memories of that fateful day three years prior. No, I felt ashamed for being caught off guard.

  Ashamed that I’d fallen into Beverly’s trap.

  A loud scream reverberated in my ears and I ground to a halt. I didn’t recognize the voice, although I was almost certain that it was human. But I could sense its anguish, its despair. It was the cry of sheer terror.

  It was the cry of insanity.

  As the scream died off, softer sounds began to emerge around me, sounds that had previously escaped my attention. Tiny claws skittered against the concrete floor. A metallic object, a pipe perhaps, hissed and vibrated. Liquid dripped from above, plopping into the tiny lakes that surrounded my feet.

  Something hard poked at my spine, its coldness seeping through my sweat-drenched shirt. Taking the hint, I shuffled forward, water splashing under my mud-encrusted boots.

  “Where are we?”

  Silence followed my question. Again. It was annoying, unnerving. Eight hours had passed since my abduction in Taganga, eight hours without a single shred of conversation. Why wouldn’t anyone talk to me? Who were these people?

  Abruptly, a thin shaft of light penetrated the woolen fibers that covered my face. Twisting slightly, I aimed myself at the source and walked toward it. With each step, the light intensified, and soon I was forced to shut my eyes. But even that couldn’t stop the growing brightness.

  A catcher’s mitt of a hand grabbed my shoulder. I halted and breathed deeply, inhaling the sickening odors of mildew, rotten meat, and spoiled fruit.

  A lock clicked and metal scraped loudly against concrete. The light intensified again and beefy, powerful hands pushed me toward it. Gritting my teeth, I took a few awkward steps forward.

  Where am I?

  Almost all indications pointed to a prison. And yet, I sensed open space around me, far too much for a typical cell.

  The hands grabbed my sore wrists and freed them from the handcuffs. Then, the woolen bag was torn away from my head. Blinding light flooded into my eyes.

  Metal scratched against concrete and I heard a door slam behind me. Seconds later, the lock clicked.

  “Hello, Mr. Reed. Please have a seat.”

  The soft, fuzzy words reverberated in my ears. I didn’t recognize the voice, but I could sense its coolness, its strength. It was the voice of a leader. It was the voice of someone who wielded power.

  Tremendous power.

  “Give me a second,” I muttered. “It’s a tad bright in here.”

  “Of course. Take your time.”

  Rubbing my eyes, I racked my brain for a strategy. The man in front of me held my future in his hands. The right words, delivered with the right attitude might save my life. They might even give me back my freedom. But the wrong words or the wrong tone could worsen an already miserable situation.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I lifted my head and prepared to speak. But the room in front of me took my breath away.

  Dark wooden paneling covered the walls while an elaborate oriental carpet adorned the floor. Fine wooden tables, tall bookshelves filled with dusty volumes, and expensive sofas were tastefully positioned throughout the space. Antique lamps cast ridiculously soft light throughout the room, far softer than I’d realized. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought I was in a mansion.

  I lowered
my eyes to the polished wooden desk that sat in front of me. A thin muscular man sat behind it, bathed in patches of light and shadow cast by the various lamps throughout the room. His eyes were small and brown, matching the mop of hair that topped his lined, tanned face. He wore an expensive pinstriped suit, complete with a dark red tie and white gloves over his hands. Every inch of him, except for his head, was covered with clothing.

  He was a man of obvious wealth and power, a man who knew how to get what he wanted. But I wasn’t intimidated.

  At least not totally.

  “Nice room,” I said nonchalantly. “Where are we exactly?”

  “A little ostentatious perhaps, but it serves my needs,” he replied. “As for our location, well, that’s my secret.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s Cyclone right? Cyclone Reed? Why don’t you sit down? We have much to discuss.”

  I remained standing. “Call me Cy. Who are you?”

  “Jack Chase.”

  “Nice to meet you. Now, can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t march over there and beat the crap out of you?” I watched him carefully, looking for signs of fear or adrenaline. But I saw nothing.

  Instead, he leaned over the desk, picked up a crystal tumbler, and sipped it. I’d met some cool customers before, but Chase was in a league of his own.

  After a moment, he set the tumbler back on the desk. “My apologies. We were a little disingenuous with you.”

  “Disingenuous? More like blatantly dishonest. Your girl hired me to retrieve a priceless artifact under false pretenses. Did she even manage the previous dig or was that just a lie?”

  “She works for me. However, I’m arranging for the artifact you recovered to be delivered to the real archaeologist.”

  “That’s comforting,” I replied scornfully. “Oh, by the way, did she tell you the hell I went through to acquire that thing? And how she rewarded me with a Tasering?”

  “Beverly can be a bit of a handful,” he shrugged. “But she gets results. I asked her to test your limits, to see how far she could push you. And I must say, I’m extremely impressed.”

  Chase’s icy demeanor frustrated me. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel curious about his motives. I sat down in a hand-carved wooden chair. “What do you want?”

  He held up a bottle and a tumbler. “Scotch?”

  “Sure.”

  He poured me a glass and passed it across the desk. Then he opened a file and flipped through it.

  “Cyclone Reed,” he read aloud. “Approximately thirty years old. Born and raised in New York City. PhD from New York University. Worked as a historical archaeologist, specializing in cities or, if you will, urban archaeology.”

  “Do you want my autograph?”

  He closed the file and stared at me. “Tell me, why did a highly touted urban archaeologist, once viewed as the second-coming of Hiram Bingham III, leave it all behind to become a treasure hunter?”

  “Mid-life crisis?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’ve got my file,” I replied. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Three years ago, there was an incident. One week later, you were gone.”

  My expression hardened. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. And since then, you’ve been on the move, traveling from country to country, never staying in one place for more than a few months. You eke out a living by retrieving lost or stolen artifacts. But as far as I can tell, you’re extremely discerning about the jobs you take.”

  “Not discerning enough, apparently.”

  “You’re a treasure hunter,” he continued. “Yet you retain the soul of an archaeologist.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis. Now, it’s my turn. You’re a wealthy executive who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. People are pawns to you. You think nothing of kidnapping an innocent man and holding him against his will. In short, you’re a powerful man. Yet you retain the soul of a coward.”

  He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. “I see that I owe you an explanation. I’m the founder, owner, and CEO of a small security-consulting firm named ShadowFire. We’re headquartered out of Manhattan. I’m also the acting Chairman of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority.”

  I laughed. “The MTA? New York’s MTA? You must be joking.”

  “It’s not a joke. The previous chairman passed away less than a month ago. I’m assuming the reins until a more suitable replacement can be found.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want to hire you.”

  “Pass.”

  “That’s too bad. Because I think I can help you.”

  “Help me? You must be out of your mind.”

  “You have hefty legal charges pending due to the, ah, incident. I can make that disappear and provide you with a generous stipend to boot. In other words, I can give you a blank slate. How does that sound?”

  “Too good to be true.”

  He smiled, a bit too widely for my liking. “I know what you’re thinking but I can assure you there’s no catch. Upon successful completion of the assignment, my lawyers will negotiate with the necessary parties to clear your legal record. In addition, we will provide you with a substantial dowry. One million dollars to be exact.”

  One million dollars. That was mouth-watering, life-altering money. But I didn’t like the strings attached to it. “Not interested.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t going to give up. And anyway, I wasn’t in much of a position to bargain. “Okay,” I replied after a moment. “I’m listening. What’s the assignment?”

  Chase lifted an old color Polaroid from the desk and passed it to me. The faded image depicted a strange-looking fellow, with puffy eyes, a bulbous nose, and misshapen shoulders.

  Sort of like the love child of an ostrich and an ape.

  “His name is Dr. Karl Hartek,” Chase said. “He was a German physicist during the Second World War.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He emigrated to the United States in 1945, shortly after the surrender of Nazi Germany. He was a part of Operation Paperclip.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It was a program designed by the Office of Strategic Services. With the war coming to an end, America was already looking ahead to the Cold War. So, they recruited former Nazi scientists to come to America. After several months of interviews in Cape Canaveral, Hartek was relocated to Manhattan. He vanished a few years later.”

  “So what?”

  “My researchers have linked Hartek to the Organisation der ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, or ODESSA. ODESSA was a postwar network designed to help SS members escape the Allies. It also enabled those same SS members to transport Nazi resources out of Germany.”

  I shrugged. “Does this story have a point?”

  “I’m getting to it. Although he was just a scientist, Hartek apparently held influence within the SS. As such, ODESSA entrusted him with a substantial treasure after he was forcibly immigrated to America.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Nobody knows for certain. However, two months ago, a man walked into a Manhattan pawnshop. He attempted to sell a gold bar, which displayed the markings of the Deutsche Reichsbank. Naturally, it raised the proprietor’s suspicions. The proprietor called the police, but the man fled before help could arrive. Eventually, the story came across my desk and I was able to confirm that the serial number on the bar matched that of a gold bar distributed by ODESSA to Hartek many years ago.”

  “Do you have a lead on this man?”

  Chase passed me another photograph. The lines were fuzzy and it lacked color, but I could easily make out the picture of an older man. He exhibited good posture. A fierce scowl was etched across his face. His hair looked dark and bushy. Although clearly advanced in years, his eyes maintained a spark of vitality that gave me pause.

  I frowned as I passed it back to him. “You
didn’t answer my question. Do you have a lead on him?”

  “Fingerprints at the scene confirmed his identity as Fred Jenson. He served during World War II. After the war, he returned to Brooklyn for a short while before going off-grid. This is the first time he’s surfaced in decades.”

  “Off-grid? Where does he live?”

  “Underground,” Chase replied with a wily grin. “About one hundred feet under the streets of Manhattan, to be precise.”

  I tightened involuntarily and then forced myself to relax, cursing myself for being so transparent. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “So you want me to find him for you?”

  “Obviously, we’ve done our research on you. In your previous life, you conducted an archaeological study of New York’s subway tunnels, did you not?”

  “Well, a section of them. But –”

  “Then, you’re the perfect man for the job.” He paused to take a breath. “According to the pawn shop proprietor, Jenson said that he knew where to find more gold bars. He indicated that they were very close to where he lived. I want to hire you to find him as well as Hartek’s treasure.”

  I held up my hand. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking. New York has hundreds of miles of subway tunnels and thousands of miles of sewers. And that doesn’t even include naturally formed underground spaces.”

  “I know it won’t be easy. That’s why we’re willing to pay you handsomely for your efforts.”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to spend the next few weeks dodging trains just so you can get a little bit richer.”

  “I’m not going to keep the treasure. On the contrary, I’m planning to return it to its rightful owners.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say I have an interest in righting the wrongs of the past.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  He sighed. “My father was an American soldier. He died during World War II when I was just an infant. I think he’d appreciate my tiny effort at obtaining justice.”

  His face betrayed his steady voice. There was something else driving him, a reason he didn’t want to share. I considered pressing him on it but ultimately, decided to forget it. “Aren’t you worried I’ll steal the treasure?”