12.21.12: The Vessel (The Altunai Annals)

by Killian McRae

  “Dr. Gonzalez,” he said by way of greeting, his accent vaguely Russian, “wish I could say good to see you again, but not so much under these circumstances, nyet? Anton!”

  On the other side of the vehicle, another door opened, then closed. A moment later, a thin stick figure of a man topped off with thin, bright red hair rounded the front of the vehicle, scurrying up in a regal display of utter obeisance.

  “Mr. Kronastia, sir?”

  Once, then twice, Shep blinked in shock. Surely, this was a joke. How could it be? Kronastia was already taking down hits when Shep was still fulfilling liberal arts requirements, yet he didn’t look like he could top off thirty. The mob boss was graced with shiny, black locks cover models would envy, and silver eyes that could freeze water. Generously built, the arms of his suit pulled taut when Kronastia folded his arms in front of him.

  The mobster turned to the redhead. “Have Dr. Gonzalez take you to the security server and pull up the relevant files. I want to see this supposed intern for myself.”

  “Of course, sir,” Anton answered without hesitation and with a slight bow of his head.

  Kiss ass, Shep thought. He might have been seeing things, but for a moment he swore he saw a corner of Kronastia’s mouth raise. When Anton’s gaze and attention turned to Hector, however, his tone was less cordial.

  “If you don’t mind, Dr. Gonzalez.” He veritably scowled.

  Hector glanced back over his shoulder at Shep, who tried to return a sympathetic and reassuring smile. It faltered. His eyes followed the pair as they turned and trudged off, noticing as Anton’s jacket swayed with each sweep of his arms the presence of two holsters secured to his side. A shot of concern ran the length of him, but Shep’s stress turned inward when he felt the weight of a stare upon him and discovered Kronastia beaming at him.

  “Dr. Sheppard Antonius Smyth.” Each syllable, crisp and precise, sounded like a formal summons. “I cannot tell you what an honor it is finally to meet you.”

  “It is?” Immediately sensing his faux pas, he coughed to clear his throat and tried to conjure an air of formality that he often reserved for meeting university donors. “It is,” he amended.

  “Indeed,” Kronastia reassured him as he slowly paced over, holding out his hand.

  Shep took it lightly when within reach, and flinched as the abnormally chilled flesh made contact with his palm. Great genetics, but shitty circulation, he assumed, thanking the gods that even when it came to Russian mob bosses, there was some justice in the world.

  Kronastia grinned. “I follow your work. I find your theory regarding Cleopatra most preposterous, of course, but I give you credit for thinking outside the box. Your wife’s article on Isis cults in latter day Rome, however, was most intriguing. Speaking of which,” he paused, his head turning and his eyes searching from side to side, “is she here as well?”

  For the second time in as many days, Shep felt the stab of sorrow. He shook his head meekly and replied in a shrunken voice, “Christine passed away a few years ago.”

  To his credit, Kronastia looked believably ashamed and saddened. “My sympathies and apologies.”

  By default, Shep shrugged, a hefty sigh issuing from his lips.

  “Well,” Kronastia resumed, pulling his hand back and placing it casually in his pocket, “now that you’re involved, I suppose it’s either recruit you to the project or kill you.”

  The monotone comment had Shep searching Kronastia’s expression. No cracked smile, no break in his sincerity. Shep gave a sardonic chuckle and studied the native vegetation at his feet. “I’ve always considered myself a team player.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Kronastia jerked his head to the side. “Walk with me, and tell me what you know. Please, don’t leave anything out. I do so revere your work, and hopefully there’s no reason for me to see it end.”

  Following closely behind, Shep noted that they were walking back in the direction of the hurricane shelters.

  “Anytime you’re ready to start, Dr. Smyth.”

  Shep cleared his throat. “Two nights ago, Hector called and told me about the statue.”

  “The one he thought was Isis.”

  He nodded. “Yup.”

  “I suppose that would have intrigued you. Go on.”

  “Well, yeah, but still, I haven’t talked much to Hector since we were grad students together. However, his reputation has always been good. I hopped on the first flight. His assistant—the fake intern, it looks like— picked me up from the airport when I arrived yesterday.”

  “And did Hector show you the other objects as well?”

  Shep didn’t want to be caught in a lie, so he didn’t hold back. “Yes, but only briefly and I didn’t have a chance with the scroll before Victoria took it. She seemed to know what it said, though ...”

  Shep bit his tongue, remembering Vick’s request not to share that smidgen of information.

  “Oh, I’m quite sure this Victoria Kent is more than aware of what the scroll said,” Kronastia muttered with a slight chuckle to boot. “She didn’t tell you anything about it, did she?”

  By this time, they had reached one of the outlying buildings, one somewhat larger than that in which Shep had stayed in through the storm. He noted that this shelter was also equipped with a fingerprint scanner and had a relatively large antenna protruding from atop. At a pressing of Kronastia’s finger to the sensor, the locks clicked and the door swung open.

  “Um, no, she joked—I think—that she’d have to kill me if she did.” Shep paused, and added tentatively, “I think I may have seen one of the translations she was working on, though.”

  Kronastia stopped, his expression full of amusement. “Really?”

  “She dropped a piece of paper when she rushed out of our shelter.” He knew it sounded crazy, and no doubt jumping to this conclusion only served to foster and fester his own widely discredited theory. “I think that the scroll has something to do with Cleopatra.”

  At that, Kronastia let out a coughing chuckle. “Isn’t that interesting? You must show me this paper soon. Anton, the video?”

  The valet’s ears perked up as they entered, and both he and Hector turned. Shep breathed easier, seeing his friend still this side of the grave.

  “Yes, sir, we’ve just isolated some of the footage from her arrival to camp yesterday. The perimeter cameras were useless last night while the hurricane passed over. We can’t see anything about how she made her exit. I’m still sorting through the rest of it.”

  The bank of screens, buttons, gadgets, and gizmos overwhelmed Shep. He would have sworn he’d walked out of the jungle and in to a CIA outpost. On a book-sized screen, a video of he and Victoria pulling up in the Jeep looped. He marveled again at her grace as she jumped from behind the wheel, landing lithely on the ground, and the ease with which she hoisted his bag from the back. Kronastia’s eyes narrowed. Delicately, his hand rose when the image stilled, locking Victoria in frame. His fingers traced over the outline of her face, stroking the screen with far too much care.

  Kronastia swallowed hard. “What about the vehicle trace?”

  Anton leaned over and punched the keyboard. In a moment, one of the monitors brought up a map of the Veracruz area. Shep immediately spotted the airport, and the red line that ran adjacent to it on the overlay indicated the path the vehicle had taken. Tracing the route with his eyes, he saw the line meander through the downtown streets.

  “Just a moment, sir.” Anton keyed a scrawl of commands. A flashing dot appeared on the map on the east side of the city. “She made a few mundane stops: a gas station, a market. Hmm, a sporting goods store. But, here,” he pointed at the dot, “a hotel on the outskirts of the airport, and the data feed says she was there for about two hours. Our security team probably just thought she was sitting and waiting for Dr. Smyth
’s plane to arrive.”

  “She was late picking me up,” Shep volunteered. “I had to wait for her. I was about to give up on her, actually, and get a room for the night.”

  Kronastia took it all in calmly, his chin resting on his fisted hand. “If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was meeting a lover. But only for two hours? That doesn’t sound like her.”

  Shep couldn’t help himself. “Speak from experience?”

  His stomach dropped when he recalled that his life at the moment depended on the very good humor of a very humorless man.

  “I’ll see if I can grab an image from the camera in the Jeep,” Anton said.

  And, there she was. Her hair flew about, the wind batting at it like a flag as she drove. There was no sound to the grainy video, but she was obviously singing along to the radio. She disappeared after parking. Anton fast forwarded as Shep kept his eyes trained on the time signature in the bottom right corner of the feed. One hour and forty-three minutes later, she showed up again in frame, wearing a beaming smile that made Shep wonder if, despite Kronastia’s claim, less than two hours provided her enough satisfaction after all. Her wild and carefree expression, and the fact that he suspected she’d just been sexed up proper, took his mind to irrational places. The background shifted as she moved the Jeep to a parking lot closer to the terminal. As anyone would, Shep felt a quiver in his stomach when he saw himself come on camera at the tail end of the car, and disgusted with the look on his own face as he watched her remove her outer layer of clothing.

  Anton froze the image when she again sat behind the driver’s wheel. The tension grew thick as the three other men beheld the Russian’s momentary regret-filled gaze. Immediately, however, the moment passed, and his teeth gnashed.

  His eyes remain focused on Victoria’s image. “I need to speak with Dr. Gonzalez and Dr. Smyth privately.”

  Without a batted eyelash, Anton nodded his compliance and took his leave.

  “Close the door behind you,” Kronastia further ordered, “and be certain that we are not disturbed.”

  Hector gulped so loudly it sounded cartoonish. Shep wondered if they both suspected their heads were on the chopping block. When Kronastia reached into his pocket, neither of them were really surprised. They passed a quick glance to each other, saying in unspoken words that, for whatever it was worth, at least they were with a friend in the end.

  When instead of a revolver, Kronastia pulled out a photograph and held it to the screen, both Shep and Hector were at a loss for words. Death by Polaroid? Just didn’t seem possible. They looked at the photo, of course, and were surprised to see Victoria in it, wearing military fatigues. No sexy skirt here, nor the standard-issue dig worker’s khakis and tees. Her caramel hair was pulled back tight, and strapped to her side was a fully-loaded ammo belt. She held a gun that would make a grown man cry.

  “They called her Yonina Berkmalov when this was taken,” Kronastia stated rather stoically. “But don’t get hung up on that. She changes her identity like some women change shoes, and she’s got a collection that would have put Imelda Marcos to shame. You might be most familiar with one particular moniker, however. Have you ever heard of the Jaguar?”

  Hector nearly spit up a lung. “Yes, but Jaguar’s a man.”

  Kronastia tucked the photo back inside his jacket pocket. “She likes people to believe that. So few ever assume that the infamous black market antiques dealer could be a woman. Other’s presumptions allow her to use her wiles to an even greater extent. She culls emotions, making her enemy blind to the way they play right into her hands. About the time she’s got you believing you have a chance at scoring with her, she makes a quick escape with whatever prize she was after.”

  Shep shifted uncomfortably in place, recalling the near kiss the night before. Kronastia turned, a corner of his mouth raised.

  “Something you’d care to share, Dr. Smyth?”

  Shep thought back. It had been so unexpected, so unprompted. Was she trying to distract him? Manipulate him? Newly arrived to the excavation, the only thing Shep could offer was his expertise. Victoria had studied under Anathea Hermapolous, however, so what could she possibly learn from him that she couldn’t get from the grandmaster guru?

  Despite his instincts telling him to sing like a canary about anything he was asked, Shep decided to keep this one to himself. He lowered his eyes and shook his head. If she was Jaguar, he understood why she had kept the scroll’s details secret. No doubt such an item on the black market would net her a tiny fortune. Even credible museums might pay a hefty fee for such a document. And Shep didn’t deny that, if he could somehow track down the item and retrieve it from her first, he would be looking at more than just material wealth from nabbing it. His reputation would be saved. If he survived today, that was, and if his presumption about its contents proved correct.

  “She’s expert in her field,” Kronastia continued. “She knows how to work the system, any system, and how to get in and get out with little suspicion and unhindered by obstacles. I have to admit, though, this intern scheme of hers is quite impressive. Didn’t you wonder, Dr. Gonzalez, why Plaxis would make an exemption to its no women policy for someone as lowly as an intern?”

  Shep’s head snapped in Hector’s direction as he quickly scanned through his few memories since arriving. In a stark what-do-you-know moment, he realized that besides Victoria, he had in fact seen no other women about.

  Hector shrugged. “She came bearing all the necessary credentials, your security personnel were satisfied of her validity, and having been instructed by Anathea Hermapolous, I couldn’t—”

  Kronastia cut him off, “I get it, Doctor. As I said, she’s very adept at what she does, though had you followed my edict this might never have happened. She’s been a thorn in my side for quite some time, but I never thought she’d be so bold as to try to get access to this site until you’d found something. That’s why I didn’t order the most extreme security measures until I learned of your discovery. I assumed too much.”

  Hector leapt up from the corner, face flushing and smile beaming. “Mr. Kronastia, surely she couldn’t have gotten too far, and the items are so unique she won’t have an easy time finding a buyer. Perhaps if we contacted the authorities, reported the items stolen—”

  Kronastia clicked his tongue. “I simply cannot do that. You may not believe this for a man of my particular ... profession, but I do not believe in lying. You see, Victoria didn’t really steal anything.” He paused and leaned in, both of the archaeologists doing the same, as though the walls themselves might overhear something. “All of the objects you found actually belong to her.”

  Chapter 9

  “Will you be checking any bags today, Miss Kent?”

  Her hand smoothed over the surface of the tote weighing heavy at her side. She was still surprised she got it through security. Putting the “Made in China” stickers and price tags on the bottom of each artifact fooled security; they appeared to be mere trinkets picked up on holiday. No doubt, the plunging neckline of her dress also helped to distract the agent enough for her to pull off the con. Maybe she should listen to Alex’s ideas more often.

  “No, I sent my bags ahead yesterday with a friend.” Victoria smiled, remembering her brief rendezvous the previous day.

  Not that anything had happened during their meet up at the hotel. Victoria cared for Alex deeply, perhaps more so than anyone else alive, but lovers they were not. Victoria Kent did not take on lovers, though she occasionally gave herself leave to flirt or tempt. She’d never engage a member of The Order, however. Too many possible complications, and with Alex, far too many consequences.

  “I’ve just this one, but I’ll keep it with me,” Victoria added, rubbing the sack like it was Aladdin’s lamp.

  The gate agent’s eyes tracked down to the piece as she nodded. Her attention
turned to the screen as her fingers began a cha-cha across the keyboard.

  “Yes, Miss Kent, I think we can accommodate your request for an upgrade. We have one seat available in our first class section. Oh, I’m sorry. The additional fare will be well over five thous—”

  “Not a problem,” Victoria said by way of cutting her off. Already, her hand was reaching for her wallet and the magical plastic card inside. Credit cards had seemed such a novelty to her at first, but in recent years she had grown to love them. How convenient to have nearly all of your expenses quickly put aside with the sway of a rectangular piece of hardened polymers and authorize a single bank transfer monthly. It was utter efficiency, and she had always been a fan of efficiency.

  The agent took the card with the same tissue box smile. She ran it through the reader and presented it back to Victoria, along with the charge slip and new boarding pass. Victoria signed accordingly.

  “Is there a business lounge I can access? I need to make a few calls and I would appreciate some privacy.”

  A map of the terminal was laid flat on the counter as the agent circled the first class lounge and motioned to the left with her hand. Victoria thanked her, pulled her tote close to her side, and fished the cell Alex had given her out of her pocket. As she walked, she keyed in the ubiquitous text message she and her accomplice had agreed upon:

  Honey, Mother’s coming. When will you be home?

  Approximately thirty seconds later, the cell vibrated.

  Detained for now, dear.

  “Now.” For some reason, he was alone at this exact moment.

  Victoria looked up from the phone and was happy to see that she had arrived to the lounge reception counter. She presented her newly printed, first class boarding pass and her passport, and a few minutes later found herself in a private room equipped with a computer, a printer, TV, and an arm chair that could be reclined as a bed. Without hesitation, she locked the door behind her and placed the bag gently on the floor. She punched the numbers into her cell with lightning speed and waited impatiently for the other line to pick up. The receiving click was quickly followed by the answering party’s concerned voice.