by Joanne Pence
Rempart handed it over to the guides. “Let's go.”
Chapter 11
Mongolia
“MICHAEL! MICHAEL! Wake up! Wake up!”
Michael heard Jianjun's voice, felt his assistant's hand shaking his shoulder, felt air so cold it numbed his teeth. He opened his eyes to see a blue sky.
He looked around amazed to be alive, then pushed away the sand that covered his body and sat up. Finally, he held his head, laid back down, and shut his eyes once more. The last thing he remembered, he had been inside the ger drinking, and then felt sleepy. A vague memory…Lady Hsieh calling him, drawing him outside…
He didn’t want to think about that, about her.
Now it seemed an entire caravan had marched over his body while a yak dung fire burned in his mouth. Airag did that to a man. Opening one eye at a time, he tried again. “What am I doing here?” he whispered.
“Good question. You tripped over me leaving the ger. Woke me up.” Jianjun’s hair stood on end, his face pale, and his eyes blood shot. He looked as bad as Michael felt. “You were sleep-walking. I tried to talk to you, stop you, but you kept going so I followed. We both fell, I guess. At least, I'm assuming we fell, and that's how we got down here. Way down here. I must have been knocked out or I was too tired to stay awake, because next thing I woke to the loud sound of my own teeth chattering. They're still chattering. It's freezing and—”
“Stop!” Michael pleaded, holding his aching head. “I get the picture.”
He rose unsteadily to his feet, and saw they were at the bottom of a steep drop. They were lucky they hadn't broken their necks in the fall.
After nearly thirty minutes and any number of tries, they climbed out of it. The sun was high, the sky clear, pale and ghostly, but the land....
Sand and dust lay everywhere, covered everything, and turned a grassy plain to a tan-hued ocean.
Michael made his way toward the camp's sand-covered gers on legs that felt shaky and weak.
No smoke billowed from the chimney, and no one moved around outside. An unnatural, eerie stillness had settled over the area. As much as Michael wanted to convince himself that Batbaatar and Acemgul might yet be sleeping off the liquor, or that they had already gone to the dig site to see how much damage had been done, he couldn't. A foreboding took hold and refused to let go.
He ran toward camp, cautiously at first, then faster.
As he got closer, his steps slowed and faltered. Jianjun, right behind him, did the same.
Two low mounds of sand were on the ground near the gers. Looking at the size and shape of them, his heart sank.
He went to one mound near the truck and with a gentle hand brushed away the sand. He shut his eyes, his worst fear confirmed.
Batbaatar.
Not far from him lay Acemgul's body, also covered with sand.
They'd been shot in the back of the head. Two executions.
Michael fell to his knees as he surveyed the horrifying scene, the startled, anguished death stares on the faces of men he had worked with for so many weeks, men who had become true and honest friends.
“What happened here?” Jianjun placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Why kill these men? These good men?”
Michael didn't reply.
“If you hadn’t left, and I hadn’t followed you,” Jianjun said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “could we have saved them? Or would we also be dead?”
The question remained unanswered as, angry and sickened by the senseless deaths, Michael gazed in the direction of the dig. No tire tracks or other signs survived the storm, yet a suspicion, one he prayed wasn't true, formed.
He went to the truck, Jianjun silent beside him. Batbaatar had covered the hood with a tied-down tarp before entering the ger the day before to keep sand out of the engine. When Michael removed the tarp and cranked the key, the truck came to life.
Michael drove straight to the dig site. The storm should have completely buried it, but as he neared, what he saw infuriated him.
Someone had been here. Someone had dug into the pit and cleared any sand that had fallen into it. No, not someone—removing that much sand would have taken a small army!
Wordlessly, he jumped from the truck, searching for any sign of who had done this.
He scrambled down the ladder to Lord Hsieh's tomb. Everything connected with Lord Hsieh had been removed, but that meant little to him.
He hurried to the opening down to the lower level, and half-slid, half-fell into Lady Hsieh's chamber.
The coffin was gone.
Raw fury cut through him like a razor. Who did this, and why? With those questions, he made a resolution. He would find her again. He would find her and learn what all this meant. He would do it, no matter what it took.
Chapter 12
Paris
DESPITE HERSELF, IN the cold gloom of the Cluny museum, Charlotte became entranced by Nicolas Flamel's bizarre tale and continued reading.
Flamel had been obsessed with learning the meaning behind the words and symbols in The Book of Abraham the Jew. He knew something about alchemy from other manuscripts and books he had copied, but none of them compared to the book he now possessed. He placed some pages he had copied in his shop window, seeking anyone who might understand them, but the populace scorned and laughed at him.
For twenty-one years he struggled to decipher the book with little success. At age fifty, he feared he would not live long enough to learn the book's secret if he didn't act.
He needed a Kabbalist scholar, but the Jews had been driven out of France by persecution. Many fled to Spain, to Malaga and Granada, ruled by Moorish kings.
Flamel decided to go to them. Carrying only a few carefully copied pages from the manuscript, he went dressed as a pilgrim with a staff and shell-adorned hat.
The Jews in Spain were suspicious of Christians, however, especially French ones dressed as pilgrims, and refused to help him.
Defeated, Flamel headed back to Paris when, in León, he met a fellow merchant who told him of an old Jewish scholar named Chanches. At first Chanches eyed him warily, but once Flamel mentioned The Book of Abraham the Jew, everything changed.
According to Chanches, Abraham was the most venerable of all the sages who studied the Kabbalah. He lived in the Jewish sector of Alexandria in the first or second century A.D., and wrote in Greek. Centuries ago, his book disappeared. Legend had it the book had passed from hand to hand, always to the man destined to receive it. Chanches dreamed all his life of finding it, but had failed.
Chanches agreed to return to Paris to translate the complete text, but he died on the way. Once back home, Flamel and his wife Perrenella used what he had learned from Chanches to decipher the remaining pages of the book. It took him three years, and at the end of that period, he began his experiments.
“Oh, my God!” Charlotte murmured as she continued to read:
. . .following always my Book, from word to word, I made projection of the Red Stone, upon the like quantity of Mercury, in the presence likewise of Perrenella only, in the same house, the five and twentieth day of April following, the same year, about five o'clock in the evening, which I transmuted truly into almost as much pure Gold, better assuredly than common Gold, more soft and more plyable. I may speak it with truth, I have made it three times, with the help of Perrenella, who understood it as well as I, because she helped in my operations.
Charlotte stared at Bonnetieu. “The old bastard claims he actually created gold!”
“Yes,” Bonnetieu said quietly. “People have debated whether or not to believe him for more than six hundred years. Yet he built shrines and even a children's hospital, all costing a great deal of money.”
“He probably stole some gold and then made up this story to hide his crime.” Dismay fueled Charlotte's rebuttal. Dennis hadn’t died because of this folly. “He was a scribe and a bookseller! How could he have managed to do what no one else could? Flamel’s tale is no more real than Harry Potter.”
“Perhaps,” Bonnetieu said.
His condescending tone exasperated her. “After Flamel's death, what happened to The Book of Abraham the Jew?”
“That's the question.” Bonnetieu gave a small shrug. “His wife died before him, and when Flamel died, his house and grave were ransacked. Whether the robbers were looking for the book or the gold, we don’t know. No one found the book. Throughout history, we hear of it turning up various places. One of those was the American West. The story goes that a French monk brought it there after the French Revolution. But most people believe it never really existed.”
Charlotte shook her head at the imaginative tale.
Bonnetieu squeezed her hand. “It's all nonsense, I'm sure. I believed in it once, I'll admit. The idea of a medieval sorcerer and his wife brewing gold held great appeal to an old historian like me.”
She pulled her hand free. Somehow, his agreeing with her argument didn’t make her feel better. She caught his gaze in her large, blue eyes and wouldn't let go. “Still, I can't help but believe this book is the connection between Dennis' investigation fifteen years ago and Mustafa's murder yesterday.”
She removed the papers she'd picked up on Al-Dajani's desk from her shoulder bag. “I suspect Mustafa wanted to talk to me about these. I haven't had time to translate them yet, but maybe—”
He flipped through the pages and pulled out one, staring at it.
“Ah! This symbol is found in Flamel's manuscript,” he said as he unlocked the display case and put on the white gloves he carried in his pocket. With utmost care he turned the ancient pages to the one with the same symbol. “There it is!”
Charlotte stared at it a moment. “What does it mean?”
“I have no idea. But Mustafa and I talked about it on the phone. Many years ago, a Danish scientist came here to view the symbol. Once he saw it, he became quite excited. He said it was also found in China and elsewhere. Then, he wanted to learn how to read old alchemical texts, so I referred him to Mustafa. A few days later, an American who claimed to be a friend of the Dane also arrived here with many of the same questions. I gave him Mustafa’s name and address.”
“A Dane and then an American, both interested in this symbol?” Charlotte was incredulous.
Bonnetieu simply nodded.
“Wait…are you talking about the professor, Lionel Rempart?” Charlotte asked.
“No, no, no. This happened quite a few years ago, twelve? Fifteen? I’m not sure. I don’t remember the names, I’m afraid, but the American was obviously rich. That I do remember.”
“It happened before Dennis came to see you?”
He thought a moment. “I must confess it’s all rather fuzzy. My memory isn’t so good anymore.” His expression tightened. “As I recall, both the Dane and the American, their visits and their questions, interested Dennis.”
“Did he say why?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Your husband was, I would say, close-mouthed. He explained nothing to me.”
That described Dennis all right, she thought, especially as she realized he had kept all this from her. Those other men intrigued her. “Is it possible you’ve kept some records with their names—”
“Is that the Flamel exhibit?” a voice boomed. The words were in English, the accent American.
Bonnetieu thrust out his arm as if to protect the unlocked display. “No one should be out there!”
Charlotte shoved Mustafa's papers back into her bag.
“I told you already, monsieur, this area is closed to the public! You must leave, now.”
“Tourists!” Bonnetieu said. “Excuse me, Charlotte, while I assist the guard.”
She stepped out of the room and watched Bonnetieu as he went down the hall to speak to the brusque-sounding American.
The American was a big man, broad shouldered with a hard, chiseled face, short blond hair, and blue eyes.
With a start, she recognized him—he had tried to kill her in Jerusalem!
He noticed her. Several shots rang out in rapid succession. Bonnetieu fell.
Charlotte spun around a corner as a bullet slammed into the wall where she stood moments before. She pulled the Glock from her handbag and blindly fired back. Ahead of her narrow steps led to the ground floor. She ran down.
Guards shouted about the gunfire and the need to secure the building. Immediately, a terrified tour group tried to push through an emergency side exit, but a guard beat them to it and locked the door to prevent the shooters from escaping. The public panicked.
The museum rang with alarms, cries and shouts. People pushed and shoved against the emergency exit. A man lifted a young girl into his arms to prevent her from being smothered. A woman screamed when the crowd ripped her son’s hand from hers. Several fainted from being pressed against the door unable to breathe.
When the guards re-opened the front entrance, the group turned and ran toward it. One woman fell and was nearly trampled. Charlotte watched, the gun hidden under her jacket. She didn’t see the shooter. She suspected he had gone toward the main doorway and waited for her there.
She broke away from the crowd and started down a different corridor. Her mind replayed all that had passed. Al-Dajani. Bonnetieu. Her. Why?
At the end of the hall, a man stood looking off to one side. She noticed a wire from his ear to his jacket.
She quietly backed up.
Another alarm shrieked in the distance. The man turned and saw her. His hand whipped under his jacket and came out holding a 9 mm automatic. She whirled back to the crowd, pushing her way deep into it, bending low, trying to hide. The human wave carried her through the front gardens and out onto the street.
The chisel-faced blond man, taller than most, remained in the garden. Their eyes met and he knocked aside others as he strode toward her. Part of her, cold and deadly, wanted to stay and fight. To kill this killer. But too many innocent people stood between them.
He didn’t care. To her horror, he raised his gun. She tried to duck, to hide, as he fired. Beside her, a young man fell. Only then did she feel a painful, burning sensation on her arm.
Chapter 13
Idaho
“WE CAN MOVE anytime,” Big Kyle Barnes announced. The guides pulled the orange rafts away from bushes of red-tinged sumac and bulrushes, and shoved them into the water. “Three students and one teacher in each raft should work.”
Rempart scowled at the ignorant guide's mistaken impression of Melisse's position, then turned to his assistant with a smile. “I can scarcely believe our good fortune at finding these rafts. I can taste success already. If this works out, Melisse, it'll make big news when we publish the find. You may be able to publish it with me. We'll see how things go,” he announced with all the arrogance of a full professor holding a graduate student’s future in the palm of his hand.
“I appreciate that, Professor.” As she spoke, Melisse didn’t look at Rempart, but watched Big Kyle and Skinny Buck check over the rafts.
“You look nervous,” Rempart said. “Didn’t you grow up in Montana? You should know about rafting. Besides, the guides said this is a creek. It’s nothing to worry about.”
She eyed the clear waters. “This so-called creek is already wide and we don’t know how much wider it’ll become downstream. We’re close to the Salmon River. The trip could turn treacherous very quickly.”
“You must learn to be adventurous, Melisse!” Rempart said with a laugh. “Let’s get going.”
Melisse knew much more about the Salmon River than Rempart ever imagined. It was known as “the river of no return” for a reason. It meandered from its source near Sun Valley, northeast toward Montana and the Bitterroot Mountains. There, it angled sharply westward and began a wild, tumultuous 420 mile journey that slashed directly across the entire width and heart of Idaho until it reached the confluence with the Snake River near the Oregon border. In the course of its fierce journey, the Salmon River forged a canyon deeper than Arizona's Grand Canyon with looming unscal
able walls surrounded by dark, impenetrable forests.
The first white men known to attempt to navigate it were mountain men, four trappers for the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1832. Two drowned and the other two lost their canoe and traveled overland, arriving three months later, naked, at Fort Nez Perce.
Forty years later, the Northern Pacific Railroad Company wanted a route from Montana across Idaho to Washington State and sent a party of twenty-five men and four boats under the direction of the railroad's chief engineer to survey the river. The group set out from Salmon City in July, 1872, and didn't reach the Snake River until November. The engineer’s summary of the trip concluded, “This survey down the Salmon River may, I think, be regarded as the most difficult instrumental survey ever made in the United States.”
The railroad selected a different route, bypassing Central Idaho altogether.
The area remained, to this day, a roadless, fiercely impassable no man’s land in the heart of Idaho.
They gathered the students, who complained they had no cell service and couldn’t text their friends about this latest adventure. Rempart climbed into a raft with Brandi, Ted, and Vince. Rachel, Devlin and Brian got into the second one. Melisse had no choice but to join them, her nerves tense. The Salmon River swallowed up proficient rafters and kayakers, even guides, with frightening regularity. Some said the Indians had named it the river of no return because so many men who set off down it were never seen again.
The day grew chilly, so everyone put on their jackets then donned life preservers. They strapped their backpacks onto the raft to keep from losing them if the vessel overturned. Big Kyle took charge of Melisse’s raft. She felt him ogling her as she settled into place and glared at him. He grinned, and then openly leered at Brandi as she struggled to draw the sides of her life jacket together over her generous breasts.