The Emerald Scepter

by Paul Kemprecos

  “But Dr. Everson messed up their plans when she told the State Department as well.”

  “State was aware of the significance of the treasure’s location near a huge lithium deposit originally surveyed by the Soviets. The State Department passed the treasure information to the CIA. Eventually it made its way to Archer.”

  “Saleem said he regretted telling his cousin about the treasure.”

  “He became irrelevant after that point. The Shadows told the Marzaks to kidnap Dr. Everson so she could help find the treasure and then kill her to prevent her from talking to others. That was fine by us. We had visions of using her to lure their leaders someplace to view the treasure, and—”

  He snapped his fingers.

  “Sounds like a police sting. The cops tell the fugitive to come collect his lottery prize.”

  “Not far off the mark. They wanted the treasure in the worst way. When Dr. Everson disappeared, they hired the Marzaks to put together the mercenary expedition to wipe out Amir and dive on the treasure.”

  Hawkins leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.

  “You’re making me feel like a real Mickey the Dunce. I risked my ass on your crazy treasure hunt for nothing.”

  “Don’t run yourself down, Hawkins. Your mission served a purpose. Word that a U.S. expedition was going in to find the treasure was a charade that would persuade the Shadows to send in their own people.”

  “How did you pick me?”

  “From our acquaintance with your previous Afghan service.”

  “A certifiably insane guy with a messed up record?”

  “You fit the job description. And you were expendable. Nothing personal about it.”

  “It became personal when the Marzaks tried to kill me. Your call, too?”

  “Regretfully. We assumed that your mission would fail, and were prepared to give you back up that would make sure that was the case. But you immediately took control of the operation, forming your own team and looked prepared to succeed. We forgot that even a crippled hawk has a sharp beak, so we had to clip your wings.”

  “When that didn’t work you brought in Murphy who happened to bump into me at the airport and gave us Rashid.”

  “Murphy was just a hastily devised back up plan.”

  “Was Marzak’s ambush in Maryland part of that back up?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Didn’t Marzak tell you? He kidnapped Dr. Everson and held her hostage. We were able to free her.”

  “I had nothing to do with that. It would have been a distraction. It troubles me that he went off the reservation.”

  “Here’s something else to trouble you. We found the emerald scepter and the Prester John treasure in a Colorado mine.”

  “Well, congratulations, but it means nothing to me compared to the country’s mineral wealth. If the Chinese gained control of Sheik Amir’s holdings, more takeovers would follow.”

  “A new domino theory.”

  “Correct. But revelation of the treasure’s existence would be an undesirable loose end that must be tied up. You see where I’m going?”

  “You want me to tell you where to find it. But there’s another loose end that needs tying. The Prophet’s Necklace.” He turned in his chair and spoke into the shadows. “Isn’t that right, Marzak?”

  A figure holding a gun stepped into the light. Hawkins stood and held his arms in the air while Marzak frisked him, then sat down again.

  “You evidently have eyes in the back of your head, Hawkins.”

  “The ones in the front work quite well. I saw Fletcher glance over my shoulder the same time he dropped his arm down to the alarm button on his desk. Welcome back from the dead,” Hawkins said.

  “Death was not in the cards. I was well protected with my Kevlar vest. How did your friend set off the booby trap without getting killed?”

  “Not very difficult. He sent in a robot that triggered the bomb.”

  “Ingenious. Your friend ruined a good shirt, however.”

  Hawkins touched his ribs where Marzak’s dagger had taken a slice out of his flesh. “That makes us even.” He turned back to Fletcher. “At what point did the Prophet’s necklace go from being a ruse to the real thing?”

  “What makes you think that’s the case?”

  “You confirmed it when you bragged to your friends that something was in the works that would surpass 9/11. Marzak told me he set it up, but he wasn’t the trigger man.”

  Fletcher snarled. “You talk too damned much, Marzak.”

  “He never identified you. He said he and I were arrows in the same quiver. In other words, we were both fashioned by the same arrowsmith. From what I know, the necklace also qualifies for that dubious honor. How many victims will you kill in the sarin attack?”

  “Enough to provoke the anger and the determination to mount a major strike.”

  “Pakistan might object to a carpet bombing campaign and occupation of its borders, and they have nukes,” Hawkins said.

  “They will be told that their nuclear storehouses have been targeted and will be destroyed if they try to stop us.”

  “So we’re in the region forever?”

  “If need be. Decades are nothing in the history of occupations.”

  “I was in Iraq,” Hawkins said. “We learned that occupations are a lot harder to maintain than they used to be.”

  “We also learned a lesson from Iraq when we had to compete for the oil after sacrificing so much blood and money. This time we will secure the lithium fields first and use this as a bargaining chip to control the rest of the mineral riches for the U.S.”

  “The American public isn’t going to like more fighting.”

  “That will work in our favor. Instead of regular troops we will fill the ranks with contractors sent by Arrowhead and other security companies. This will give us even tighter control.”

  “People are going to die, no matter who is involved,” Hawkins said.

  “What of it? We’re talking about an international chess game in which pieces are often sacrificed for the greater good.”

  “You’re insane, Fletcher. Those are your countrymen you’re sacrificing so you can control mineral wealth that doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Then why don’t you ask your countrymen what they’ll think when China controls the lithium that goes into the batteries that will power their smart phones and electric cars. Ask people what they think of an economic catastrophe that will reduce our country to a third-world beggar state.”

  “Too bad for you the Prophet’s Necklace is not going to happen.”

  “Really?” Fletcher’s eyes narrowed to slits. He picked up his phone and quickly punched out a number. “It has happened.” Hawkins tweaked up the right side of his mouth in a lop-sided grin and reached for the envelope containing his discharge. He plucked a pen from a holder, wrote down a series of numbers, and pushed the envelope across the desk to Fletcher.

  Fletcher’s jowls quivered as he read off the numbers. “How did you know?”

  “I had Marzak’s phone number from our chat at the boat. He used his own phone to talk to me.”

  “That’s right, Hawkins,” Marzak said. “I thought you might try to ping my location if I used Dr. Eversons’ phone.”

  “Too bad. A friend who is very good at this kind of thing used it to track the slave numbers that would activate the explosives. The phone network has been neutralized, the FBI alerted and the bomb sites are being cleared.”

  Fletcher turned his fury on Marzak. “You fool! Your carelessness has ruined months of planning.”

  Marzak tucked his gun into his belt and started toward the study’s exit.

  “I will take that as a dismissal. Congratulations, Hawkins. Till we meet again.”

  “Hawkins killed
your brother,” Fletcher said. “Don’t you want revenge?”

  “That was your responsibility as much as Hawkins’, so you might want to temper your call for vengeance. I’m off to buy an island. You and Hawkins work it out. My contract is terminated.”

  Fletcher aimed his pistol at Marzak’s back and in a quiet voice said, “So are you.”

  Marzak spun around gun in hand, but Fletcher’s first shot caught him in the side when he was halfway into the pivot. The second bullet crashed into his rib cage and penetrated his heart. He crumpled to the floor.

  Hawkins let out the breath he’d been holding. “Nice shooting for a history professor, Doc.”

  Fletcher glanced at the body and back at Hawkins.

  “You set this up,” he said, his voice quivering with rage.

  “It’s getting so that you can’t trust anyone these days,” Hawkins said. He rose from his chair. “Thanks for the brandy and the smoke. I’ll be going along now.”

  Fletcher brandished the gun. “I’m afraid this isn’t over.”

  “It is for you.” Hawkins pulled out the microphone from inside his shirt. “My partner has monitored our entire conversation.”

  Fletcher replied with a feral smile. “Recordings can be doctored. You think anyone will believe your crazy ramblings?”

  “Maybe not. Which is why my partner is calling 911 to say there’s been a shooting at the Fletcher mansion. Dead man. Your gun. Your fingers on the gun. Even if you stay out of jail, your days as a wheeler-dealer are done.”

  He picked up the envelope with his discharge and started for the door.

  “Come back, Hawkins. Let’s talk. We can work this out.”

  Fletcher’s shouts became fainter, drowned out by thunder as Hawkins descended the wide stairs to the first floor. He stepped out under the porte-cochere. Headlights were approaching through the slanting rain. Calvin was coming to pick him up.

  As the storm raged around him, he realized something was missing.

  For the past five years, even on bone dry days, he had lived with a gnawing sensation in his bum leg, and with this much moisture in the air the old wound should have been cranking out knife-edged spasms. But as the car stopped in front of him and he opened the passenger side door, his lips spread in a gargoyle grin and he let out a cry of joy.

  “Hoo-ha!”

  The pain that had plagued him for five years had vanished.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Georgetown University, Two Days Later

  The antique Cadillac touring car arrived at the warlord’s house in the gray light of the pre-dawn. Amir had assigned two of his most trusted men to escort me to the ruins. Their names were Ghatool and Baht. Both men were armed with automatic rifles, and from their belts hung pistols and knives. Although the air was cool, we drove out of the village with the convertible top down and traveled for about an hour through the rugged countryside until we came to the remnants of an ancient paved road that led to the front gate of the abandoned caravanserai. As I gazed with wonder and excitement at the centuries-old caravan stop, I had no idea of the mystery, and the danger, waiting beyond the silent walls.

  Cait leaned back in her in her chair and stared at the words she had typed into her computer. Her mind was thousands of miles and hundreds of years away from her Georgetown University office. She only half-heard the soft knock at the door and assumed it was the graduate student helping with her research.

  Without taking her eyes from the screen, she said, “Come in and put the files on my desk if you can find room.”

  The door opened and clicked shut. Someone approached and a deep voice said, “Sorry to interrupt. I happened to be in the neighborhood and hoped you could sign this.”

  She looked up over the neatly-stacked piles of paper, books and folders that rose above the desktop like castle ramparts. Hawkins stood there holding her Silk Roads book. He had a wide grin on his wind-burned face. Her heart skipped a couple of beats. She smiled with pleasure, told Hawkins to have a seat and took the book from his hand.

  Turning to the title page, she said, “Anything in particular you’d like me to say?”

  He nodded. “Please dedicate it to your biggest fan.”

  Her smile grew impossibly wider. She wrote in the book and passed it back to Hawkins, who read her words aloud:

  “To Matt, my biggest fan, from his biggest fan.”

  “Perfect,” he said, a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. He thanked her and tucked the book into a canvas rucksack he had slung over his left shoulder. He surveyed the stacks covering her desk. “You didn’t waste much time getting back to work.”

  “Research material.” Pointing at the computer screen, she said, “I’m sketching out a first draft of my book on the Prester John treasure.”

  Hawkins shifted his tall body in his chair, glanced out the window, and brought his attention back to Cait.

  “About that treasure,” he said.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “I met with the rest of the team before I came over here.”

  “And—?”

  “Before I tell you what we talked about, maybe you could answer the question we asked ourselves. What do you think would happen if news of the treasure’s discovery went public?”

  “It would be the biggest archaeological event since King Tut’s tomb was found. It would be all over the news. Every major museum in the world would compete to put the treasure on display. There would be television specials galore. It would change our view of history.” She tapped the computer screen. “And there would be dozens of books written.”

  “That was pretty much our assessment,” Hawkins said. “Have you given any thought to who owns the treasure and the income it might produce?”

  “I’m not a lawyer, but I can follow the historical trail of ownership. Prester John intended the treasure as a gift to the Pope, so the Vatican might put in a claim. Hiram Kurtz found the treasure; it’s possible his descendants would say it belongs to them. The families of the archaeologists on his expedition might want a piece. The government of Afghanistan could say it is rightfully theirs. It was found on Amir’s property and he might say he owns it.”

  “Which means that given the treasure’s murky history, the litigation would involve dozens of lawyers worldwide.”

  “It would take years and the ownership issues might never be resolved,” Cait agreed, but she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “Even so, there is no reason the treasure couldn’t be displayed and its earnings put in trust until the ownership is cleared up.”

  Hawkins was well acquainted with Cait’s persistence, and was prepared to deal with it.

  “That might work.” He pointed to the computer screen. “But the treasure didn’t materialize out of nowhere. How did you plan to describe its discovery without mentioning me or the rest of my team?”

  Her stubborn smile vanished. “That would be extremely difficult.”

  “To say the least. Especially if you factor in the fact that our mission was top secret.”

  “In that case it would be virtually impossible to tell the complete story,” she admitted. “But—”

  “One more question. What would be the political reaction to the scepter?”

  “That’s even more complicated than the ownership issue. The scepter symbolizes the ancient divide between the Christian and Islam worlds.”

  “And that symbolism is why the Shadows wanted the scepter, hoping to stir up long-held animosities,” Hawkins said.

  “It’s hard to say what would happen, with all the changes in the works stemming from the Arab spring. Everyone hopes that despotic regimes will be replaced with democratic rather than extremist governments.”

  “This doesn’t seem to be a good time to turn up the heat,” Hawkins said.

  She sighed. “I see where you’re going, but I
can’t say I like it.”

  “Sorry Cait, but it was the team’s unanimous decision that the scepter and the rest of the treasure remain secret. Abby will keep it stored in her vault. Only five of us will have access.”

  Cait blinked. “Five?”

  “We’d like to include you.”

  “I appreciate your trust,” Cait said. She stared bleakly at the screen. “Damn. I would have loved to have wiped the smug smiles off the faces of my colleagues who scoffed at my claim that Prester John was real.”

  “Maybe you still can. There is more than one kind of treasure.”

  He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in transparent plastic. He handed the packet to Cait who read the title on the leather bound volume.

  “This is the journal of Master Philip!”

  “We also voted that you should have access to this. Using the journal, you can backtrack to Prester John and his kingdom. Hell, maybe you can find Prester John’s tomb. You won’t have to mention the mission.”

  “Where would I say I found the journal?”

  “If anyone asks, say it was given to you by an Afghan warlord who found it in a cave.”

  “That might work,” she said. “I could tell the story up to the time the treasure disappears. The revelations would rock the foundation of the historical establishment.”

  “That should be very satisfying after all the doubt your research has met with.”

  “Of course. But more satisfying would be setting the historical record straight and giving the participants their due.”

  Cait’s eyes took on a dreamy look. She had left the present and her thoughts were being drawn to the past like metal filings to a magnet.

  “About that dinner I promised you,” Matt said.

  She snapped out of her daze. “Oh, Matt. I’m so sorry. I’ve got to get the journal translated immediately.”