Solorzano spotted the photographer and broke into a full sprint. The man heard him coming, but too late. With a look of alarm and confusion, he dropped the camera and reached for the gun in his waistband. Solorzano jumped, smashing into the man’s midsection with his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him, and probably cracking a rib or two. They landed on the slope and rolled several turns down the hill. When they came to a stop, the man was trying to suck in air, but Solorzano rose up and came down with a powerful punch to the solar plexus. The man gagged and bile bubbled up from his mouth before he passed out.
“I’ll take that,” Solorzano said, picking the gun up from the dirt. It was an untarnished new-looking .40-caliber Glock. Then he got up and went back to retrieve the camera.
After some fumbling about with the buttons, he found the camera’s power switch. The last photo taken popped up automatically: a close-up of Garza with a piece of Rheese’s ear in the frame. He pressed the left arrow button: another shot of Garza, zoomed back a little. Back, back, back, and he found a shot of Garza with the punk Turner heading into the trees on the other side of the field. Then one of his own back as he was walking away from them. Then the SUV, when they first pulled up.
“You don’t look like a cop, homes,” he muttered. “What’s yer deal?”
He went through the man’s pockets and found a set of keys, a money clip with a stack of Colombian bills, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. No passport or other ID. He checked the guy’s pulse and, finding one, started walking back across the field.
Garza held a questioning hand out the SUV’s window. Solorzano waved the all clear, and Garza and Rheese got back out. They met at the gap in the fence.
“Nice camera,” Garza said.
“Yeah, check out the pics. Some good ones of yer pretty mug.”
He handed the camera to Garza.
“You find someone?” Rheese asked.
“Yeah. Black dude. He’s knocked out back there, but we should head out. I also got a new toy.” He pulled the pistol from behind his back.
“Hmm, law enforcement?” Rheese asked.
“Doubt it. No ID or nothin’. Should I go get Turner?”
Garza looked up from the camera. “Yeah. You got your key? He’s cuffed to a tree.”
“Yeah. Be right back.”
Solorzano crunched over the dead branches, leaves, and palm fronds. He could have sworn this was where he saw Garza go in.
“Turner!” he yelled. “Hey, where the hell are you, you skinny little shit?”
He walked back out to the field and called to Rheese and Garza. Both of them looked up. Solorzano spread his arms out, palms up.
“He’s right there!” Garza shouted. Solorzano shook his head. “God damn it!” Garza slapped his forehead.
“He got away?” Rheese blurted. “He bloody escaped? How? You . . . you said he was cuffed!”
“I know. Shit! He can’t be far.”
“I’m right here,” Matt said from behind them. Garza and Rheese spun around. “When you guys ran off, I thought you were ditching me. I got away from that stupid tree, went through the houses to the street, and came right here. Are we safe?”
Garza glared at him accusingly. “Thought twice, did you?”
“Huh? No! I told you, I just—”
Garza interrupted, “You just keep thinking about your girlfriend whenever that crafty shit starts popping into your head. You made the right choice this time.”
“I came right here! I . . .”
Solorzano joined them, giving Matt the stink-eye as they put him in the SUV, and then walked to the front bumper.
“Take a look at this,” Garza said to Solorzano.
Rheese pulled a roundish object out of a velvet drawstring bag and held it out in his palm. It was the biggest gemstone Solorzano had ever seen. Bluish, with speckles of turquoise, orange, and red—a dozen hues glinting in the sun as Rheese turned it ever so slightly. It was cut with facets, like a diamond.
“That’s some sick shit,” Solorzano said with a grin. “Is it real?”
“Of course it’s bloody real!” Rheese snapped. “And the stone itself is just the start of it!”
“Yeah, but look at this,” Garza said to Solorzano as Rheese dropped the jewel back in its bag. He turned the camera back on and clicked through several shots.
There was the stone, sitting on a table beneath the light of a desk lamp. Beside it lay a square ruler showing its dimensions.
“And . . . ” Garza said, clicking to the preceding photo—also of the stone, but from a different angle.
Click, another angle; click, close-up; click, click, click—eleven shots in all.
Garza said, “The time stamps on these pictures are from yesterday.”
Solorzano frowned and shook his head. He gazed out to the other end of the field, where the photographer was probably regaining consciousness.
“So what’s this mean, bro? Why they wanna take pictures of who they’re sellin’ to? Some kind of setup? Entrapment?”
“Don’t know, but we need to get the hell out of this country ASAP,” G said. “We gotta scope out the airport before we all go in, though. Fando, get rid of that gun. We’ll dump the camera, too, but I’m keeping the memory card.”
“We’re going to Cuba, gentlemen,” Rheese said. “To wrap up this adventure and collect the prizes. We need to get to a phone, though. I must speak with my assistant to find out what else he has discovered about our new treasure.”
“Shit,” Solorzano said. “That thing ain’t enough of a prize?”
Garza shook his head, “It’s worth a lot, but nowhere near what we planned to make off this—not when we split up the cuts. Think about it: the agency gets a small share, plus we got two ops in Tahiti and two wrapping up in North Carolina. Shares start looking pretty insignificant—know what I’m saying?”
Solorzano glanced at Rheese, saw he wasn’t looking, gave a questioning look to Garza, then cut his eyes down toward the velvet bag. Garza shook his head. No, we’re not taking it for ourselves.
“All right. So what’s in Cuba?” Solorzano asked.
TEN
“It’s an opal,” Rheese said, holding up the enormous faceted gemstone in his palm. “Thirty-one millimeters in diameter, twenty-one-millimeter depth. Near-perfect roundness. Seventy-six-point-six-five carats. One of a kind in all the world. Specs alone, it would be worth about two hundred and thirty thousand dollars, or . . .” He looked at Matt with a sly smile. “. . . ninety and an IOU, as the case may be.”
Outside Rheese’s window, Matt watched a road sign streak by: Velocidad controlada por radar.
“It’s very pretty, Doctor,” Matt said in a bored tone. “Where’s it from?”
“Ah, but that’s always the question, isn’t it? It’s the story, lad. That’s the key—especially at auctions. The fact that a single sheet of paper can sell for a hundred thousand dollars? Rubbish, if you ask me. Conversation pieces for bored elites—bragging rights at private card tables and in the locker rooms of ten-thousand-quid-a-month fitness centers. Regardless, this slightly weathered marvel is worth far more as a guide in your gifted hands than as a cleavage centerpiece. You see . . .” He pinched it and held it close to Matt’s face. “It’s a tiny piece of a much greater prize.”
Matt felt guilty to find himself actually interested in Rheese’s discourse, even if it was only a small voice behind the constant noise of peril. He remained far more concerned with Tuni’s predicament and his own. The SUV slowed, and both of them looked forward.
“Fando—checkpoint,” G said. “Reach back and get his cuffs off, quick.”
Z quickly leaned back and keyed off the cuffs, dropping them to the backseat floor.
“Thanks, Fando,” Matt said.
Z looked back at him with surprise and then scowled at G. “Dumbass,” he growled.
“Don’t worry about it,” G replied. His sunglasses stared back from the rearview mirror. “Turner, this is your chance to redeem y
ourself. You get asked any questions, I better see an Oscar-worthy performance, comprendes?“
Matt nodded, and he meant it.
A soldier with a slung rifle spoke with G as another walked around the vehicle, cupping his eyes to see in the various windows.
“I need passports,” G said, and Rheese handed him two.
Rheese pinched and pulled at the coarse hairs of his moustache as he watched the soldiers. A gold ring clinked three times on Matt’s window. Matt looked out at the soldier holding up his passport. Three more clinks, harder and faster.
“Roll down the window, idiot,” Fando said. “It’s tinted.”
Matt found the switch and brought the window down halfway. The soldier compared his face to that of his photo, then did the same with Rheese, who flashed the same goofy smile displayed in the passport. A cursory glance around the backseat, and the soldier snapped a nod to his superior.
“Está bien,” the first soldier said as he handed G all the documents. He waved them along and whistled to the next vehicle.
Rheese reached forward for his passport and Matt’s, but G dropped them in the cup holder beside him and said, “Might as well hold on to them. More checkpoints along the way. Cuff him back up, will you?”
Rheese leaned back in his seat and gave Matt a sideways glance. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said. “The lad understands the stakes here and won’t be trying any more reckless stunts. Turner?”
“Right . . . yeah. I’m not going anywhere. I told you.”
Rheese replied, “Well, you’re going where we take you, but I understand your meaning. Let’s get back to it, shall we? Where was I?”
He dropped the gemstone out of its black velvet bag and held it between his thick fingers.
“It’s a tiny piece of a bigger puzzle,” Matt said.
“Yes, it is,” Rheese said in a low, almost suggestive voice. He was clearly giddy about this new expedition, and Matt was all for keeping him in a positive mind-set. “You see, a stone like this gets marked and cataloged and tracked. Do you see this engraving here? That’s Arabic and reads ‘Inshallah‘—essentially, ‘If God wants.’ And this little swirly swoop is the signature of the jeweler who cut it: ‘Bin Husain’—quite certainly not his whole name. The rest of the stone around it has, unfortunately, degraded over time or was chipped away, but this was more than enough to identify it.”
“So it’s Arab,” Matt said with a hint of let’s get on with it in his tone.
“Cut by an Arab, yes. But the stone itself goes back further than that. It was likely mined in Egypt and used in various royal jewelry or adornments until, perhaps, being buried with a pharaoh, high priest, or other important person. Based on its condition—minimal wearing—the stone was likely entombed for a couple of thousand years before being taken by grave robbers sometime in the tenth century AD, arriving in the possession of someone in the Fatimid dynasty—the leaders of the Arab world at the time—who then commissioned it to be cut with the facets you see here. It was then that it was dubbed Ruh Allah—the Spirit of God. This is all well documented, mind you, and, although not strictly relevant to our mission, wonderfully fascinating history. Besides, you may be lucky enough to see some of this business firsthand. As I was saying, the caliph, a gent called al-?ākim, had the finest blacksmith in the world—his name has been lost to history—craft a sword for his son, ’Alī az-Zāhir, the seventh caliph of the Fatimids. Are you following all this?”
“Opal from Egypt, cut by Arabs, caliph guy makes a sword for his son.”
“Good enough,” Rheese said. “The Arabs had a metallurgical expertise that no one else had. They forged weapons and other items from Damascus steel—with materials and technique lost for a millennium and only recently synthesized. This sword in particular, called Sayf Allah—”
“Sword of God?” Matt ventured.
“You’re paying attention—how refreshing. Yes. So . . . the Sword of God was adorned with numerous precious metals—gold, silver, hundreds of tiny diamonds—and capped with the spiritually significant stones: turquoise, hematite, carnelian, and . . .” Rheese raised his eyebrows.
“Opals.”
“Opal. Yes, precisely. Such stones were said to be in the rings worn by Ali himself, cousin and son-in-law of Muhammad. You know who Muhammad is, I pray?”
“The Muslim prophet, yeah.”
“Indeed. Al-?ākim’s goal was to create the ultimate Muslim sword for his son. The red carnelian was embedded in one end of the cross-guard, the turquoise in the other, and hematite inlaid as a line down the grip. The opal—this opal—was the centerpiece, enclosed in the pommel. That’s the sort of ball tip at the end of the hilt. Keeps the whole thing from slipping out of your hand but also serves as a counterbalance to the heavy blade. Sayf Allah is said to have been the most perfectly crafted sword of its day: exceptionally light, brilliantly balanced, and—if ever actually used as a weapon—wholly functional. I am certain it was made with an equally stunning scabbard to match, but history has no record of it.”
“So you want to find this sword.”
Rheese brushed this off with a lazy wave and noisily gulped down some water from a bottle.
“Think you’ve said enough, Doctor?” G said, his sunglasses filling the rearview mirror.
“Fret not. He needs to know what he’s not looking for as much as what he should be. The more background he has, the less time we waste.” Rheese rolled his eyes at G’s back, shook off his irritation, and turned back to Matt. “Now, then, the sword: yes . . . and no. If otherwise intact, Sayf Allah would be a monster of a find, and it may be out there somewhere in the world. But I am much more interested in what accompanied this opal when it was hidden, sometime around the late seventeenth century.”
“And what’s that? Diamonds?”
Rheese regarded him for a beat, as if unsure whether this was meant as a slight. He said, “Possibly, but silver is much more likely. You see, the Spanish were very busy seafarers during the period I’m about to get to. Their silver was essentially the world’s dollar. They were minting coins in Peru, where they had natives slaving away in mines, and shipping it across the Atlantic on a weekly basis.”
“I’m familiar with all this, Doctor,” Matt said, trying not to show his weariness at Rheese’s rapt enjoyment of his own voice.
“Of course you are,” Rheese said. “What with all your seafaring with treasure hunters, you must be only a couple of units short of a doctorate! Well, what you may not have known is that two centuries before your Spanish-Confederate loot hit the ocean floor, Spain owned the Caribbean, and pirates, privateers, British, French—everyone—was sniffing around Cuba and the other islands, taking ships, attacking harbors. It was like the Wild West on the high seas. And while the freebooters usually lost to the superior Spanish ships, they sometimes won. Most often, though, the thieves sailed away crippled, painfully aware that they would be sunk if they had to fight again. This is where the hidden treasure map stories come from. Go ashore and hide the treasure somewhere no one will find it, until you can come back with a more seaworthy vessel, or perhaps under the guise of an innocent trade ship.”
Matt forced himself not to yawn.
“Smaller islands could be convenient, but it would look highly suspicious to be anchored off one. Better to make port in an unimportant bay and send a small party into the jungle.
“This opal—not just a beautiful gemstone with impressive specs, but a known historical object with an exceptional story—was found . . . are you ready for this? . . . alone, sealed off from the world within a small cavity inside a bloody strangler fig tree! Like a pearl in an oyster! Better yet, like a pearl in a bloody rock! This strangler fig is a tree that grows around a host tree—a palm or a mahogany, for instance—until the host tree dies and there stands in its place this massive, gnarled behemoth. The tree in question was logged out last year in fifty or more thick slices. To the shock and delight of some poor lumber worker at a mill, one of those slic
es birthed this gem before his very eyes. A gift from God, he no doubt thought. But the little guy doesn’t get to strike it lucky in Cuba, no sir. Long story short, upper management got hold of it, and here we are, eight months later. They sent it along with their business development manager on a scheduled trip to Colombia. You saw him—the squat fellow in the suit.”
Rheese plopped the stone back into its velvet sack and pulled the drawstring tight before replacing it in the satchel at his feet.
“And what makes you think there is more to find?” Matt asked and glanced outside the window, noticing the warm rays of sunlight had suddenly disappeared. Still on a main highway, the SUV had entered a deep canyon with steep walls.
“Because when you plunder a Spanish ship and take the time to go and hide your booty deep in the jungle, you do not go there to hide a single jewel. My research has the whole thing worked out. Not for you to worry about.”
“What about the other slices of that tree?” Matt asked.
“Sawdust.”
“Oh, right, of course. Do they know where it was cut down?”
“Yes, we do. The entire area has been deforested. It’s a landscape of brush and weeds and sapling palmettos until about a hundred meters in. That’s where the protected rain forest begins. And before you ask if the rest of the area’s trees have been checked, the answer is, of course. Imbecilic executives thought they might have themselves a forest full of expensive jewelry. Personally, I would not have wasted my time. The opal was more likely left as a marker to something buried nearby, not embedded in another tree. That’s what you will tell me for certain after you do your magic with it.”
“And what if there’s nothing else? What if I read it and it turns out some tricky pirate ran off with it and hid it for himself? Seems a little premature to fly all the way to Cuba without even knowing. Besides, are Americans even allowed to go there?”
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 8