Putting down his wine, Lockett stared across the table at Barat. “The map they have is made of papyrus. It looked ancient and official, so you never know,” he said. “They’re going to East Kalimantan, hunting for gold and buried treasure.”
Barat struggled to keep his poker-face intact as his lips glued down into a thin, straight line. “A map, you say.” He let out a stream of air slowly and tried hard not to shout.
“A treasure map,” Lockett repeated.
Barat tried to maintain some semblance of refinement, but a hard outer edge often gave way to a quick, hair-triggered temper. He was well-known for lashing out with a sudden, violent, almost uncontrollable rage at anyone who upset him. Elders within the Order of the Oriental Templar abhorred his behavior but often looked the other way. They tolerated his outbursts, because he was a well-known commodities guru, capable of enriching their group financially.
He bit down on the need to urge Wes Lockett to get to the point. The man could be annoyingly evasive at times. I can be proactive, he thought. There was a soft spot residing behind the grim armor of his Type A personality—like the need at times to help the less fortunate.
“Do they have a permit?” asked Barat.
“I called a friend of mine this afternoon at the Ministry of Mining. He owed me a favor. They e-mailed one over, with all the signatures. It’s a temporary permit, like their temporary expedition, I suppose.”
Barat shook his head, amazed. “That’s pretty fast work for government red tape.”
“I suppose.”
“I’d suggest you contact Lois immediately and call off the expedition,” said Barat with his nose turned up. “It’s dangerous up there. Besides, it’s private property. I have security patrolling the roads five miles down from the mine. Eastern Temple Coal Mining Project—you’ve no doubt heard of us.” His voice filled with sarcasm. “The last thing I need is a party of adventurists searching for buried treasure up there–permit or no permit.”
Barat sat back and stared at Lockett with a stern gaze. “Tomorrow, I’m going to put security on High Alert. If they spot Lois or this Seabury, or any of them trespassing on private property, they will be warned. If they continue with this foolishness, what can I say?” Barat tossed his hands up. “They’ll suffer the consequences.”
There was another reason Barat discouraged sightseers from venturing too close to his mine, but he held off thinking about that now. Barat stared at Wes Lockett. “They shouldn’t be up anywhere near my mine.”
“It’s a little harmless adventure, Cyril. The girls are bored, and you know what archeology professors are like—always searching for the Holy Grail of treasures. As for Seabury, he’s a simple seaman looking for something to distract him until the next ship sails.”
“There’s nothing up there,” said Barat, clearing his throat, annoyed. There’s an old temple in ruins, and the place has long since been abandoned. I ordered my staff not to go near there.” Barat rubbed his jaw, still probing for answers. “A papyrus map? Where’d they get that?”
“I don’t know. Oh, on second thought, now I do. Lois’s friend said he’d found it encased in an urn that got smashed to pieces during a storm at sea. The map’s written in Javanese.”
Barat turned his head and seethed through clenched teeth. He turned back to Lockett. “The map must be a fake,” he said. “Some Javanese map maker is making money off a hoax.” Barat leaned over the edge of the table, the noise inside the restaurant now a murmur. His voice rose. “The media…I bet that thought never entered your mind when you agreed to fund the expedition, did it?”
Wes Lockett didn’t answer. He was getting annoyed with Barat’s sudden outbursts. “Now, hold on a minute, Cyril.”
“The media,” he said, cutting Lockett off. “That’s another reason I want to put an end to this little foray. Treasure seekers attract attention,” A gush of air escaped from his lungs as he shook his head in exasperation. “I thought we had a gentlemen’s agreement, Wes. You stick to shipping, and I’ll do the coal mining.”
“Ah, come on, Cyril. Calm down. They’ll go up there and probably come back tired and empty-handed in a week, and it’ll all be over. My daughters, an aging college professor, and a merchant seaman who occasionally works for me–what can they possibly find?” Lockett chuckled then laughed out loud. “You worry for nothing,” he said.
Patrons sitting close by stared at them. Aware that he’d raised his voice, Barat glared at them and turned them away. Turning to Lockett, he smiled a bogus smile and said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right, but if I were you, I’d call your daughters and get them back home. I’m telling you, Wes. The place isn’t safe.”
They finished their meal in silence and left the restaurant. Outside, they said goodbye and drove off in separate limos. As Lockett’s limo whisked him away into the night, Cyril Barat quickly punched a number into his cell phone. A moment later, the Sicilian’s voice came over the line.
“I need to talk to you,” said Barat. “Yes, now. It’s urgent.”
* * * *
They met inside a small diner at the edge of Jakarta. It was past 11:00 p.m. Barat chose the place for its remote location in a run-down section of the city. He sat at a table in back of the room. The Sicilian noticed him as he stepped inside the front door and made his way to the back of the diner.
His dislike for Barat bordered on hatred. It enflamed his eyes and sent a wave of loathing deep inside his heart. The reason? A total lack of respect. Not once, during the time he’d worked for him, had Barat ever shown him one ounce of respect. It ate at him now like an infected wound.
As always, the Sicilian masked the hatred with a genial smile. A token nod of his head as he sat down caused Barat’s face to harden in a serious expression.
“More stress, more chaos. It never seems to end,” he said to the Sicilian. “I need you for another…little errand.”
The Sicilian nodded as he looked at Barat with the smile pasted to his face, masking the thoughts whirling inside his head. In his mind, however, his emotions ran high. Errand. So, I’m your little errand boy? Fuck you! You couldn’t wipe my feet, you sick, sanctimonious fool.
He was no fool. As a hired gun, he noticed other people’s weaknesses and took advantage of them whenever he could. Beneath Barat’s arrogance and conceit, the Sicilian saw a fatal flaw. Barat’s penchant for promoting his own self-importance. It was so obvious, like maybe he never believed it himself and always had to show his superiority by throwing it up in other people’s faces. He was also a control-freak, always in charge, bossing and manipulating other people.
Aware of his surroundings at all times, the Sicilian took pride in whatever the situation that he could cover his own back. Even now, as he sat at the table across from Barat, pinned to the inside seam of his shirt collar was a quarter inch CCIQ II wireless spy pinhole camera recorder. The 3.9 millimeter, F 2.8 lens, operated at a very high speed. He wore it now.
At this late hour, a few diners sat up near the front door, so Barat kept his voice low. Arrogant and hard-nosed, he wasn’t one to mince words and got straight to the point. “Your target has a papyrus map. It was stolen from a shipment of antiquities I ordered. I need to get it back…at any cost.” Barat stared across the table at him with narrowed eyes. “I expect obedience. When it’s not given, as you can see, I’m swift to retaliate.”
The Sicilian said nothing. He wondered if Barat’s words were spoken with an ulterior motive in mind. To control him, to keep him in line.
A waiter came up to the table, inquiring about placing a dinner order. The Sicilian ordered black coffee, and the waiter brought it over. “Will there be anything else, sir,” he said, looking at Barat. Barat’s steely gaze sent him scurrying back inside the kitchen.
“They do it every time in this country…push, push, push to make sales. This annoys me.” A noise from inside the kitchen jolted him, and he fussed more. Gradually, his eyes swung back onto the Sicilian. “They’re going up the Mahakam Ri
ver,” he said. “They’ll stop along the way until they reach the foothills south of the Muller Mountains. That’s what Lockett told me. You can end the journey any time along the way. It makes no difference to me, but the sooner this little escapade ends, the better I like it. Get the map, and do the job. That’s what I expect. Are we clear on this?”
“Of course.” The Sicilian’s smile held back the contempt smoldering inside him.
“All of them,” Barat said a final time. “Lockett’s daughters, too.” A sinister look entered his eyes and then flickered out.
“I understand,” the Sicilian said.
“I’ll have the Lear waiting for you tomorrow,” Barat said. “My pilot has orders to fly you to Balikpapan and on to Samarinda. It’s the first town along the river. From there, you’re on your own going up river. There’s money for a boat and a driver.” He handed the Sicilian an envelope containing money. “I’ve notified spies in Balikpapan to look for them.” He pushed a paper toward the Sicilian. It had two names on it—a garage mechanic and a restaurant owner.
They finished their coffee and went back outside. A cold breeze blew in off the Java Sea and altered the humidity, turning the air cooler. Barat’s driver swung the limo alongside the curb. He nodded to the Sicilian, slipped into the backseat of the limo, and left the door open.
“I trust that you’ll do the job,” he said.
Before the Sicilian could respond, Barat shut the door, and the limo drove away. For a while, the Sicilian stood on the sidewalk, staring after it. A mixture of anger and resentment knitted the dark lines at the corner of his eyes.
Chapter Nine
At 5:00 a.m. the next morning, the Osprey eased to a level of 8,000 feet. Seabury, who hadn’t slept most of the night, sat up near the pilot. The short, thin Singaporean, with dark brown eyes and silver hair, had worked as Wes Lockett’s personal pilot for years. Seabury noticed a slight edginess behind the beaming smile, the adroitness, and the careful attention to detail as he worked the instrument panel in front of him with the nimble fingers of a mandolin player.
Soft-spoken and mild mannered, Lee Yeong said to Seabury, “The tanker will arrive at six o’clock. Do you want to nap for a while until it gets here? I’ll need your help to align the moving drogue and probe into contact. Think you can do that?”
“What’s the chance of botching up a refueling?” Seabury asked.
The pilot’s head snapped back in surprise and shock. “Please don’t ask, Mister Seabury. We are superstitious—at least some of us are—and I’ll admit that I am. In my bedroom at home, the bed has to be facing outward at the proper angle from the window. We let in good luck and good spirits while ushering out the bad. I’m that kind of guy.”
Seabury stared across at him. His face stitched with lines of concern. “I never meant to put a jinx on anything. I’m a curious guy. I don’t have a bedroom I can call my own. Most of the ships I’ve sailed on contain a lot of irregular guys. If you mentioned that your bed had to be placed at a proper angle–and believe me, I don’t mean to offend–but if you said that on board ship, the crew would laugh at you for days. You’d soon earn the reputation as some sort of kook.”
“I’m glad I’m not a sailor, then,” the pilot said, flushing slightly with a look of embarrassment. “I’m a sensitive guy when it comes to being laughed at.”
“Shipboard culture spawns a variety of kooks and weirdos,” Seabury said as he shook his head. “I’ve sailed with most of them. The union tries to screen them out the best they can, but once in a while, one of them slips through the cracks. I knew a guy once who wanted off the ship so bad one night. You know what he did?”
Lee shook his head.
“That night, in full view of everyone, he sliced open the mattress to his bunk with a butcher’s knife he’d stolen from the galley. He was a big black guy and as strong as an ox. It took half the crew to get him into a strait jacket and down to sick bay where they loaded him up with tranquilizers until they could get him off the ship. Some people aren’t cut out for sea duty. The money’s good, but if it’s not in you, it’s better to stay on shore. The sea isn’t for everyone.”
“How long have you been a merchant marine?”
“Since I graduated from college. That was fourteen years ago. I took the maritime test and scored pretty high. The money seemed good at the time, and I’ve never looked back. I’ve never regretted choosing that life for another.”
“Have you ever been married?” Lee asked.
“Engaged once. It didn’t turn out the way I thought it should.”
The pilot smiled. “What, she leave you for another man?”
Seabury knew the pilot was joking and took it that way without being offended. “She was a Thai girl, mid-twenties. The love of my life. I never got over her.”
“What happened?”
“We were engaged to be married. I picked out the ring and put it on her finger. We’d planned the wedding and had everything arranged. I would take a short, two-month trip to Japan and South Korea. I remember the day as if it were yesterday. I got a phone call when the ship docked in Inchon. They told me what happened. While I was out to sea, my fiancé was murdered back in Thailand. The killer was a female sociopath…a real wacko. She killed for the fun of it.”
Seabury stood up and left the cockpit. He moved to the rear of the chopper. The plane was a marvel to behold—bullet-proofed, customized, and fortified with the latest security and high-tech gadgetry. Wes Lockett’s idea. He was a security fanatic when it came to protecting his second wife and daughters. Unlike other, smaller helicopters, the Osprey had a long-range fuel capacity. Sixteen fuel tanks with ten in the wings and six integrated into the fuselage. Still, the fuel was not sufficient to complete the 924-mile flight to Balikpapan without refueling.
Lois, Gretchen, and Hornsby lay asleep in the fold-out cots that lined both sides of the wall. The girls slept peacefully on one side, while Hornsby snored on the other with tiny buzz saw sounds moving in and out his nostrils. Seabury went to a sink in back and poured a cup of coffee, the rich, dark aroma filling his lungs in the air-cooled compartment.
Wes Lockett had spared no expense furnishing the inside of the chopper. A sink and toilet stood in back of the plane. A wide sectional up front beyond the sleeping area occupied the center of the cabin. A wide screen television set sat in the open door of a wooden console inside a dining area a few feet in back of the pilot area.
Plush. A rich man does a lot with his money when it comes to his toys, Seabury thought. Oh, well. More power to him.
Wes Lockett had earned every penny he’d ever made doing it the hard way—through a brilliant business acumen, marketing skills, and a charisma that attracted people to him. Most people liked him because of what he’d accomplished. From the ground up, he’d marketed his shipping service until one day, the company took off. With carefully conceived bank loans, Lockett extended his fleet of ships, and the rest was history.
He was a wealthy Scotsman Seabury admired and respected. He’d never taken a bribe from anyone and never used political connections or nefarious, under-the-table schemes to get what he wanted. Seabury saw his business side in Lois’s sharp mind and intense, pragmatic nature. His lighter, more playful side, he saw in Gretchen. I fooled you, Seabury. Yeah…yeah, you did, Gretchen.
The afterthought caused a brief smile to play across his mouth and then quickly vanish.
“You haven’t slept a wink,” Lois said, coming up behind him. “The blanket’s still sitting on the end of the bed where I put it six hours ago.” She yawned and stretched, looking pretty in her cotton pajamas.
“You look like the Easter Bunny,” he said. “I could take you down into my lair and maybe…”
She put a finger to her lips. “Shhhh. You’ll wake the others.”
He saw her practical, pragmatic, sensible side kicking in. He didn’t go any further. Not that he was going to get anywhere with her, anyway. He wasn’t about to enter a room, sweep her off her
feet, and make, wild, passionate love to her for the rest of the day–that wasn’t going to happen. He knew it. She knew it. There were some women where the chemistry just wasn’t there, and nothing would change things from the way they were.
“Coffee,” he said, shaking his cup.
“Please.”
He poured a cup and came back and handed it to her.
“Mister Yeong tells me we’re about ready to refuel,” said Seabury, checking his watch. “In exactly fifteen minutes. From then on, it’s just another hour until we land in Balikpapan. I hope the cops aren’t waiting on the tarmac, ready to cuff me.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t want to visit you in a Balikpapian prison—” She smiled drily. “Is Balikpapian even a word?”
“Don’t know.” He shook his head, concerned. “I know one thing, though. Sam Seabury and the inside of a prison don’t make good bed fellows. You can quote me on that, if you like.” He smiled a little.
“Only if your story’s written up in the tabloids,” said Lois. “I had the misfortune of being written up in one once.”
“I remember,” Seabury said. “Wes had a fit. Your breakup with Barat, as you told me, was mean and nasty. Now, he’s backtracked and become friends with Cyril Barat. At least, that’s what I’ve read in the papers. Barat—isn’t he the same guy you were engaged to?”
She glared at him. “Cyril Barat was not my fiancé. We just…uh…had a relationship until I found out he was a psycho. After that, I broke it off before suffering permanent bodily injury.” She slashed a finger across her throat. “You can’t imagine what he’s really like until you’re around him. That dark side of his nature is like, I don’t know, dealing with Jack the Ripper.”
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