by Aiden James
Interestingly, I ended up in the New World, in an Appalachian forest. Still nearly fifty years before the European invasion would begin in earnest, the Cherokees soon accepted me as one of their own. I’ve often wondered if it was the reason why the native tribes were more trusting of the unscrupulous whites that arrived after I migrated back to Europe in 1500. Perhaps they thought everyone from the Old World bore an agreeable temperament like mine.
And the coin? It was waiting for me inside my left hand when I awoke in America. After I had recovered another coin left by an earlier Viking visit to the area that is now Virginia, I counted my blessings that I only had twenty-three more to find. If only I’d known then that I’d still be on the same journey looking for the rest of my bounty five-hundred years later.
“So, tell me what happens to your old bodies?”
I could tell from her widening grin that she was trying harder to trap me in some sort of paradox.
“My old bodies?”
“Yes, you know...the ones you leave behind?”
“Ah yes...I’ve often wondered about that as well,” I confessed. “And sometimes I’ve even investigated what became of the old me. What I’ve discovered when I did bother to investigate any of my deaths is something very curious.”
She leaned forward, eyeing me with the expectancy of a little girl. Perhaps it’s the innocent Evelyn Rose trapped somewhere inside the pragmatic adult. Fingers poised over her laptop, this was new information to her and she was intently bent on collecting it.
But I wasn’t ready to deliver...not just yet. A cliffhanger might do her some good, and maybe soften up her cynical side a bit. I pointed to the clock upon the wall closest to me.
“Sorry, but it looks like our time is up for today.”
Words she’d normally say, and the irony wasn’t lost upon her.
“You are...you are such a devil!” she declared, and the smile she wore right then as she shook her head seemed genuine. A mixture of surprise and admiration...at least admiration for the psychotic storyteller, I believe. Or, maybe it was appreciation for the tailored navy suit I chose to wear that day, where normally I prefer the casual dress styles of the past forty years.
“I haven’t been called that in awhile.” I stood up to leave. “But at least it gives us something new to talk about when I return from my trip.” I straightened my coat sleeves while watching her admiring gaze sizing me up, lingering the longest at my svelte waist. If nothing else, the suit didn’t hurt the storyteller’s allure.
“Your trip? Where to this time?” Dr. Rose blushed.
She stood up to show me the door. But I motioned that it wasn’t necessary—despite the prospect of one more glance at her sultry saunter, likely enhanced by her sudden arousal.
“To the Middle East, doc.” I reached for the door handle. “To the very home of the devil...or at least one I know quite well.”
Another precious look from her, this time it included a dash of naughtiness. It fit perfectly, I think, with the playful wink I gave her while exiting her office.
Chapter 4
“Get in!”
The gruff male voice resounded beside me, after the black sedan screeched to a halt in front of my Acura. Normally, such an event would draw a protective response from the museum parking garage’s attendants. But their station sat empty, and most of the Smithsonian employees had already left for the day.
Working a few hours late probably wasn’t the wisest idea. But after my late start to the day, things had piled up quickly. Not to mention the extra half hour it took to confirm Alistair’s and my flight arrangements with our preferred travel agent on such short notice, along with the necessary hotel and rent-a-car bookings in Iran.
“Must you guys always play it rough?” I responded, my tone impishly cheerful. I tried to peer into the back of the sedan through the driver’s side window. The darkly tinted windows made it difficult to identify the lone passenger sitting behind the driver.
“Just shut the hell up and get your ass in the car!” the driver snapped. A burly middle-aged man whose sullen scowl announced a sour disposition, his cracked teeth formed an uneven fence inside his mouth as he sneered. Dark sunglasses prevented me from confirming the same depth of malice in his eyes.
“Lay off him, Ted,” said a familiar voice from the backseat. “I’m sure William knows why we’re here.”
“Mike?”
“Yes, William, it’s me.” The owner of the voice leaned forward. “Going to Iran, huh?”
“How’d you find out so soon?”
I’m not easily impressed, but I had just finished talking to my travel agent twenty minutes earlier. I marveled at how quickly the news had traveled to my CIA liaison. Then again, he does work for the primo spy group in the world.
“This time it was more about the itinerary destination than anything else.” Mike’s thick salt and pepper hairline glistened in the sedan’s dimness. I also saw the glow from freshly fitted veneers—a testament to Michael Lavoie’s supreme vanity. His previous set of pearly whites was no worse for wear than the set of teeth my son’s buddy, Harold Mathis, owned. “No one makes a reservation for Tehran these days and escapes notice.”
The back passenger door on the driver’s side suddenly opened.
“Please...join me for a little chat,” said Mike.
“Sure.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle—especially after noting the driver named Ted continued to eye me with deep contempt. He shook his head disgustedly as I slid into the backseat.
“Where’s Chuck?” The door locks immediately clicked shut and Ted’s window rolled up. I envisioned how uncomfortable this would make things for most folks. For me, it was just added incentive to keep our conversation light. “I guess it isn’t easy keeping good help these days, is it?”
I laughed at my own joke, although the big fella in the front seat didn’t take kindly to my playful jab. All the more merriment for me!
“Charley’s on a luxury cruise ship in the Caribbean this week.” Mike glanced weakly toward the front seat, where Ted glowered back at us through the rearview mirror.
Unperturbed, I smiled and nodded at him while my best friend working for the United States government turned his attention back to me. Mike’s vanity far surpasses anything I can recall encountering since King Herod in Judea so many centuries ago. The Armani pinstripe suit and black-saddle loafers by Gucci far outclassed even the tailored suit I wore that day. And a closer look at Mike’s face revealed recent laser treatments to erase the latest fine lines around his eyes and mouth.
The man is undeniably afraid of Father Time. It’s sometimes hard to believe he works for a secretive government. With all the primping and preening Michael insists upon, he hardly fits the profile for a spy—much less the boss of a small army of miscreants steeped in espionage. I figure his infectious charms are what have gotten him this far in life. When I’ve been near him at the D.C. spring and fall galas, I often see a heated sparkle glistening within his deep-set brown eyes. Women love this perpetual playboy bachelor nearing his forty-fifth birthday. Well, I’m sure they love him until they learn how deep his narcissism runs.
“Oh...so this is the best the temp agency could do in the meantime?” My playful barb brought an angrier glare from Ted.
“Let’s get to why you’re here,” said Mike, coolly, motioning for his driver to turn away from us while he scooted closer to me with his open laptop. “I’m calling on another return favor to do a little surveillance for us while you vacation in Iran. Just a couple days of actual work between exploring the Alborz Mountains or catching some rays on the better beaches along the Caspian Sea.”
His turn to poke some humor, I suppose, since he knows full well that I’m not interested in having traditional fun when I travel. He may not know exactly what I’m looking for, but he appreciates my passion for exploring ancient sites around the world. It most certainly is why he approached me nearly sixteen years ago to help him out—to run a few e
xtra errands when abroad as a way to ‘pay the U.S. of A. for the privilege of globetrotting unfettered’. That’s really the way he put it.
So, from time to time I have helped out. Usually it’s easy tasks such as capturing a few photographs or stealing a quick look inside secure files. Things I’m especially adept at. However, every once in a while there is more danger involved. And yes, I have been forced to kill someone before. It was in self-defense. But if not for being put in a precarious position—the wrong time and place by Mr. Lavoie—it wouldn’t have happened. I’ve worried ever since what might come next in terms of favors requested by the ‘U.S. of A.’
“I’m traveling with Alistair. So, just as long as whatever you want doesn’t put his safety at risk I’d love to hear what you have in mind.” I moved closer to get a better view of the image on his laptop screen.
“As if traveling to Iran is on the same level as visiting Waikiki.” He pushed the laptop closer to me. “Petr Stanislav is the subject’s name. Perhaps you’re familiar with him in some way?”
The image on the screen actually was familiar. A typical Stanislav male: prominent brow, blonde bushy hair, and intense gray eyes. That along with a big-boned stature, as it appeared the stout middle-aged man on the screen was at least six-feet five inches in height...maybe even bigger, since the juniper shrub in the foreground could be somewhat shorter than it appeared. Same scowl that his grandfather often wore, and even a little like the expression worn by the family’s patriarch several centuries earlier. Romanov third cousins at one time, it meant Petr’s net worth should be many millions—based on my dealings with Vladimir Stanislav in the mid nineteenth century.
“I see it in your eyes, William—you know this man, don’t you?”
Mike could scarcely contain his excitement. Or, maybe it was more a sense of relief, knowing whatever he wanted in regard to this person was now an easier sell. His eyes glistened in the backseat’s dimness, illuminated by the laptop’s glow.
“Yes, I know the family….” I paused to study Petr’s image again. “If he’s anything like his father, this man should be up to his ears in weapons and selling anything he can under the table. He certainly has the millions to do it with.”
“Try billions,” Mike advised, drawing a surprised look from me. “Twenty-eight billion to be exact, which makes him one of the wealthiest people in the world—and one of the most dangerous.”
“Is he dealing arms to Iran?”
“We’re not sure. He’s been spending a lot of time in Iran during the last few months, especially to the north.”
“Maybe he’s trying to get in on the oil reserves before the rest of the world tries to make peace with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”
I allowed myself a short chuckle as I pictured the array of Islamic hoops Mr. Stanislav would certainly have to go through to become best buddies with the current Iranian president. Say goodbye, Petr, to your family’s longstanding affection for the Russian Orthodox faith. Won’t that be fun!
“Possibly, since his family has long held an interest in procuring the lion share from what the Baku oil fields yield annually.... But it might be more than minerals and raw resources he’s after,” said Mike. “I mentioned the Alborz Mountains for a reason. Whether it is oil shale or mineral deposits he’s after, our satellites have spotted some heavy machinery. All of the equipment has either been transported from Russia via the Caspian Sea, or funded through other sources and then delivered to the mountains.”
“So...it’s all free enterprise shit that you’re worried about, correct? And, as easy as it is to gather that kind of information, why do you need anyone to risk life and limb for it?”
Really, I’d be willing to take a moment to check out this Stanislav guy on my own. I’m always curious about the silly projects in which the rich and powerful immerse themselves. Even if it were just for a day while Alistair and I were in Iran, I’d love to see what kind of equipment and crews had been brought to the Alborz.
“There is one other thing...and it’s pretty weird,” Mike confided. He lowered his voice as if this wasn’t something intended for Teddy the ugly-toothed driver’s ears. “In all likelihood, Petr Stanislav is simply procuring minerals to further his wealth—something we’re not happy with but it’s definitely legal. But, several sources have confirmed another possible motive.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
Here’s where I expected to hear about high-tech weaponry or mineral hording.
“He’s searching for the Garden of Eden—literally.”
The somber look on his face made me want to burst out laughing. Absurd notion, and a tough deal to swallow...and I did snicker slightly.
“I’m serious,” he said, indignantly. Just like that, the twinkling light in his brown eyes fizzled and faded. “Stanislav apparently thinks it’s hidden inside one of the mountains.”
“Inside a mountain? That’s a new one…. But even if that were true, he’s in the wrong country. The Tigris and Euphrates rivers are in Iraq.”
“Yes, they are.” Mike’s tone iced a little after my stating the obvious. “Apparently Stanislav has obtained an ancient Tibetan text that mimics the older books of the Hebrew Talmud...except the rivers are different. According to our sources in St Petersburg, he has determined through painstaking translations that the actual rivers to the eternal garden have changed location and flow paths over the millennia. The rivers as they are known today are the southern thrust of the Volga River from the north; the Amu Darva, or Oxus, from the east; and the Kura River from the west.”
“Don’t they all empty into the Caspian Sea?” I couldn’t contain my second derisive snicker.
“Yes, they do,” said Mike, whose irritated look announced he was no longer in the mood for my jokes that evening. “This means, of course, that a ‘Garden of Eden’ or any other kind of garden couldn’t exist, since it would be submerged under water. And we know the Caspian Sea was formed more than five million years ago. Thus, at first glance it seems completely unlikely the inscribed papyri obtained by Stanislav is accurate.”
“So it seems,” I agreed, hoping that a confirmation of his point would lessen the ire directed at me. “What’s the connection between this and digging in the mountains?”
“It’s inferred from other details mentioned within the Tibetan legend.” Mike’s eyes were aglow again, and his expression was almost Cheshire in its knowingness. “Although not specific, the garden’s location is somewhere between the Black Sea and the Aral Sea. Both seas are referred to by different names. Along with a reference to a ‘great body of water’ that marks the eastern boundary of the sacred garden, Stanislav narrowed down an area of one hundred square kilometers.”
“That still puts him no closer to his quest than where we’re sitting right now from the Jersey Turnpike,” I said. Probably should’ve held off on that one...especially since mean Teddy and irritable Mikey glared in unison this time. “Okay, so there’s still more than what meets the eye, right?”
“Yes,” said Mike, tersely. He again motioned for his driver to turn around and mind his own business. “As luck would have it, another ancient document—this one Persian—asserts a location somewhere in the Alborz, just south of the Mazandaran Sea, which is one of the oldest names for—”
“The Caspian Sea or Gilan,” I interrupted him, unable to resist a good old fashioned pissing contest by stating another ancient name for the Caspian. It might seem childish and rude, but I had to chill him out before he went on a tangent and turned this into one of his patented lectures. By my estimation I just saved myself a five-minute speech about some needless bullshit. “It still doesn’t explain how the damned place ended up inside a mountain.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
The frown Mike wore confirmed his deepening displeasure with me and my cavalier mouth. Yet, his expression also held the promise I’d soon be set free. Free to commiserate with my son about how our treasure hunting vacation had just been hijacked and transformed i
nto an Iranian wild goose chase.
“Suffice it to say, since you’ve been such good company tonight, the rest of your briefing will take place at a later time...one determined by my choosing,” he said, and then stiffly nodded to his surly chauffeur that it was time to release the door locks so I could exit the sedan.
“I’m leaving first thing Friday and will be retiring early tomorrow evening, to get my beauty rest.” I said this in case he was planning a similar round to this one at some ungodly late hour—he’s done that before.
“Why of course.... I have your itinerary right here.”
I hated his knowing smirk.
Was some surprise still in the works? Or, did my mention of beauty sleep touch his deeply ingrained fear of aging? I should advise here that Mike generally views me as a freak of nature and as somebody with a closely guarded secret health routine to beat the aging process and look perpetually thirty-ish. If only he knew the truth. Getting lots of sleep isn’t part of it, since I rarely require more than a few hours of rest at any one time.
“We are expecting your full cooperation on this, William.” He closed his laptop. “If you play your cards right, I’ll make sure you have enough time to snorkel in the Caspian—or for what other mischief you and Alistair can concoct.”
“I guess we’ll see how it goes,” I said, and then stepped out of the sedan.
I waited to get inside my Acura until the sedan had exited the garage and moved on to whatever next appointment Mike had. Listening closely for anything else, I felt strangely comforted by the deserted parking garage’s silence. I tried to visualize what might lie ahead, and found myself drawn most to what Petr Stanislav and his crazy quest for the Garden of Eden might entail. I decided the man must be crazy, alright...but no worse than some guy searching the world for his lost thirty pieces of silver.