Buried Beneath

by Debbie Baldwin

  Cam spoke softly. “Don’t worry. It's safe with me.”

  The following night they found the remnants of another marker. Cam guessed they had been halfway around the mountain, but this was in a cave close to where they had started their search. The small pile of rocks had fallen—by Evan's estimation, almost immediately after being stacked. Two stones were in place; the third leaned against them like a snowman that had lost its head. But there, buried under the second rock, were two gold links.

  Evan looked up to him with unbridled enthusiasm. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  Cam shrugged. “It's a rock blob, and less gold than my abuela has in her teeth.”

  Evan sighed. “My mentor, Doctor Emberton, was on a dig in Syria where the team found a clay pot. That's it. Just a modestly decorated pot. It was cracked, and a shard had broken off.”

  “Does the story end with the pot being filled with diamonds?” he asked.

  Evan frowned. “No.”

  Cam stuck a little flag in the marker as she had shown him. “Not interested.”

  “Miguel, that pot proved the existence of an entire tribe of people we knew nothing about. It's in the Natural History Museum in London. Isn’t that fascinating?”

  Cam was fascinated. Giving a name and a history to an entire civilization was… noble. He scanned the area around the marker, impassive.

  “Treasure is fascinating,” he replied.

  “I agree. We just have different definitions of treasure.”

  “Maybe it's a language barrier.” Cam grinned.

  She shook her head, fighting a smile. “Come on. Let's get back. I’ll add this little marker to my notes.”

  Cam led her back through the maze, shielding her from sharp rocks and protecting her head from low ceilings. He fought a laugh as she stumbled, then did a little hop to cover her clumsiness. Everything about her pulled him. She was like this beautiful human tractor beam.

  Yes, they did have different definitions of treasure.

  Cam walked home along the path through the high grass. Low mountains loomed behind him, the calm sea in the distance. It was still dark, but the clouded moonlight provided a gentle glow. He already felt her absence. He didn’t know what it was about Evan, but he craved her the way one craves a missing piece of their soul.

  Poets and songwriters describe this feeling like weightlessness, like floating. For Cam, it was the opposite. Evan made him feel grounded, like his feet were finally planted on the ground after years adrift. She felt like his gravity.

  He didn’t feel that zing his father talked about, but how could he with this lie between them. Evan didn’t know the thoughtful, diligent sailor, Camilo Canto. She knew the greedy, sketchy security guard, Miguel Ramirez. Miguel could never feel a zing or a jolt or a fizzle or a pop because he was numb. Cam felt something, though.

  And it terrified and exhilarated him in equal measure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sa Calobra, Mallorca

  December 8

  O

  n the following night, Cam was waiting for her.

  “Miguel, you’re early.”

  “I think I have solved your puzzle,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I was in this room today eating lunch, and I was thinking about our search.” He withdrew a sheet of paper with a rudimentary map sketched out. “You found the first marker here.” He pointed to the X that represented the cave where he first found her. “I found another marker in this room.” He pointed with his chin to the corner. “We found a third in this cave.” He touched the paper again. “What do you notice?”

  She looked at him wide-eyed. “The markers all surround this blank space on your map.”

  “Exactly. So I looked at the three surrounding areas more closely, and…”

  He walked to the far side of the room and stood in front of a lightweight steel storage cabinet. With a heave, he pulled it away from the wall. There, on the ground, was another marker. Next to it was another opening that had been sealed off with the same man-made clay. Silt and water had masked the outline; it was nearly impossible to see unless someone was looking for it.

  He barely had time to brace for impact. Evan let out an audible squeal and threw herself into his arms. Her cinnamon eyes went to his then traveled to his lips. In that moment, Cam wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to breathe.

  He couldn’t break cover for any reason. Up until now, that hadn’t been a problem. Cam could withstand torture, commit crimes, fuck women and never compromise the persona of Miguel Ramirez. But he knew like he knew how to break down and reassemble his Sig, if he kissed Evan, he would break.

  He set her on her feet and ran a finger down her cheek. “Ready to find your treasure?”

  He saw her swallow her disappointment at his rejection as she nodded. Cam stifled the pang of guilt. The last thing he ever wanted to do was cause her pain. He withdrew his hand before he did something stupid and grabbed the sledgehammer from the row of tools on the opposite wall.

  Then they heard voices.

  Cam held a finger to his lips, and they both stood stock still. The voices faded. Cam crossed the room and stood in front of her. “No one should be in these mines at this hour. I need to see what they’re up to. If I’m not back here in ten minutes, leave through the caves. I’ll meet you back here tomorrow.”

  “Can I help?” she asked.

  Every word from her mouth burrowed into his heart. “You’re helping me if I’m not worried about you. You’re helping me by doing what I ask.”

  “Okay.” She moved to a stool by the tools and sat. Then she examined the row, extracted a standard hammer, and held it.

  Cam nodded his approval. “Be right back.”

  Cam peeked out of the storage room and, finding the tunnel empty, turned in the direction of the voices. Silent as snowfall, he navigated the mine until he found the danger sign he had noticed on his first day. The chain barring entry to the tunnel was still rocking back and forth after being disturbed. Following the path the men took, Cam ducked under the chain and crept down the tunnel until he again heard voices.

  He moved forward on silent feet and peered around the corner. Three men passing a joint stood to the side of a heavy fire door propped open with a cinderblock. Beyond was a large room, and inside was a sight sadly familiar to Cam: a heroin lab. This was no two-bit operation. The equipment was new and expensive. Workers in headcovers and surgical masks stood working at long stainless steel tables. Others were piling vacuum sealed bricks into crates stamped with the familiar double M of the March Mining logo.

  Cam pulled back and leaned against the tunnel wall. Copper wasn’t the only product coming out of this mine.

  Cam wandered through the labyrinth to get back to Evan. He had to admit, the men behind the drug lab had devised a brilliant operation. Mallorca was First World. It was nearly unthinkable to suspect it could be the source of heroin production. Fields of pristine poppies blanketed the meadows above the mines, carefully tended by farmers and monitored by officials. In the spring, their red blossoms would be a beacon boldly declaring innocent beauty. Cam suspected they were the perfect bright red herring, that the men didn’t use the opium in the poppies for their drug manufacture. The cheap, easily-obtained chemical ingredients were far less conspicuous and far more potent. On the surface, the area emanated innocence and beauty; it was a different story in these dark depths.

  The tunnels were also an impressive component, Cam grudgingly admitted. Safety inspectors could never explore every inch of this underground maze, and tunnels not in use were sealed off. The heroin operation was not only hidden but also remote. There was no odor, no noise, no conspicuous byproduct, and the drugs could be transported with the copper ore and offloaded at any point in the journey.

  Cam headed back to the storeroom. When he entered the room, Evan stood, still holding the hammer. Her look of relief launched his soul. This time he didn’t hesitate to return her embrace.


  She looked up at him with concerned eyes.

  He spoke with his lips to her forehead. “We need to get out of here.”

  “What's going on?” she asked.

  “Nothing good. The less you know, the better.”

  She brushed back an errant lock of his hair. “Our treasure has been there for six hundred years. I guess a few more hours or days won’t matter.”

  As if unwilling to risk another rejection, she backed away and crawled through the hole that led to the caves. This time Cam followed, making sure she made it safely to her boat. He knew she only had a short way to go, and the water was calm. When the Zodiac disappeared into the darkness, he took the steep path he had come down the day he had chased her from the beach.

  The cool night and the brisk walk would clear his head.

  Cam entered the villa through the bedroom's french doors he had left ajar. He needed sleep, but first, he needed food. He changed quickly into lounge pants and a T-shirt and wandered barefoot into the central kitchen, surprised to find Atlas March in a tracksuit and trainers sipping orange juice.

  “Miguel, you’re up bright and early.”

  “I was hoping to speak with you, señor.” Cam stood at attention in the doorway.

  “I’m just off on my run,” Atlas replied.

  “Your men in the lab are sloppy,” Cam said.

  Atlas set the glass of orange juice on the counter.

  “And you would know that how?” Atlas remarked absently.

  “I saw them in the mine last night. They leave the door to the lab propped open so they don’t have to enter the code every time they leave to smoke or take a break. At least one of them is using product. Also, you shouldn’t stamp the March logo on the crates until they are ready to be offloaded with the copper ore. Gives you some deniability if the shipment is seized in transit.”

  Atlas nodded.

  Cam continued, “I assume that's why you acquired a shipping company so that you can transport the heroin with the copper ore. Smart.” He didn’t mention that Atlas was also playing a dangerous game bypassing the services of The Conductor.

  Atlas tapped a finger on his lips. “Miguel, I think you’re about to get a promotion.”

  Cam stood taller. “I could be of use.”

  “Excellent. Come to my home office before you leave for the mine.” Atlas bumped his fist on the kitchen island and strode out the back door.

  Cam grabbed a pastry from the tray set out for Atlas and ate it in two bites. Then he headed back to his room for a blessed hour of sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Valldemossa, Mallorca

  December 9

  E

  van trudged up the low hill, just east of Valldemossa. Sleep had been elusive, thoughts of Miguel invading her mind every time she closed her eyes. After two hours of kicking the sheets, Evan got dressed and went to work. The primary dig site was against a large hillside. It was marked off with low stakes and twine and covered with canvas tarps. Tools and equipment were scattered about. The crew had yet to arrive. Evan stepped into her coveralls hanging in the crew tent and set to work.

  The day passed uneventfully as Evan lost herself in unearthing an artifact, a small narrow-necked pot. The task has successfully distracted her from fixating on her late-night excursions, but as the crew finished, she approached her mentor to update him.

  Dr. Omar Emberton sat in a canvas chair, jotting notes by hand into a spiral journal. Thankfully, Evan had been promoted above the position of transcribing his notes to the digital log. She had tried for months to get him to upgrade to a tablet, but he had been intractable. I can’t keep my thoughts straight while I’m trying to stab at that damned machine, he would gripe.

  “Evan,” Dr. Emberton greeted her. “What's on your mind?”

  “Doctor E., I’ve run across something interesting in that cave system,” she said.

  “Ah yes, your Moorish treasure hunt.” He clipped his pen into the notebook's spiral spine and set it on the folding table to his right.

  “There are small stacks of stones placed intermittently throughout the caves. Encased between two of the three rocks in each stack are these.” Evan reached into her pocket beneath the coveralls and extracted a small bag containing two of the links.

  Emberton slid the gold pieces into his palm. “Fascinating.” He set them on the table and grabbed a small magnifier. “They appear to be links in some sort of chain. Definitely gold.” He looked up, his eyes bright with the thrill of discovery. “You really are onto something, aren’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “One of our hosts this evening is particularly interested in artifacts from this era.” Emberton stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. He handed her back the gold links. “I hope you’re a quick-change artist. We are invited for seven.”

  Evan had completely forgotten about the dinner at the home of the sponsors of the excavation. Government grants only went so far, so archaeologists routinely relied on private donations. This evening their benefactors, Atlas March and Joseph Nabeel, were hosting a gathering for the team.

  Emberton continued while ushering her down the hill toward the finca. “Joseph Nabeel is quite the buff when it comes to Moorish history. Be sure to mention your discovery.”

  Evan hurried along beside her mentor. It was a blessing in disguise that the event had slipped her mind; she dreaded these sorts of gatherings. Bracing herself for the requisite kowtowing and fake interest in the pastimes of the leisure class, she steeled her spine. If it meant she could continue doing what she loved, she would endure another boring dinner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Washington, DC

  December 9

  N

  athan and Steady walked into Clancy's just off M Street and waited at the hostess stand. When the young woman in a Georgetown sweatshirt and jeans told them to sit anywhere, Nathan explained they were meeting someone. Steady, with ingrained practice, scanned the dark pub noting the patrons, workers, and entrances and exits. In the back corner sat a man in a dark suit scanning the laminated menu and nursing a draft beer. Nathan cocked his head in that direction, and the two joined the suited man in the booth.

  Holding out his hand, the man lifted himself slightly from the vinyl seat. “Bill Turner.”

  “Nathan Bishop.” Nathan completed the handshake and hung his cashmere overcoat on the hook next to the booth. “My colleague, Jonah Lockhart.”

  “Pleasure.” Bill Turner reached behind the napkin holder to grab two additional menus and handed one to each of them.

  Bill Turner was a lifer and looked the part. He was attractive but not handsome, well-dressed but not bespoke, tall but not towering. In short, he was exceptionally unexceptional. Nathan had shared his file on the flight up, and Steady had been impressed. Turner came from a politically connected family, but he had paid his dues. After graduating West Point, attending Ranger School, and serving for eight years, Turner had gone straight to the CIA, working in nearly every area of Intelligence. That was thirty years ago. His outward calm discussing this troubling situation with Cam spoke of a man who had seen it all. Steady ordered burgers for both of them while Nathan spoke to the handler.

  Bill Turner dove straight in. “Deputy Director Sorenson filled me in. I have to admit, this is a first. Miguel Ramirez was a valued employee at his former job.” Turner spoke in vague terms. “As you’ve probably discussed, no matter how capable, it's extremely doubtful anyone in that field of work would seek out a specific employee unless it was an independent contractor.” Turner was referring to assassins, which Cam was not.

  “We agree. Our first thought was some sort of revenge scenario, but that could have been accomplished without changing locations.” The perps had plenty of opportunities to take Cam out in Harlem.

  Turner returned his menu to the slot against the wall and sat back as the waitress set down a chicken pot pie. “I ordered when I got here. Best damn pot pie in D.C.”<
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  Steady eyed the golden pastry as Turner cracked the surface with his fork. “That would have been information worth having,” he grumbled.

  Turner blew on a chunk of dripping chicken. “Burgers are excellent too.”

  A moment later, Steady had forgotten his pique as he squeezed a puddle of ketchup onto his plate.

  Nathan sent a text before setting his phone aside and returning his attention to the table. “Sorry about that. My wife is pregnant, so I’m on call.”

  The older man sympathized. “I have five kids. I was only there for the birth of two of them. This work we do…”

  Steady nodded. There were a million ways to finish that sentence—satisfying, demanding, soul-crushing, necessary, all-consuming—he agreed with most of them.

  Turner set down his fork. “These are the facts.” He withdrew a tablet and spun it to face the men. “A security camera captured three men taking an unconscious Miguel Ramirez out of the bar in Harlem and putting him in a black van.” He hit the play arrow on the screen, and the footage ran. “We picked up the van again on the George Washington Bridge heading to New Jersey. From there, could be anything. He could have been transported to a safe house, taken to an airport. The van hasn’t turned up, but the Harlem contact, Luis Flores?” Turner opened another image. “He was found shot to death in an abandoned strip mall on the outskirts of Newark. Body was discovered by a patrolman doing a routine drive-by just after midnight. Flores took two in the chest. Looks like a thirty-eight, but ballistics hasn’t even started working on it. He had his wallet and watch lifted but was identified at the scene by a medical alert bracelet.”

  “This gets weirder by the minute,” Steady commented around his burger.

  Turner resumed eating. “Welcome to Intelligence.” Turner said the word like the contronym it was.

  “Tell us about The Conductor,” Nathan challenged.