A Covenant of Thieves

by Christian Velguth

  A thin seam of light shone through the gap between the door and the car floor. A shadow moved across it, and then something pounded against the door, the knocks echoing loudly. A voice called: “Hello?”

  “Quiet,” Rick breathed, hoping the others would be able to hear him.

  There was a metallic clank, and then the door rolled open, bright sunlight flooding the train car and nearly blinding them all. Rick, anticipating this, narrowed his eyes seconds before it happened, and so was still able to make out the silhouetted figures and draw a semi-decent bead on them with his pistol.

  Voices muttered, sounding agitated. “Easy, farenj,” said the same voice. “No need for guns, ishi?”

  “You have weapons,” Rick said. He could see them now, as his eyes adjusted and the figures became clearer: two men and two women, standing just outside the car, each bearing a Kalashnikov. The one speaking was a stout older man with a spray of white stubble.

  “We are not touching them,” the stout man said, raising both hands and looking around at his comrades, imploring them to do the same. “See? All cool. Friendly.”

  “Downright chummy,” Rick said. He lowered his pistol slightly, but didn’t holster it. “Who are you?”

  “Business men,” the stout man said with a toothy smile. “Our colleagues told us you were coming. Put you on the train, ishi?”

  They looked the smuggler type, as shabby and hard-eyed as the trio in the ice cream truck. That didn’t put Rick at ease. “This our stop, then?”

  “Only stop in Tigray, farenj. This where you want to be, this where you get off.”

  “How far is Axum?”

  The man pointed to the right. “Twenty-five kilometers, north through the mountains. Tracks split here, train goes west, but you can still follow them most of the way.”

  “We’re walking?” Estelle asked.

  The stout man poked his head into the train car to get a better look at her. Hopkins made as if to shield her from view. “Only way, imbeti.”

  “What about the fighting? The rebels?”

  He waved vaguely in the opposite direction. “Fighting is far away. You are lucky! Though, for how long, I cannot say. Better to go quickly.”

  Rick agreed. “Thanks for the tip,” he said, moving to exit the car.

  The man held up a hand. “Not so fast, farenj. There is a toll.”

  “A what?”

  “Toll. Fee, ishi?” He was still smiling his friendly smile. “To see you safely on your way.”

  Rick sighed, holstering his pistol. “How much?”

  “Ten thousand birr.”

  He winced internally. “Do you accept crypto?”

  All four of the smugglers nodded emphatically. Rick arranged the transaction, feeling his stomach sink as yet another sizeable bite was taken out of their savings. It’ll be worth it, he reminded himself. Once they found the Ark, it would all be worth it.

  “Grail hunt,” Kai coughed. Rick shot him a sour look.

  Once they had received payment, the smugglers were only too happy to see them on their way. They even offered to help Kai and Estelle with their bags. “We got it,” Rick said flatly, hopping out of the car and into the gravel.

  The train had stopped in the middle of a valley, steep mountain slopes covered with vegetation rising to either side. Despite how bright the sun had initially seemed after spending so long in the dark, it was actually nearing dusk, the sky glowing dull grey, the bruised light turning the mountains purple. Peering further up the train as the others disembarked, Rick could see a truck parked beside the tracks, taillights glaring like crimson wounds. More smugglers were offloading the ice cream crates that had managed to be slung aboard. Glancing around, Rick caught Berhanu’s eye. The curator was watching the activity with a grim expression.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Rick whispered, moving close. “It’s not our business.”

  Berhanu gave him a disgusted look. “Not yours, perhaps.” He went to join Estelle and Hopkins.

  Sighing, Rick took his backpack from Kai and slung it onto his shoulders. The smugglers were searching their car, presumably for any other cargo. “It was empty when we found it,” Rick told them. One of the women gave him a narrow look, but the stout older man displayed his smile once more.

  “Of course, farenj.” His expression abruptly turned serious. “Why do you want to go to Axum? There is nothing there.”

  “Sightseeing.”

  The man laughed heartily, but his eyes never left Rick. There was something shrewd in them, as if he suspected what they were after. Maybe he did; the Ark wasn’t exactly a secret in Ethiopia. Deciding it was time they parted ways, Rick shook the man’s hand. “Thanks for the help. Good luck with your business.”

  “You as well.” He gripped Rick’s hand a second longer than necessary, eyes searching his face while his teeth still smiled. Finally he let go. “Whatever that business may be.”

  “He wasn’t suspicious at all,” Kai muttered, as they hurried to join the others.

  “They’re smugglers, it’s standard practice.” Rick glanced over his shoulder. All four were still watching them. “Let’s get moving.”

  “What if they follow us?”

  “Then we’ll deal with it when we have to.”

  Hopkins, Estelle, and Berhanu were waiting beside the tracks near a large boulder that could have tumbled down the mountain slope yesterday or a million years ago. “You sure about this?” Hopkins asked. “Walking to Axum?”

  “Unless you want to ask them for a ride,” Rick said, pointing towards the truck.

  “No,” Estelle said quickly. “I’m sick of being cooped up.”

  “We don’t know how safe these mountains are,” Hopkins went on, squinting up the slopes towards the darkening sky. “And night’s falling.”

  “Then we’d better get started, hadn’t we?”

  Nobody looked happy, but nobody argued, either. It was far too late for that.

  Rick and Kai led the way, Estelle, Berhanu, and Hopkins bringing up the rear. They skirted past the smugglers loading up their truck, following the tracks and the long body of the train for nearly another kilometer before finally coming to the engine, a blunt-faced behemoth with a single bright light illuminating the tracks ahead. It was a drone train, so there was no conductor or personnel to speak of. All the smugglers had needed to do was hack its protocols, which, with the right gear and a proper sightline, could be done from a mile away. They’d probably even be able to wipe this unscheduled stop from its memory.

  The engine lit their way for a long time, even after they’d left the train behind. Only once they rounded a broad shoulder of stone did they leave its glow behind. The valley filled with shadows, boulders becoming indistinct objects, darkened slopes rising like fortress walls on either side, trees turning strange and skeletal. Overhead, the sky was a long band of glittering stars, like the surface of a celestial river. The warmth of the day remained, for now, radiating off the surrounding rock. Soon, though, Rick knew the night would grow cold.

  Twenty-five kilometers. Just over fifteen miles. If they kept up a good pace, they could reach Axum in four hours or so. It would be the middle of the night by then, allowing them to enter the city under cover of darkness. With any luck, they could head straight to the chapel. They could have the Ark in their possession before sunrise.

  It was a dangerously cheerful thought. Rick kept himself from getting too close to it; he knew things almost certainly wouldn’t go so smoothly. And even if they did, there would still be plenty to worry about. Like what to do with Special Agent Hopkins.

  There was no way they could work with the FBI. Even if what the man had claimed was true -- and, in all honesty, Rick didn’t doubt it -- collaborating with the feds only put them in greater danger. It painted neon-bright targets on their backs, not only for the mysterious asshole that was going around killing crews, but also for the Club Nabonidus community. It wouldn’t matter if they never said a word about the Club to Hopkins and h
is G-man buddies. Once news got around that they had worked with the law in any capacity, their membership would be burned and they’d instantly be branded as liabilities. They’d be lucky if they didn’t end up with a few bounty hunters on their tail.

  The sooner they could cut ties with Hopkins, the better. Hopefully it wasn’t too late already.

  As for Estelle and Berhanu -- well, Rick wasn’t really worried on that front. The woman was tenacious, he’d give her that. Seeing her handle herself on the train had been beyond what he’d expected. But she was still out of her element. Ditching her and the curator would be as easy as losing a toddler in a department store.

  The stillness of the valley was shattered by a growing roar. Rick and the group moved away from the tracks as the train went blazing past them, a long metallic serpent dragging its body through these ancient mountains. Apparently the smugglers had finished with it and sent it on its way. He kept an eye over his shoulder, half expecting the truck to come snoring after them as well. But it never showed.

  The train remained their companion for several minutes before pulling away, its clatter echoing back off the valley walls. Soon after they came to the fork that the smuggler had mentioned. To the left the tracks proceeded up a narrow pass, a distant wave of light rippling on the slopes as the train sped west. Directly ahead, the tracks wound their way deeper into the mountains, twin bands of metal glimmering darkly in the starlight as they stretched north.

  For a breath, no one moved or spoke. A gentle breeze was blowing through the valley, fragrant with something dry and piney. Crickets chirped their rusty song into the night, hidden in shrubs and beneath rocks. Somewhere, an owl gave a piercing cry. A pharaoh eagle-owl, if he had to guess. It was all rather peaceful.

  “Well,” Estelle said softly. “Onward?”

  Rick adjusted his backpack. “Onward.”

  Nineteen

  The Simien Mountains

  Tigray, Ethiopia

  For hours they marched in darkness, their only companions the stars above and the twin bands of the tracks. Sounds came from the mountains, the chittering of a gelada baboon, the infrasonic squeak of bats, even the howl of what must have been wolves. Booker kept his lenses in enhanced imaging mode, scanning the trees and rocky slopes.

  “We need to talk,” he said, falling into step beside Álvarez and Villeneuve.

  “And ruin such a lovely night?”

  Booker was quickly learning that you could ignore sixty percent of what came out of Álvarez’s mouth and still manage effective communication. “You knew about the murders. The crews disappearing and turning up dead. I saw it in your face, back on the train.”

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

  “Why don’t you take a break from being an asshole long enough to recognize that I’m trying to help you,” Booker whispered furiously, temper getting the better of him. “Just tell me -- did you know about the murders? Yes or no?”

  Álvarez was silent for a beat. “We’ve come across rumors, yeah. Whispers, of something going down. But, as everyone involved turns up dead…” He shrugged. “You probably know more than we do.”

  “Not everyone. Someone survived, last time.”

  Álvarez glanced at him. “Chicago?” When Booker looked at him in surprise, he gave a reluctant sigh and went on. “They sent out an APB, right after the shit went down. Caused a stir. Up until then, the rumors had been just that.”

  “What’d they say? Did they give any details?” Booker didn’t think Jane Baum had kept anything from him, but he had to be sure.

  “No. Just that their crew had been wiped out and they were on the run.”

  “Did you find them?” Villeneuve asked, from Álvarez’s other side. “The survivor?”

  “Yeah, we found her.”

  “And?”

  Booker cleared his throat, to buy time to think. Honesty was probably the best course for now. “She said they were ambushed. Couldn’t see the attacker, because…well, she didn’t get a good look at them. Her two partners were shot, and then triflic acid was used to disfigure their faces and burn the prints off their fingers.”

  Villeneuve grunted softly. Álvarez said nothing.

  “Same thing happened with the other cases. Whoever killed them didn’t want them to be identified.”

  “And this is happening all over the world?” Álvarez asked. His voice was soft and nonconfrontational, for once.

  “Seems to be. For at least a year. Could this be some sort of feud? A grudge, maybe, between crews or clients or…?” He trailed off. It was clear, by both men’s silence, that nothing like this had happened before. “Can you think of any reason why someone might be doing this?”

  “Because they’re batshit,” Álvarez suggested. “The other ones. What was the score?”

  “You mean the target?”

  “What were they hired to get, yeah.”

  “There was some kind of monolith, from an archaeological dig in London. One was an old French trapper’s journal, from the 18th century. A jade disc, from Hong Kong. And Chicago was --”

  “The Mitchell-Hedges skull,” Álvarez finished. “And then our Mughal flask.”

  “Nothing super valuable,” Villeneuve noted. “No gold or silver or jewels. Can’t be about the crypto, can it?”

  “Doubtful. None of that stuff would move outside the niche markets, and even then you wouldn’t get much for any of it.”

  “A collector?”

  “Maybe. But it’s a hell of a lot of trouble just to pad your collection. And what’s the theme? There’s no connection, unless you count boring old trinkets. And even that doesn’t work if you’re including the Ark. It’s the only thing that really stands out. It’s practically mythological, and it’s covered in gold. It’s flashy, exciting. Almost feels like they’ve been working up towards it. Like --”

  “Escalation,” Booker finished, struck by the realization. “Like a serial killer who grows up skinning hamsters before moving on to joggers.”

  “Creepy, but sure.”

  It was an idea, but it didn’t lend any clarity to the case, only added a vague sense of order to the randomness. “I need to know all you can tell me about this Ibis who hired you.”

  “Tall, old, and white.”

  “Reminded me of a cowboy,” Villeneuve added from Álvarez’s other side.

  Booker stared at the two of them. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

  Álvarez shrugged. “We only met the guy once. It’s not like we have a three-date policy or anything. We don’t get cozy with our clients. They post a job, a crew accepts it, the finer details are negotiated, and…that’s it.”

  “Allegedly,” Villeneuve said.

  “Right, allegedly.”

  “You know you don’t need to keep saying that,” Booker told them. “It doesn’t really even count --”

  Álvarez wagged a finger. “Ah, see, that’s exactly what you’d tell us if it did count.”

  Booker took a breath for strength before continuing. “So, this Ibis. You met with him in person. Is that normal? The impression I’ve gotten is that these things are usually done remotely.”

  Álvarez frowned. “No. It was a bit fucked, to be honest. The guy just kind of appeared.”

  “He found you?”

  “Yeah. Knew our names, too. Which…” Álvarez gave a small shiver that seemed genuine. “On principle, that’s never allowed to happen. The Club doesn’t have a whole lot of rules, but anonymity is at the top of the short list.”

  “Any idea how he found you?”

  “Had to have done some deep digging,” Villeneuve said. “Back to before we ever joined the Club.”

  “So he was researching you,” Booker said. “Like he chose you specifically for this job. Any idea what made you stand out?”

  Villeneuve shrugged. “Ibis said Houston was a trial run.”

  “For what?”

  “This,” Álvarez answered. “Obviously.
And no, that’s not exactly standard, either. A client might want some assurances, track record stuff, that kind of thing. But to organize and fund an entire job just to evaluate you for the next one? That’s excessive. He didn’t even want the flask.”

  “It’s excessive unless you’re going after the Ark of the Covenant,” Booker said. “Then I can see why a client would want to cross all their Ts. It’s a pretty unique opportunity, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so.”

  “When you were discussing this job with Ibis, did he give you anything to indicate what his larger agenda might be?”

  “Not really,” Álvarez said. “There wasn’t a whole lot of time to go over the details. The guy seemed like he was in a hurry.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Álvarez didn’t answer right away. Booker saw his head turn slightly, as if listening to something behind him. Then, in a lower voice, he said, “He knew your girl was coming.”

  Booker frowned. “He mentioned Estelle?”

  “Not just mentioned, he had her mugshot and everything. Knew about Pharos and Radical Dynamics, too. Said they’d been doing this sort of thing a long time.”

  Could this be the missing key to his case? The pieces that were being stolen all over the world, were they candidates for the Pharos program? Was the act of trying to recover them leaving them vulnerable to an obsessive, murderous psychopath? If so, then there was no way the pattern of activity had gone unnoticed by Pharos. Which meant Nasim al-Faradi had lied to Estelle, purposefully keeping her in the dark so she’d be more willing to take the Ethiopia job.

  “Did Ibis tell you where he was getting this information? How he knew about Pharos or Estelle?”

  “No,” Villeneuve said. “But Ibis gave us some notes for the job. He said they’d been prepared by the people he hired before us, someone who had already tried to get the Ark but screwed up somehow. We think -- well, Rick thinks…”

  Booker turned to Álvarez. “Rick thinks what?”

  Álvarez sighed. “Your girl’s old man. He wrote the notes.”