A Covenant of Thieves

by Christian Velguth

  The screen jittered. “I know, Booker. You told me, remember? Ethiopia. Not my fir- choice for a vacation, but ok. How can I hel- you?”

  “How’s everything going?” He was stalling and he knew it.

  “Fine, Booker. Just cleaning up the -ess you left behind. In meetings six hours a day. Oh, an- saved your ass.”

  He blinked at that, momentarily thrown “What?”

  “-ell, it’s not completely a sure thing yet, but there was talk of up-rading your suspension to a severance. I talked them down, I -ink. So you’re welcome.”

  “That’s --” Only going to make this that much harder. “Thanks, Helen. I’m really -- I owe you one.”

  “Damn straight. So what’d you -all for? Not a lot of time to cha- these days.”

  “Right. Well.” Booker drew a deep breath. He realized he was gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to turn his fingers white and quickly stopped. “I’ve been, um, doing some thinking. Well, more than that, actually. A bit of independent…overtime, I guess you could call it.”

  “-at are you talking about?” That dangerous coolness had entered her voice, and she was staring straight into the camera now, her grey eyes flat.

  “Here we go,” Booker muttered under his breath, and he began to recount everything from the arrival of the anonymous email to his harried meeting with Rick, Kai, and Estelle, to their capture by K’ebero and their chaotic escape. It sounded even worse when he spoke about it aloud. Due to the poor video quality it was hard for him to gauge Helen’s reaction. The stillness of her face could have meant the feed had frozen, or it could have indicated the brewing of a cold and terrible fury just beneath the surface.

  “So, that’s what I’ve been up to,” he said, after narrating the trip to Gondar. “And I know it’s not what you need to hear right now. But everything I did, I did as a private citizen. I didn’t use any Bureau resources.”

  There was no reply, and Helen’s image didn’t move. Booker frowned, leaning closer to the monitor. “You still there, Helen?”

  “Yes, Booker, I’m -ere.” Her voice was flat, and there was a burst of sound that might have been a sigh. “Do you honestly think that -ot flashing your badge makes all this ok?”

  “No,” he admitted. “No, I do not. But--”

  The image jumped, and he saw that her head was in her hands. “Christ. You can’t just -on’t even know where to begin. Are you trying to get fired? To get me fired? After all I- done to pull you out of the coals?”

  Booker frowned at that, hackles raising, and before he could stop himself said, “You didn’t pull me out of the fire, Helen. You never backed me up. The moment Jane Baum went into a coma all you were concerned about was the department and your place in it.”

  The image jumped again, and suddenly her face was very close to the camera. When she spoke, it was in a hissing whisper. Booker wondered if someone else was in the basement with her. “-id what I had to! Your theory was thin, Booker, you had no evidence, and if we both went into that inquest talk- conspiracy bullcrap, we’d both be out of a -ob!”

  “Maybe,” he said stubbornly. “Or maybe, if you had been more concerned about the truth than your career, they would have listened instead of marking me for the slaughter.”

  Helen sighed, sitting back. “I sh-d hang up now. This is it. You get that, right? Soon as the -irector gets wind of what you’ve been up to, I won’t be able to help you. Not sure I even should.” There was a pause. Then, sounding as if she were asking despite herself: “D-d you get anything from Álvarez and -illneuve? Anything we could give the Bureau?”

  That we grated against him, as if she’d been part of this from the beginning. But Booker nodded. “Yeah, I did. And I think they’d be willing to help if I can get the Bureau to go along with it -- well, Álvarez would be willing. I’m not even sure if Villeneuve is still alive.”

  “It’s -ll moot, anyway. You’ll be lucky if you don’t -ome back to the States in cuffs.”

  “That’s fine.” He was done sparring with her. “But just listen to me, Helen. There’s something else.”

  “Oh good. -at?”

  “Estelle Kingston. She received a message from her father.”

  Helen’s image got stuck mid-frown, making her look thoroughly disinterested, but he knew she was searching her mental catalog for the name. “Her dead dad?”

  “He made it before he died, left it in Axum for her to find. I know, it’s complicated, and I can’t explain it fully right now. But it adds to the case. It supports a lot of what I was saying from the beginning, and if we show it to the Bureau I can’t see them not paying attention.”

  “-at exactly does it say?”

  The door to his room was closed, the hotel all but empty, but he lowered his voice anyway. “Martin Kingston was hired by Radical Dynamics to help the Ethiopian government relocate some -- important artifacts.” He skipped over the Ark of the Covenant for now. Helen might hang up on him if he mentioned that. “Only it sounds like there was more. Something that he accidentally uncovered. He doesn’t say exactly what, but it spooked him enough to make him turn whistleblower. He sabotaged the project, made this message for Estelle. He was afraid for his life, Helen.”

  A pause. “Afraid of who?”

  Booker hesitated. “I’m not sure. Maybe someone inside Radical Dynamics. I’m pretty sure he was the one who sent me those documents.”

  “Why would -e do that? Why you?”

  “Because --” Booker caught himself, seeing the corner he had just walked into. Ah, shit. “Because… I know Estelle from a while ago.”

  Another pause. “Know her how, Booker?”

  He sighed. “Look, it doesn’t really --”

  “-ow her how, Booker?”

  The words came out of him in a rush, as if he could sneak them past her. “We dated, for a bit, back when I was still in school. But that doesn’t matter, it was barely a thing.”

  “-oesn’t matter?” She was close to the camera again. “Of course it matters, Booker. Think of -ow it looks. You go running off to some foreign country to -ase after your ex --”

  “That’s not what this is,” he insisted angrily. “You’re getting distracted by details --”

  “Details matter! This whole -ob is about the details, Booker! And this de-ail matters. And you know that, which is -y you hid it from me.”

  He was losing her. Whatever fragile trust and interest he had managed to secure was slipping from his grasp. Booker scrambled to regain it. “I wasn’t hiding anything, Helen, I swear. It slipped my mind.”

  “Then maybe you- not cut out for this job.” Her voice had gone cold.

  “Helen, just listen to me -- I know I fucked up, but there’s something here and you can’t ignore it -- the Bureau can’t ignore it --”

  “No, Bo-er. No.” She was shaking her head. “I’m done -istening. I should’ve stopped listening the mo-ent you started talking conspiracy -eories. Shit.” She leaned back, rubbing her face. “All you had to do was find the godda- skull. You couldn’t even do that. I never -ould have sent you into the field.”

  It hurt more than he had expected it to. “Helen,” he tried weakly.

  “Forget it -ooker. I can’t do this anymo-. I -on’t be able to protect you when you ge- back.” She was reaching towards the camera.

  Say something, a panicked voice urged him. Stop her. But all he could think to say was a petulant, “I don’t need your protection!”

  The screen went black, and the call ended.

  And that was that.

  Helen was gone. His connection to the FBI -- his career -- his life --

  It was all gone.

  Booker sat at the desk, staring at the terminal without seeing it. The numbness of shock was fading; his mind flooded with all the things he should have said, could have done to salvage this disaster. There was acid in his throat, a cocktail of despair and rage. He was a failure, that’s what he’d always been -- and how could Helen be so myopic, so blind, so self-inter
ested that she wouldn’t even hear him out, wouldn’t even acknowledge the evidence?

  Nothing had changed since Chicago. Why had he expected it to be any different now, with Estelle depending on him? Helen was right. He’d never been cut out for this, and she’d never believed in him. He wasn’t cut out for anything but a downward spiral.

  Estelle.

  He would have to tell her. Let her know how badly he’d fucked up, how much of a failure he was. How foolish she had been to trust in him. The thought of getting up from this desk and leaving this room, having that conversation, crushed him. He’d admitted his failure to her once before, and it had been an admission that he wasn’t worthy of her. That there was no future with him. Booker wasn’t sure if he could face that again.

  It was like a switch had been flipped on the world. Suddenly nothing was good. He wanted to draw the curtains, turn off the light, and crawl back into the bed he’d so recently shared with Estelle. Shut everything out.

  Instead, the sliver of rage within him told him to get up, to move, because he was right, damn it, and to stop moving would only make it worse. And somehow Booker found the energy to listen.

  It’s a miracle I ever got into the Bureau, he reflected as he walked over to Estelle’s room. Surely they must have seen it in him -- this ineptitude, this endless potential for failure. Maybe they had. Maybe that was why he’d been sent to the ACT, a department nobody cared about where his failures would cause the least damage.

  But I’m right, whispered the angry voice. I’m right and I know it. But what did it matter if they wouldn’t listen?

  Booker was standing at the door to Estelle’s room. He raised a fist to knock, unsure of how he was going to explain himself. He knocked.

  No response. Part of him felt glad, leapt at the opportunity to avoid this confrontation. He made himself knock again; then, when there was still no answer, a tremor of unease disturbed the fog that had settled over his mind. He opened the door.

  “Estelle?”

  The room was empty. His first inclination would have been to check the bathroom, except that the sliding window door was open, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze. And he knew that she was gone.

  Booker moved further into the room. There were no signs of a struggle. Her robe was hung on its hook on the bathroom door and the fresh clothing Nasim had provided for her was nowhere to be seen. Only her dirty, bloody clothing remained in a pile on the floor. Estelle hadn’t been taken, she had simply left.

  Of course. Of course she had left, after what he’d told her. What he’d done. How could he blame her? How could he have expected --

  “Agent Hopkins?”

  Booker turned. Nasim al-Faradi was standing in the open doorway, one hand raised to rest lightly on the frame. She stepped inside, her dark eyes taking in the emptiness of the bedroom before returning to rest on him. “Where is Estelle?”

  Booker shook his head. “No idea.”

  She narrowed her eyes, watching him carefully. “You don’t seem to be worried by that fact.” Nasim moved closer, studying his face more acutely. “Is everything alright? You’re very subdued. Did you two have an argument?”

  Not wanting to get into it, he said, “Was there something you wanted?”

  She watched him for a moment longer, her eyes penetrating. “Well, yes, actually. From both of you. I was hoping to speak with Estelle first, but if she’s…out, then you and I might as well have our conversation first. There’s a lot we need to discuss.”

  “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for a chat right now, Ms. al-Faradi.”

  She shrugged, as if his mood was completely beside the point. “I made some calls. I know that you were suspended from the FBI. That you’re not here on an official investigation.”

  Made some calls. Booker could only imagine the impact that a direct call from Nasim al-Faradi about a rogue agent would have on the Bureau. The higher-ups were probably losing their minds right about now. Which meant his actions in Ethiopia were no longer a secret of the ACT. Even if Helen hadn’t already reported him, even if she had taken his evidence up the chain, it was out of her hands now. He was just another scandal.

  “So I’m wondering,” she went on, “why you actually came to Ethiopia, if not on official business. Was it because of Estelle?”

  The subtext being that Nasim already knew about their relationship. Booker was hardly surprised. He shook his head. “No. I had no idea Estelle was involved when I left the States. I only came because…” Suddenly he couldn’t find the energy to explain his decisions one more time. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does. Any FBI interest in my company matters a great deal to me.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. I just got fired, more or less, specifically because I came to Ethiopia, and my ASAC made it very clear that neither she nor the Bureau has any interest in Radical Dynamics, or Pharos, or anything that I was investigating. All they care about is saving face.”

  Booker wasn’t sure why he was telling her all this. He only knew that a part of him needed to tell someone, and -- admitting it even to himself made him cringe with shame -- that a deeper part was seeking some sympathy. Some acknowledgement.

  Nasim’s eyebrows rose. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Are you?”

  She paused. “No. At least, I’m not sorry to be removed from the focus of the FBI.” Nasim stepped around him, sitting on the edge of Estelle’s bed. “But I am sorry that it came at the price of your career.” She paused again. “Actually, that’s not entirely true either.”

  Booker snorted humorlessly. “Are we done? I’m sure Estelle will come back eventually. You can wait for her here.”

  “No, we’re not done.” Nasim spoke in a pleasant tone, but something in her voice made him stop on his way to the door. Something very reminiscent of Helen Martinez.

  He turned with glacial slowness, feeling a flicker of annoyance. “Go ahead.”

  “Your investigation. How did it connect to Radical Dynamics?”

  Booker considered not answering. Normally he wouldn’t discuss an open investigation -- but this was pretty far from normal. “It didn’t, in the beginning. It wasn’t until I came to Ethiopia and found Estelle that I realized there had to be some connection between Pharos and the crimes I was tracking.”

  Crimes had a subtle but noticeable effect on Nasim, making her sit up a bit straighter. “And what were the nature of these crimes?”

  “Artifacts stolen by hired thieves. And then those thieves turning up dead. Rick Álvarez and Kai Villeneuve are two of those thieves, hired to go after the Ark. Only they’re not dead yet.”

  She nodded, looking thoughtful. Booker couldn’t tell if any of this was coming as a surprise or not. It didn’t seem to be -- but was that just because she had good composure? “I see. The connection does seem obvious. These artifacts, do you have a list?”

  “Yeah…”

  “I can have them cross-referenced with the projects that Pharos has taken on, see if the Ark is an anomaly or if Pharos is being targeted by these criminals.”

  Booker blinked. He had expected denial, resistance. Anything but an immediate offer of help. “You -- actually want to pursue this?”

  “Of course.” Nasim was looking up at him with a solemn expression. “Lives are being lost, Booker, and my project is being threatened. Even if that were not the case, I can’t just sit by and do nothing to help.”

  “But --” He shook his head. “You realize nobody else is going to want to pursue this, not after the mess of it I’ve made. Not after getting a direct call from the CEO of Radical Dynamics about how I’ve been screwing around in Africa.”

  “I assume you have evidence to back up your theories?”

  “Yes, but nobody will listen!” He hadn’t meant to shout, but he was doing it now and didn’t feel like stopping. “I told them there was more, I told them Jane Baum’s death wasn’t an accident, and now I can connect it all,
Jane and the skull and Ibis and the Ark -- but they won’t listen.”

  Nasim remained calm in the face of his ranting. When he’d been silent for a few seconds, she said, “I’m listening, Booker. And what I’m hearing is that the FBI is the dead end. Not you.”

  The statement hit him like an electric jolt. He blinked at her, unsure of how to respond. Nasim took the opportunity to keep talking.

  “And, while I may not have the resources or the authority of the FBI, I’m not exactly powerless either.”

  He stared. “So -- so what are you saying? What are you going to do about it?”

  She smiled. “What would you like to do about it?”

  Twenty-Six

  University of Gondar Hospital

  Gondar, Ethiopia

  Something was blowing against Rick’s face, just enough to drag him back towards consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw Kai grinning at him. “You were snoring.”

  “Kai!” Rick sat up quickly, then winced at a sharp pain in his neck. “Oh, God, I slept wrong. This damn chair…”

  “Sounds awful.”

  Rick paused. “Right. Sorry.”

  Kai was still grinning. “Don’t worry about it. I am floating on several flavors of painkillers right now, so you probably are the least-comfortable person in this room.”

  Rick stood, cracking his back and looking around. It was clearly well past dawn. Sounds of activity, scuffing shoes on linoleum and voices over the PA, came through the closed door. There was an empty tray of food on the table beside Kai’s bed.

  “Did the nurse come in? I don’t even remember.”

  “While ago, yeah. You were down pretty hard.”

  “What time is it?”

  Kai shrugged, or did his best approximation of one, given the circumstances. “Asking the wrooong guy.”

  “And my wristband is melted somewhere with the rest of K’ebero’s camp.” Rick sighed, sitting back down in the chair. “Must’ve slept half the day away.”

  “Got somewhere to be?”

  He hesitated. Yes, actually; he had been hoping to get a head start on trying to figure out where the Ark might have been moved to. Maybe do some shopping, replace the equipment that had been stolen by the Free Army. But now that Kai was awake, he figured it could wait. “Nah. Not right now. How’re you feeling?”