“You mean Cortés visited the region first and found El Dorado there? And then deliberately rewrote the history of his own explorations?”
“I wouldn’t go so far just yet. But he and his men were certainly in the area. And that makes this a brand new starting point. If I’m reading the map and the scale correctly, then Cortés’s map shows this area . . .” Hellen showed the approximate region on her phone.
“Somewhere between Orange Walk Town and the Rio Bravo area,” Cloutard said.
“Yes. And it would make sense. Several Mayan ruins have been rediscovered around Orange Walk Town, so it’s absolutely possible that there are more undiscovered Mayan sites farther inland.”
“But isn’t El Dorado supposed to be somewhere else completely? This is the first I’ve heard of it being anywhere near modern Belize.”
“That’s true,” said Hellen. “Which would also explain why no one has ever been able to find it.”
“There’s some handwriting on the back,” Cloutard said.
“Yes. Let’s take a closer look.”
Cloutard stood up for a moment and peered over the top of the hedges, but he saw nobody. Hellen allowed herself a little time to translate the lines on the back. “This is Cortés’s own handwriting, I’m sure of it,” she murmured. She read on, and suddenly her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with one hand, as if to stop herself from repeating the horrors she had just read.
Cloutard noticed instantly that something was wrong. “What is it? What does it say?”
“This might explain why we know nothing about Cortés ever being in Belize. He writes here about a drug or a drink that sent his men completely mad.”
“What kind of ‘mad’ does he mean?” Cloutard asked.
“I’m not really sure. Some of the lines are hard to read. As far as I can tell, they took gold from El Dorado, but then most of his men killed each other. He writes that they were ‘no longer themselves.’”
“Merde . . . is that the element of immense power that was supposed to ensure the Habsburg’s eternal empire? What Cortés wrote about in his fifth letter?”
“Presumably,” Hellen said. “Because according to this, El Dorado is more than just a hoard of gold. Cortés is convinced that the death of his men was connected inextricably to El Dorado itself.”
“Then we should make sure we find this powerful element before anyone else does,” said Cloutard.
“We’re going to need Tom, I think,” Hellen said. “Dealing with bad guys who are after this kind of thing is what he does best.”
“First things first,” Cloutard said. “We have to get out of here. It will be easiest if we return to the banquet. The way we are dressed, we will blend in, and we can leave the palace when the rest of the staff go home.”
Hellen nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
“We have to go to Belize whether we reach Tom or not. Cortés describes how to get to El Dorado here very clearly. And he talks about what he calls a ‘Golden Path’ that’s supposed to show the way to a trove of gold inside a Mayan pyramid. This is our job, François. This is what Mother hired us for. We have to get to Belize, pronto.”
Hellen got to her feet. Putting her phone back in her pocket, she noticed that it was still on silent mode. One second later, it began to vibrate.
50
Air Force One, somewhere over the Atlantic
The first thing Tom heard was a skeptical “Hello,” but it was a voice he knew very well indeed. Hellen hadn’t recognized the number on her screen, of course, but she had answered nevertheless. Finally, Tom thought.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Tom! You won’t believe what we’ve just found,” Hellen said, and she was off. It had only been forty-eight hours since they had last seen each other, but for Tom it felt like an eternity. The last two days had been a real trial, but Hellen was so excited that he didn’t want to bring her down with his story. He let her talk.
“We’ve got our hands on a treasure map from the Alcázar royal palace in Seville, a map hand-drawn by Hernán Cortés himself. It shows the location of El Dorado.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and continued, “And Tom, you’re never going to believe this . . .” But Tom knew exactly what was coming, and his lips soundlessly formed the same words as Hellen spoke them: “X marks the spot! El Dorado is in Belize!”
Tom smiled. He could picture Hellen’s elated face, though he was a bit disappointed that he could not be there with her.
“Sorry, I’m babbling,” she said. “How is England? Did you find Noah?”
“Yes and no. Long story. I’ll tell you all about it next time we meet. Right now, I’m sitting in Air Force One on my way to D.C.”
“Sorry, did you say Air Force One?” Hellen asked, taken completely off guard.
“Also part of the long story. You’re heading to Belize? Then come to D.C., pick me up, and we can fly down together. If you’re in Seville, then D.C. is practically on your way.”
Tom heard Hellen and Cloutard conferring on the other end of the line. Finally, Hellen came back on.
“Okay. The earliest we can reach D.C. is tomorrow, around noon. And Tom, say hi to Samson for me.”
She ended the call. Tom returned the handset to its cradle and leaned back in the comfortable seat. It was even more luxurious than the seats on the Blue Shield Gulfstream, he thought, and he closed his eyes.
A gentle shaking roused him. He was still holding Sienna’s case containing the plant essence. He’d been holding it wrapped in his arms like a pillow as he slept.
“Mr. Wagner, Mr. Armstrong would like to talk to you in the conference room. Please follow me,” said a Secret Service agent.
They left the guest compartment. The conference room was situated farther forward, and in front of that was the staff office which, together with the president’s quarters, occupied the front of the plane. In the rear was the press room and the Secret Service section. The agent knocked on the conference room door and opened it for Tom. He stepped inside and the door closed behind him.
“Take a seat, Mr. Wagner,” Chief of Staff Armstrong said, gesturing invitingly. Tom picked a seat and sat down, placing the case on the table in front of him. “You know, sooner or later, you’re going to have to hand that over,” Armstrong went on, with a nod toward the case.
“I’d feel a lot better if I could hand it to the president in person,” Tom said. “A lot of good people died for what’s inside it.”
“I understand. But think about where we are. You’re in the most secure airplane in the world, and President Samson is sitting just a short distance ahead of us. You can trust us.” Armstrong picked up a small radio and spoke into it. “Rupert, would you come to the conference room, please?” Moments later, there was a knock at the door and Rupert entered.
“Sir?”
“Rupert here will take your case and personally give it to the president.”
Rupert nodded. Tom hesitated, but then pushed the case across to the Secret Service agent. Rupert picked it up and left the conference room.
“See? Better already,” said Armstrong. “Now tell me everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours, every detail.”
Tom gave the chief of staff a full account of events, starting with the TV report in Nizhny Novgorod. He told him about Noah, Friedrich von Falkenhain, the police at the hospital, Sienna Wilson, and the two CIA agents in London.
“Could you put me in touch with the family of Agent Jack . . . I’m sorry, I never learned his family name? I’d like to pass on my condolences. Jack basically saved my life.”
“I understand, of course, but I’m afraid we can’t.”
Tom nodded. He knew that agents’ families were protected. They would probably never find out what really happened. KIA—killed in action, as the military would say. He had given his life in the service of his country; that’s all they would be told. Plus an American flag folded into a triangle and, in Agent Jack’s case, a star on a marbl
e wall.
“What’s going to happen now with the essence, or the biological weapon, or whatever it is that’s in there?” Tom asked.
“It will go to one of our high-security labs and be examined by the best scientists we have. But most importantly, it won’t fall into the hands of terrorists. Now I want you to go back there, order something good to eat, and enjoy the rest of the flight. We’ll sort everything else out as soon as we get to Washington. I’m sure the president will be able to find a minute or two for you then.”
Tom stood up. Armstrong shook his hand, thanked him for his service, and called in the agent to take Tom back to his seat. Following instructions, Tom ate dinner, then closed his eyes again and slept soundly.
So soundly, in fact, that he missed the landing, and was rudely awakened by four FBI agents with their guns leveled at him.
“Mr. Wagner, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?” one of the agents intoned while the other three dragged Tom down the steps of the plane. The FBI man reading him his rights, to Tom’s amazement, had Sienna’s case in his hand.
“Stop! What is this? What the hell? Armstrong, you asshole!” Tom shouted after the chief of staff, just then ducking calmly into a waiting limousine after making sure Tom was safely out of the way and no longer able to harm his president.
51
In Cadillac One, the presidential state car, en route to Washington
“Do we have the essence?” President Samson asked his chief of staff.
“Of course, sir.”
“Then Tom Wagner was successful. I’d like to congratulate him personally.”
“That won’t be possible, Mr. President,” Armstrong replied.
Samson looked pointedly at Armstrong. “Why not?”
“Sir, as I’ve said multiple times, in my opinion, your plan to use Tom Wagner is dangerous. The man is not trained to our standards. He operates more like a jackhammer than like a scalpel. His methods only caused more havoc in London.”
“I know, but—”
“My God, sir, with all due respect, Wagner’s incompetence caused the loss of two agents and our most important CIA base in London.” Armstrong leaned toward the president, a motion presumably meant to suggest familiarity. “Sir, we have to think about our reputation. Our priority now is your re-election.”
Samson looked out through the armored window of the Cadillac, which tinted the landscape beyond the window a distinctive shade of green. He was silent for several moments, then said, “Very well, Armstrong. What do you suggest?”
“Do nothing, sir. Simply don’t give Wagner any more assignments. If he doesn’t hear from you again, and if he can no longer call on you, then he’ll crawl back to whatever little forest village he came from in Austria.”
The president nodded.
“Mr. President, every mistake we let ourselves make by working with amateurs comes back to you. And we’re losing points in the polls. The conservative hyenas at Fox News are just waiting for us to screw up, and with Wagner, screw-ups are a certainty.”
Samson sighed. “You’re right. Put Wagner on ice.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
Armstrong reached for his cell phone, dialed a number, and pretended to execute the president’s order. While he was talking, the president’s phone pinged: a message from Yasmine. He stifled a smile—he didn’t want his chief of staff to get suspicious and shut down this contact, too. He wanted to hold onto at least a little freedom, intimacy and independence.
Ready to put the plan into action. Should we go ahead? Yasmine had written, tacking a few heart emojis onto the end of her question.
President Samson looked across at Armstrong, who was also busy with his phone. Samson thought of his chief of staff’s words: Our priority now is your re-election. Yasmine had reached the top of the biggest food company in the country. He trusted her. She would guarantee his re-election. He quickly wrote his reply: “Yes. Go ahead with the plan.”
52
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.
Things were not going the way Tom had pictured them. Escape the long arm of the European law with a quick hop across the pond on Air Force One, only to get thrown to the FBI wolves, he thought angrily. Not only had the leader of the free world dumped him, the man’s chief of staff had stabbed him in the back. Now here he was, shackled in the basement of probably the most secure police building in the world, waiting for hours for someone to hear his side of the story.
The interrogation room was exactly as one would imagine it: gray, grim, intimidating and claustrophobic. Tom was sitting on a metal chair bolted to the floor. In front of him stood a table about three feet square, also firmly bolted down. A two-foot length of chain attached his handcuffs to a steel loop in the center of the table.
So that’s it, he thought. Things couldn’t get any worse. Yes, he had a knack for attracting trouble, but this was just wrong. He could never have dug a hole this deep for himself.
“Hey!” he shouted at the security camera, its little red light blinking incessantly. “What about my phone call?” He had no idea how long he’d been there. The sense of time was the first thing to go when you were inside a room with no windows. It was straight out of interrogation 101: start by leaving the suspect alone with his thoughts. No air conditioning, no water, no contact with the outside world. Everything from the same bag of tricks. But it wouldn’t work with Tom. He knew the tricks.
Getting his phone call would be one thing, but who could he actually call in a situation like this? The people he thought might help him were the ones responsible for him being here in the first place. Hellen and Cloutard were somewhere across the Atlantic, out of reach. Hellen’s mother was probably happy to be rid of him. And Maierhofer? Not a chance. Tom didn’t give his old boss a second thought. But then he had an idea.
“Call Special Agent Jennifer . . . what’s her name . . . Baker! FBI Special Agent Jennifer Baker. I’ll only talk to her,” Tom shouted at the camera.
He wasn’t getting his hopes up, though. So far, even his request for a phone call had fallen on deaf ears. But maybe an hour later, the cell door opened and there she was: FBI Special Agent Jennifer Baker, in person.
“Bet you didn’t think you’d see me again so soon, right?” Tom said sheepishly.
Jennifer ignored his familiar, friendly tone. Strict and formal, not even looking at him, she began to speak as she flipped through a file.
“Mr. Wagner, from what I see here, you have been taken into custody on an international arrest warrant. You are under investigation for multiple homicides, kidnapping, stealing a biological weapon, and bombing. All in the last forty-eight hours.” She glanced up at Tom. “And that doesn’t even take into account your role in the Smithsonian affair. I’ve also heard that you just returned from Russia, and I can’t help wondering what damage you caused there—and who ended up dead.”
She was looking Tom directly in the eyes, now. Angry, upset, reproachful.
“There’s a reasonable explanation for everything,” Tom said weakly. “Look, I’m sorry I never got in touch—” But Jennifer’s hand shot up, cutting him off in mid-sentence. She stood up, went to the security camera, and switched it off. Tom smiled mischievously, but only for a second. Jennifer returned and slapped him across the face, hard.
“I’ll give you this: you’ve got balls the size of melons. Last time we met, if I recall correctly, you promised me THE arrest of my career, right? The mastermind behind the Smithsonian job. I’m still waiting.”
“I—”
“Plus, you still owe me breakfast!”
“I’m not going to say that’s why I’m here,” Tom said. “But unless I’m seriously mistaken, that same mastermind is the one who got me arrested and sent down here.” He lifted his hands. The chain r
attled loudly and the handcuffs dug into his flesh. “Listen to me, please, one last time. And I’ll make you just one promise: if you listen to me now, you’ll never see me again.”
Jennifer thought it over, then nodded. “All right. Let’s hear it.”
“Turn the camera on again. I want everything above board, on the record.”
Jennifer went and switched the camera on again. Then she sat and listened to Tom’s story, her eyes growing wider the longer he spoke. As for her Smithsonian case, he went a little further and told her what had happened in Ethiopia.
“That’s incredible," she said wonderingly when he was finally finished. There’s no way you could make it up. Wow. Let me see what I can do.”
Jennifer took the file, stood up, and went to the door.
“Thank you,” Tom said. “I owe you.” She rapped on the door and it was opened from the outside. “One more thing: can you tell my team where I am?”
Jennifer nodded and left the interrogation room. The door closed, and Tom was alone again.
53
Penthouse, 1781 N Pierce St., Arlington, Virginia
Yasmine Matthews was descending the spiral staircase that led from the gallery to her living room below. Every time she went down these stairs, she stopped and looked out the window. From her penthouse she could see the skyline of downtown Arlington, the Potomac River and, on the other side of the river, Georgetown University. On a clear day, she could even see the Thomas Jefferson memorial and the Pentagon to the south. Not bad for a small-town girl from South Carolina, she had thought when she first moved into the place. Of course, getting to the top had been difficult, and she’d used a few unorthodox methods along the way, but the road to the top was rocky. Nothing for snowflakes. Her claws were as strong as her ambition, and she had broken some eggs making her omelet.
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