“Niles, I know. Please, let me finish,” Navarro said. “Under normal circumstances, I realize sniffing out a small cache of stones seems impossible. But these stones are not normal.”
“What type of stone are we talking about?”
Navarro paused before answering.
“You don’t know, do you?” asked Drummond.
“Of course, I know. I have a piece made by the same culture. It’s made from volcanic basalt. It also has some kimberlite.”
Waving the cigar about, Drummond laughed. “Basalt? You might as well be looking for a spec of gray sand on a black beach.”
Navarro said, “The odds are somewhat better than that. I have a sense of where to look, and I don’t think they’re buried too deeply.”
“Where? Are we talking previous dig sites? Ruins?”
Navarro again paused. The truth was he didn’t know for sure, though he had a solid hunch. If his reading of the map was accurate, the site he had in mind was, in fact, a ruin. An obscure ruin. An ancient structure near caverns well known to prospectors. Caverns with a mystical reputation for their “waterfall of jewels.”
Whether the stones were hidden in an exposed section of the ruin, entombed in an unearthed chamber or buried in the caverns was unknown. Therefore, Navarro shaded his answer. “If not at ruins, then close by.”
Drummond ground his cigar butt into the tray resting on the table between them. “If they’re concentrated in a small area that’s close to the surface, you’re right, the odds are better. But, Klaus, basalt? There is nothing unusual about basalt’s magnetism. Yes, some types of basalt are more magnetic than others, but not remarkable enough in small quantities to stand out unless you’re literally standing on the rocks themselves.”
“I understand your skepticism,” Navarro said. Rising from his chair, he added, “Wait here, I have something to show you that might change your mind.”
He left the parlor through a side entrance and snaked down a circular stone staircase. At the bottom of the stairs was a vaulted door. After punching in the required code to open the door, he entered the gallery holding his most prized artifacts. He passed illuminated displays of pottery, jewelry, statues and other relics. Some were Incan, others Mayan, and still others were of Olmec or Toltec ancestry.
At the rear of the vaulted room stood a bank of locked drawers holding smaller pieces. Navarro snagged two pairs of latex gloves from a wall dispenser. He shoved one pair in his blazer pocket and the other he donned.
He unlocked the top drawer and slowly lifted a greenish, square, dinner-plate-sized tile from within. He carried it reverently from the room until he gingerly set it down on the table in front of Drummond. While the prospector leaned forward to study the tile, Navarro quickly stepped to the nearby desk and removed three items from a side drawer: a small magnet, a compass and a Gauss meter.
Returning to his seat, he handed the spare latex gloves to Drummond and placed the items next to the stone. He chose his next words carefully. He wanted to tempt his guest enough to help, but not so much that he created a competitor.
“This stone was made by the same people who created the pieces I’m after. Have you seen a stone like this before? In a museum, perhaps?”
Drummond stroked his mustache and frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You can find stones like this in museums all over the world. Hundreds of them. That is how I came across this one years ago. They have different etchings and come in different colors, but they’re all the same shape and size.”
“Are they Mesoamerican?”
“Their origin is unknown. They’ve been found at sites in the Americas, Europe, Africa and Asia.”
Drummond peered at the pictograph etched on the surface of the stone — a man holding a cone and tube together. At the cone’s tip was a starlike flash. From the flash, a wavy line extended across the stone’s face. He said, “I don’t understand. If there are many in circulation, why do you want to dig for more?”
The man was insightful. That might prove to be an issue later, but right now Navarro needed his help. He said, “I’ve heard rumors there are other stones made by the same people that are different in shape and size. From what I’ve been told, these other stones are extremely hard to find, even from private collectors. I like rare things, so they interest me.”
The intrigued look on Drummond’s face was transparent, but he held his tongue. He asked for permission to lift the stone. Navarro assented. Drummond tugged on the gloves and examined the tile closely. The surface was coarse but the edging precise. He flipped the stone over and discovered a bored cavity in the center. On opposite sides of the center circle, two semicircular cuts arced inward from the tile’s edges.
Returning the tile to its face, he studied the stone itself. Basalt is not naturally green, he knew, but the weight and grain of the stone was consistent with the volcanic rock type. He also studied the etching itself. It wasn’t haphazard or rudimentary. The cuts were even and precise. They looked like they’d been tooled by modern means.
He placed it back on the table, pointed at the items next to the stone and asked, “What’s special about its magnetism?”
Navarro handed him the compass. “Go stand by the windows. Tell me which way is north.”
Drummond squinted at him and pulled at the corners of his mustache.
“Go ahead, do it. Show me where north is,” Navarro prodded.
The prospector tromped to the windows and held the compass steady in his palm. He waited for the needle to settle before pointing a finger toward the main parlor door.
Motioning him back to the sofa, Navarro said, “Line up north again on the compass, and then place it on the stone.”
When he did, the compass reversed direction. Drummond shrugged. “Big deal, so the tile was cut from a rock with different polarity. That’s not unique.”
“True,” Navarro said, “but it is unusual for such a rock to point twenty-three degrees west from due south. Magnetic north shifts from time to time, but not that much. Wouldn’t you agree?”
His guest gave a slight nod. Navarro pointed to the Gauss meter and said, “Turn it on. Hold it against the stone.”
Drummond flipped the switch and watched the meter flicker to life. He slid out the device’s stylus and touched it to the stone. The needle trembled violently. Drummond frowned. He moved the stylus away for a moment and the needle settled back to center. He guided it back against the stone and the wild movements resumed.
“Don’t just touch it. Hold it steady against the rock,” Navarro encouraged. “Tell me what you see.”
To Drummond’s amazement, the needle jumped back and forth in a steady, rhythmic pattern. He said, “What the hell?”
Easing back on the chair, Navarro smiled. “You see, not so common after all.”
“To say the least!” said Drummond. He repeated the experiment several times before setting the meter aside. “The signature is similar to kimberlite, but kimberlite doesn’t pulse like that.”
Navarro reached for the small magnet on the table. Navarro hovered the magnet an inch over the stone. His hand was steady — there was no sign of attraction or repulsion. He flipped the magnet over. Again no reaction. He turned the tile facedown and repeated the same movements with the magnet. Given the Gauss meter’s intense readings, there should have been some reaction with the small magnet. It should have ripped from Navarro’s hand and either cemented to the tile or shot across the room.
“Impossible!” Drummond said.
“Yes,” Navarro agreed. “Have you ever seen a magnetic pulse like that from a static object?”
“Never.”
“If I told you where to look, do you think you could detect it?”
Drummond eased back against the sofa and crossed his arms. “If it’s close to the surface, possibly. If it’s buried deep, I don’t think so. Even though the signal’s very strong…and unique…a small object like this would be hard to pick up under tons of rock.”<
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“Understood. What if there were more than one of these buried together? Say, a dozen of them or more?”
Drummond edged his head from side to side and said, “A cache of stones with similar properties? Yes, that would make the Stones easier to detect, but they’d still need to be close to the surface. Too much rock in between would distort the signal.”
“Will you do it? I will pay you well.”
“I’ll admit, you’ve got me interested. You said you know where to look?”
“There are several possibilities. One stands out above others. How soon can you start?”
Once Drummond departed, Navarro returned his prized serpent-tooth relief to the vault. He was most pleased the Scot had agreed to lead an expedition. If Drummond found a trove of the magnetic relics, the Flash Stone might very well be among them and then Navarro’s Rivers of Gold fantasy would finally become reality.
Even if his coveted prize wasn’t part of a discovered trove, Navarro would at least know his reading of the map was on target…and that meant he could confidently search other marked sites. One way or the other, he was one step closer to finding the mythical stone-melter.
With that pleasant thought in mind, Navarro reclimbed the stairs to the parlor and contemplated next steps. Drummond was available to start in three days, so there was little time to plan the expedition. It would be an arduous trek; the site was deep in the Amazon jungle. It would be dangerous; the ruins sat squarely in Cinta-Larga territory. The reclusive tribe was not fond of trespassers…particularly prospecting trespassers.
Navarro paced the breadth of the parlor’s wall of windows and weighed the merit of joining Drummond’s party. The esthete within him argued in favor of deferring the treasure hunting to the expert. Navarro was, after all, a collector, not a bloodhound.
Yet, the thought of entrusting such an important mission to a man who could be easily bought troubled him. It would be so simple for Drummond to abscond with the relics and claim the site was barren. How could Navarro possibly contest the claim, unless he was there when Drummond scoured the ruins?
And then an idea struck Navarro. There was a way to ensure his personal safety and keep tabs on Drummond. He would recall the tenacious Margaret Corchran to service. In a near whisper, he said, “Ah, Margaret. You have caused me much trouble. Time to repay your debt.”
In fact, the longer Navarro considered his idea, the more he realized it might help him kill two birds with one stone.
CHAPTER 8
SPECIAL DELIVERY
The Embarcadero
San Francisco, California
August 11
When the Lincoln came to a stop, Pebbles thanked the driver and exited the Town Car. Adjusting the tote slung over her shoulder, she paused on the sidewalk to look up at the towering granite edifice and was nearly toppled by a throng headed for the adjacent BART station.
“Sorry,” she mumbled repeatedly as she wedged a path through a crisscross of pedestrians. Reaching the revolving doors, she fell into line and awaited her turn to push into the lobby. Once inside the soaring atrium, she spied the security kiosk and strode in its direction. The echoes of her high heels clicking against the marble were lost in the competing clatter of footsteps, conversations and beeping turnstiles.
A waif of a man darted in front and bumped against her arm. Eyes glued to his cell phone, he grumbled at her to watch her step. Pebbles halted to offer a comeback and was jostled yet again. This time she drew a cross glare from a woman reattaching the lid of her “Venti” coffee cup.
“Geez,” Pebbles said, “this is worse than happy hour at Sydney’s!”
When she arrived at the security checkpoint, the chiseled guard rose and spied her warily. Pebbles smiled in return and said with cheer, “Hi, good morning.”
The blank-faced attendant, easily a foot shorter than Pebbles, crossed his arms and said, “Name?”
Resting her tote on the countertop, Pebbles straightened the lapels of her suit jacket. “Oh, sure. I’m Eleanor, Eleanor McCarver. I’m here to see Antonio Wallace. Is it always so busy here?”
The guard leaned forward to consult his computer. He scrolled through the list of the day’s scheduled visitors and found her name. Without looking up, he said, “ID.”
“No prob. Hold on a sec,” she said as she dug in the tote for her wallet. Extracting her driver’s license, she passed it to the guard and girded for the inevitable reaction. Although she’d been living in Tahoe for over a year, Pebbles had yet to declare Nevada residency. So, her Georgia driver’s license remained her primary form of identification. The frumpy license picture, taken shortly before she graduated from law school, didn’t exactly jibe with her current look.
The security officer studied the license, gazed up at Pebbles, then looked back at the identification. She maintained a friendly smile and placed a hand over her heart. “I know, it’s kinda an old picture, but it’s me. I promise.”
The guard didn’t respond, but continued to eye her up and down. Pebbles prayed for him to look past the pink pixie-cut hair, neck tattoo, metallic-blue lip gloss and diamond stud in her nostril. Given his chilly demeanor, she fully expected him to reject the ID at any moment and send her packing. Instead, he handed the license back, punched a few keystrokes and printed out a visitor’s sticker.
While Pebbles pressed the sticker to her suit jacket, the security guard pointed toward the bank of elevators and said, “Thirty-fifth floor. Use the visitor’s gate.”
“Okay, thank you!” she said with a smile. “Hope you have a nice day!”
The ride up the packed elevator was unremarkable, save for the prodigious yawns emanating from a pudgy, unkempt man in jeans and flip-flops standing a little too close beside her. The yawns themselves didn’t bother Pebbles, but the invasion of personal space was a little unnerving.
The elevator made several stops, allowing Pebbles the opportunity to move farther and farther away from zombie-man as the car thinned out. She was most surprised when the lift arrived at the thirty-fifth floor and they both moved to exit. The curly-haired man paused at the door and gestured for Pebbles to go first.
As the man broke into another gaping yawn, Pebbles mumbled her thanks and scooted past him into sleek confines of Whave Technologies’ corporate headquarters. Standing by the elevators was a smiling blonde clad in a mauve dress accented by a short strand of pearls. Before the woman introduced herself, she waved to zombie-man and said, “Good morning, Dr. Hollingsworth.”
As he strolled by both women, Dylan Hollingsworth flashed a peace sign and replied, “Morning, 2K.”
Turning toward Pebbles, the woman said, “Miss McCarver? I’m Dr. Wallace’s assistant, Kathleen Kierney. How was your flight in?”
“Good, thanks. Appreciate you sending the car to pick me up,” said Pebbles.
“My pleasure.” Kathleen gestured to the right with her head and said, “Follow me and we’ll get you settled. Dr. Wallace is running a bit late this morning.”
Once inside the suite’s secure entry doors, Kathleen led Pebbles through a labyrinth of chrome and glass hallways. Along the way, Antonio’s polished assistant greeted a dozen coworkers with the same mix of cheerful formality she had bestowed on Pebbles.
Although Kathleen appeared to be barely thirty, a few years older than Pebbles, she carried herself with the poise of a boarding school matron. Yet, she didn’t strike Pebbles as stuffy. In fact, she seemed to possess a warm rapport with the eclectic group of engineers and technologists they encountered.
And eclectic barely did justice to Antonio’s assortment of employees. A bearded man with dreadlocks stepped barefoot from a copier nook wearing board shorts and a T-shirt that read “Hang Loose.” When Kathleen said hello, he winked and replied, “Whaz up, 2K?”
Then, they passed a young Asian woman kneeling on the chair in her cubicle. Pebbles couldn’t be certain, but it appeared as if the woman was wearing pajamas. Spongebob pajamas, at that. In a chair beside her sat a balding m
an in his midsixties adorned in suit and tie. The two were intensely discussing a CAD-CAM image on her computer screen.
In every direction, Pebbles saw people engrossed in their work or in conversation, and no two looked alike. Under her breath, she said, “This is my kinda place!”
When they finally arrived outside Antonio’s office suite, Kathleen offered Pebbles coffee and led her into a lounge that served as a gallery of sorts to wait for Antonio. In the center of the room was a long, leather-cushioned bench. From this bench one could sit and view framed, poster-sized photographs of the company’s inventions mounted on the surrounding four walls. Beneath each photograph stood a stand-alone glass case that housed a miniature model and brief description of the corresponding creation.
Pebbles sipped coffee and perused the displays. She was drawn to the wall opposing the entrance where a solitary exhibit stood. Larger than all the others, it was emblazoned across its base with the phrase, “The Whave That Started It All.” The exhibit was a shrine to the Whave engine, a revolutionary adaptation of the combustion engine that promised dramatic improvements in fuel efficiency and emissions.
When Pebbles reached the Whave display case, she peered inside and broke into a huge smile. Next to the sleek, whale-shaped miniature model was a snapshot of four men huddled arm-in-arm around a life-sized prototype of the engine. She immediately recognized Anlon. Although his sandy hair in the picture was longer than it was these days, and without the gray that dominated his locks now, there was no mistaking his smile and penetrating eyes.
Anlon stood next to Antonio in the center of the photograph. To Pebbles, Antonio looked as if he’d barely aged. His clothes and eyeglasses in the photo were a bit dated, but otherwise he was the same trim African American with the boyish grin. Pebbles’ eyes fluttered when she focused on the man on the other side of Antonio. It was her sleepy elevator companion. He’d certainly gained some weight since the picture was taken, but he had maintained the same scruffy look. Pebbles thought it interesting that Anlon had never mentioned a Dr. Hollingsworth. Nor had he ever mentioned the last person in the photo, a slight Asian man whom the caption identified as Corky Tamura.
Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2) Page 11