The Emerald Scepter Read online

  Abby drove off the road past vehicles loaded with young and old women, terrified children and wailing babies, eventually pulling up to the head of the line. Some of the armed guards were brandishing weapons at the cowering truck drivers. Amir’s daughter was shouting at the guard leader. She was backed up by several women, all talking at the same time. Some of Amir’s men stood behind the women shouting their side of the debate. Abby leaned on the horn to catch their attention. She took advantage of the pause in the altercation and jumped out of the jeep.

  Striding over to Amir’s daughter, she said, “What’s going on?”

  When Nagia replied in English the guard excitedly cut her off in Pashto. Abby joined in and within seconds, she too was shouting.

  “Maybe I can help,” Cait said. She said something in Pashto and after a moment had managed to silence both speakers who looked expectantly at Abby.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Now please tell the guy to move the guards away from the civilians. We will lead the parade. Everyone must stay in line.”

  The arrangement seemed to suit the warring parties. The procession slowly got moving again with the Russian jeep at the head of the line.

  Abby glanced in the rear view mirror and allowed herself a smile. “Thanks for the help,” she said.

  “Anytime,” Cait replied. “About that dinner with Matt.”

  “Before you say another word, take a deep breath, look behind us and think about where we are.”

  “I see what you mean,” Cait said with a glance at the parade of panicked villagers and their scruffy guards. “We’re a long way from the Ritz.”

  Abby smiled. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Amir pressed an electrical switch and a section of wall slid back on its runners. They stepped into another section of the vast hangar and found themselves looking directly into the barrel of a gun on a massive turreted vehicle painted in camouflage green and tan.

  “Whoa!” Calvin said. “Ruskie combat vehicle.”

  “Correct,” Amir said, “It was used by Russian Special Forces. It was in bad shape from rocket grenades when I restored it, but the same mechanics who got my car and the troop carrier running rebuilt the engine. I don’t have ammunition for the machine gun, unfortunately.”

  They walked around behind the combat vehicle and into another section of the shed occupied almost entirely by a huge biplane.

  “This is a British Handley Page bomber dating to World War One. The British used planes like this to bomb villages in the second Anglo-Afghan war. Villagers found it on the other side of the lake many years ago and showed my grandfather who saved it from being cannibalized for parts. It was passed to my father, who left it to me. The body has been meticulously restored, as you can see, and the engines taken apart then reassembled.”

  Calvin ran his fingers along the fuselage.

  “I’ve heard of these planes, but never saw one before in the flesh. She’s in fantastic shape. Better than anything in my collection.”

  “You’re collecting planes now?” Hawkins said.

  “Got bored with cars. I’ve got a Sopworth and a SPAD. Still air worthy. Has anyone ever tried to fly this crate?”

  “No, but my mechanics are the best and they swear it is fully operable.” He moved toward a large metal storage locker and opened the doors. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

  The wall locker held six long metal boxes that were identical in size and color. Stenciled on the outside of the olive-drab containers were the words: Property of the U.S.A. At Amir’s direction, the two men picked up a container and placed it on the floor. Amir removed the lid to reveal a Stinger missile and launcher carefully packed in foam peanuts.

  Calvin lifted the missile out of the container.

  The Stinger surface-to-air was only sixty inches long and a few inches in diameter, and weighed just over thirty pounds. But as the Soviets had learned to their dismay, the shoulder-fired projectile that the CIA supplied to the mujahideen could knock an aircraft out of the air at a range of nearly three miles and an altitude of more than twelve thousand feet.

  “There are more than enough missiles here to shoot down our enemies,” Amir said.

  “Not so fast,” Calvin said. “Shelf life of these babies is seven years. The batteries are probably dead and there could be mechanical degradation.”

  Calvin spent a few minutes examining each Stinger and its serial number.

  Hawkins saw the slow shake of Calvin’s head.

  “What’s wrong, Cal?”

  “The news ain’t good. These are all from the same lot.”

  “Are you saying they’re useless?” Amir said.

  “Probably, unless we can throw these puppies at the choppers.”

  “I’ve heard about degraded Stingers being rejuvenated,” Hawkins said.

  “Me, too. I’d be willing to give it a try.”

  They carried the Stingers back to the car and placed them in the rear seat. Calvin found batteries and electrical tools in a workshop. A pickup truck came screaming along the road to the hangar and braked to a stop. One of Amir’s men jumped out and started shouting. Amir turned to Hawkins and Calvin.

  “The helicopters have returned,” he said.

  Abby felt the air vibrating and a second later, three Cobra gunships flashed overhead. They followed the road for a quarter of a mile or so, then stopped and pivoted, three abreast, their Gatling guns facing toward the village procession.

  Abby slammed on the brakes and stood up in the open car.

  The three aircraft hovered a hundred feet above the ground like wolves about to close in on a wounded deer.

  “What should we do?” Cait said.

  “Not much we can do. They’ll make the first move.”

  The seconds ticked by like years, then the gunships tilted down so that their guns faced the ground. They advanced at an angle and fired their guns in bursts, moving slowly ahead, the torrent of bullets kicking up fountains of dirt. They stopped firing when the fusillade was less than fifty feet from the jeep.

  Abby stared at the narrow aircraft, thinking how ugly they were. “They’re herding us.”

  “What?”

  “Get out of the jeep,” Abby said. “Start walking back. Tell everyone in line to get out of their cars and trucks.”

  “They’ll kill us.”

  “Maybe. They could have wiped us out with a rear attack, though. Tell the guards not to fire at the choppers. Please help me, Cait.”

  They got out of the jeep and began to walk back along the line. Cait shouted in Pashto for people to abandon their vehicles. As the villagers slowly made their way back to the compound, only then did the Cobras stop firing their guns.

  The sheik was visibly shaken by the news that his family was in danger and didn’t protest when Hawkins slid behind the wheel of the touring car and told him to get in the back. Calvin was hanging on the running board when Hawkins took off, but he managed to get into the front seat.

  They had traveled less than a mile when they heard the sound of guns and explosions. The villagers were under attack. They’d be caught in the open with no chance to escape. Black smoke billowed into the air. Hawkins had no desire to witness the scene he conjured up in his imagination, but he pushed the accelerator to the floor. Moments later, they rounded the base of a low hill.

  The villagers were trekking in their direction, some running, some walking. Three Cobra gunships followed, flying abreast at an altitude of a couple of hundred feet, firing into the ground behind the villagers, herding them as if they were a flock of frightened sheep. The Blackhawk was hovering behind the Cobras. Leading the line were Abby and Cait. Nagia and her daughter, and the elderly servants were walking behind them. In the distance, the cars and trucks were ablaze.

  Hawkins drove up to the head of the parade. He told Abby and the other wo
men to get in, then he and Calvin got out to make room. Amir joined them and despite his limp, led his villagers back to the village on foot. The villagers flooded back into the settlement in a reverse version of the bedlam that had ensued during the evacuation. Amir ordered his men to get the women and children under cover. Cait and Abby went back to Amir’s house with the family and staff.

  The gunships flew over the village with an ear-shattering clatter, broke formation and landed out of sight. Hawkins and Calvin climbed to the top floor of the house and peered through a window. The Cobras were on opposite sides and to the rear of the village.

  The Blackhawk made a slow circle over the village and set down a few hundred yards from the main village gate. Hawkins and Calvin quickly descended to the veranda.

  “What did you see?” Amir asked.

  “The Cobras have cut off escape on three sides,” Hawkins said. “The Blackhawk is sitting just outside the front gate. Let’s see what they’re up to.”

  Hawkins and Calvin drove toward the gate and parked behind an abandoned house. Amir followed with three men. Hawkins put his back flat against the wall of the house and edged around the corner. He watched as the chopper’s rotors spun to a stop, saw the door open and a man get out.

  Calvin was waiting for all hell to break out, but the only sound was the oath of surprise that came from Hawkins’ lips.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Calvin asked.

  Professor Saleem was walking cautiously toward the village with a white flag in his hand.

  “I think they want to surrender,” Hawkins said.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Professor Saleem approached the silent village, walking with the stiff-legged gait of a condemned prisoner being led to the gallows. He gulped the crisp Afghan air into his lungs, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was about to suffocate. Sweat poured down his face, and he was nearly paralyzed with fear. He was acutely aware of Marzak in the helicopter behind him watching his every move. He didn’t want to think about how many weapons behind the compound’s walls were pointed his way.

  His heart hammered away in his chest, and he had a forlorn hope that he might go into cardiac arrest. He was surprised that he hadn’t died of heart failure when the attack on the vehicles was called off at the last second and again when it seemed the fleeing villagers would be massacred.

  Marzak hadn’t killed the villagers, seeing them as bargaining chips to persuade Hawkins to dive for the treasure. The professor volunteered to deliver the offer.

  Saleem had fashioned a white flag from a strip of bandage from the helicopter’s first aid kit. He whipped the streamer back and forth in his hand as he walked.

  He was at the point where he would almost rather die than take another step, when a figure emerged from the village and began walking toward him with a slow ambling pace. The man wore tribal costume, but the professor immediately recognized the craggy features and the bark-like complexion under the mushroom-shaped hat. Matt Hawkins. The man looks like a walking tree, he thought.

  They met fifty feet from the village. In contrast to the professor’s pinched features and tense posture, Hawkins had a half smile on his lips and his hands hung loosely at his sides. He projected an unmistakable air of confidence. There was even an unexpected amusement in his dark eyes when they glanced at the make-shift truce flag. “Hello, Professor Saleem. Did you come to offer your surrender or demonstrate your talent as a cheerleader?”

  Saleem bunched the bandage up and crammed it into his pants pocket.

  “You have a rather mordant sense of humor,” the professor said.

  “You’re not the first to tell me that. You’re a long way from Georgetown.”

  Saleem managed a quick smile of his own.

  “It’s about the same distance to Woods Hole, Mr. Hawkins. Did you come all this way to play Lawrence of Arabia?”

  “Touché,” Hawkins said. “What brings you to this lovely garden spot?”

  “The same thing that brought you here. Treasure.”

  “You’ve given up teaching history, Professor?”

  “For the time being. How is my colleague Dr. Everson, by the way?”

  “She’s fine, but she didn’t believe me when I told her that you were away from your classroom on a field trip.”

  “Teaching was only my day job. Actually, I work for the Pakistani intelligence service.”

  Hawkins cocked his head. “Are you telling me that this murderous romp is an ISI operation?”

  “No! Far from it. I’ll admit that elements of my service maintain contacts with extremists, but I have been dragged into this mess by the man watching us from that helicopter behind me. You know him I believe. His name is Marzak.”

  “He didn’t introduce himself when he and his twin tried to kill me.”

  “He is intent on taking revenge against you for killing his brother. But first he must finish a job he was hired to do for a group that came together in the vacuum created when Osama Bin Laden was killed. They call themselves the Shadows and they would like revenge too, but against the entire U.S.A.”

  “How’d you get hooked up with these Boy Scouts, Professor?”

  “Marzak and his brother were terrorists for hire. The Shadows retained them to carry out a terror plan in the U.S., but it was put on hold while they searched for the treasure. Once they have the treasure, they will move ahead with their plot. I am seen as sympathetic to their cause.”

  “You’re telling me that you aren’t?”

  “I am nominally in charge of this expedition, but Marzak is in operational control. I am really on your side.”

  Hawkins took the professor’s words with a grain of salt. The ISI had a reputation for double dealing, accepting American money and working with the CIA on one hand, enabling the Taliban and terrorists like Bin Laden on the other. Their goals were complicated, and were usually connected to the long-standing Cold War between Pakistan and India.

  “Prove it. Tell me about the terror attack they’re planning against the U.S.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. It’s called the Prophet’s Necklace. It’s a scheme to use sarin gas at a number of different locations across the U.S.”

  The smile vanished from Hawkins’ face. He knew sarin from the subway attack by a Japanese religious sect that had killed dozens of people back in the 1990s. The deadly toxin could kill within minutes of exposure.

  “Do you know the targets of this attack?”

  “Several American cities, but I don’t know which ones. I just know that Marzak is the one who can connect the strands with a simple telephone call.”

  “He’s got to be stopped, Professor.”

  “I’ll do my best, but we have to deal with the present. He sent me out here to offer a proposition.”

  Hawkins glanced at the helicopter. “Can’t wait to hear it.”

  “It seems that you have wiped out the dive team that was going to find the treasure. Since you and your friend are the only divers in the area, it was thought that your help could be enlisted.”

  “Is that why they didn’t kill us when we were driving away from the lake? And why the gunships didn’t attack the villagers?”

  “Correct,” the professor said. “I persuaded Marzak to keep you alive so you could find the treasure.”

  “You and Marzak are crazier than I thought,” Hawkins said.

  “Not crazy at all, I’m afraid. You’re very impressive, Mr. Hawkins, but you are out of your league. The real treasure at the center of this madness represents more wealth and power than anything Prester John could ever have imagined.”

  “You’ve got my attention, prof. Now maybe you can tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “I will tell you as events unfold. We have more pressing issues now. The man watching us doesn’t have a great deal of patience.”

  “W
hy would we help your friend?”

  “Because if you don’t, the Cobras will reduce the village to rubble and kill everyone in it. I saw them do just that in a practice run. A ground force is on its way to move in after the air assault. From what you have seen, you must know that Marzak is capable and more than willing to carry out his threat.”

  “What’s the quid pro quo if we agree to dive?”

  “They will leave with the treasure and let everyone go free.”

  “I admire your ability to say that with a straight face, Professor.”

  “It’s an acquired skill,” Saleem said. “We both know that they will kill you as soon as they have the treasure in hand and then proceed to wipe out every man, woman and child in the village.”

  “I was thinking along the same lines,” Hawkins said. “Any ideas?”

  “My strategy has been to stall as much as I can and hope for the best.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Not very well, I must admit.”

  “I thought so,” Hawkins said.

  He excused himself and spoke into his walky-talky. “How’s the poker game going?”

  “Great! I can open with a pair of aces,” Calvin replied.

  “Deal me in for the next hand,” Hawkins said. He re-clipped the radio to his belt and said, “It’s been nice talking to you, Professor.”

  He turned around and started to walk back to the village.

  “You’re going back to play poker?” Saleem said.

  Hawkins stopped. “Hell, yes. I had a winning hand when you showed up.”

  A panicked look came to Saleem’s face. “Wait! What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them we agree. Reluctantly. To save the village. Say that we have to refill our air tanks and pull our dive gear together. It will take about an hour.”

  Hawkins entered a building at the edge of the village and climbed a ladder to the top story. A trio of sharp-shooters under the direction of Amir had been watching through holes in the walls, ready to act if needed. Calvin was sitting on the roof with a pile of electrical parts in front of him. He was stripping the end of a wire.