The Emerald Scepter Page 8

  “This is my daughter Nagia and one of my granddaughters, little Yasmeen,” Amir said.

  Nagia bowed slightly and picked up the bag. “Please follow me,” she said in English.

  She led Cait along a wide marbled hallway to a room furnished with an art deco bed and a dresser that could have come from Paris. French doors looked out on a garden area. Nagia said that her father would be waiting in the garden. Cait bathed her face in cooling rose water and checked to make sure her hair wasn’t a mess.

  In the center of the garden was a small gazebo that shaded a carved wooden table and chairs. Cait sat in a chair and waited a minute or so before Amir appeared, trailing an elderly female servant who carried a tray with a pitcher and two glasses and a plate of pastry. The sheik had changed from his traditional outfit into tan slacks and a white shirt. The servant filled the glasses and went back into the house. They both took a sip of the amber liquid.

  “Iced jasmine tea. Hope you like it.”

  Cait let the cooling liquid roll down her throat.

  “It’s delicious,” she said. She glanced around the garden.

  “You seem ill at ease, Dr. Everson. Is there anything wrong?”

  “Not at all.” She smiled. “It’s just not what I imagined. Actually, I didn’t know what to expect—”

  “Of a warlord?” he said, completing her sentence. “The term is a misnomer. Most of us are not at war. Nor are we lords. In the U.S. you would call us agri-businessmen.”

  They both smiled. The inside joke broke the ice, and soon they were talking about their Georgetown link. That led to a discussion of Cait’s work, which in turn brought up the purpose of her visit.

  “I’m looking for evidence of settlements along an ancient road that branched off from the Silk Road only to end suddenly at the lake I saw flying in,” she said.

  “It was called The Valley of the Dead before it filled with water, supposedly released from heavy bombing during the second Anglo-Afghan war,” Amir said. “Local lore has it that my ancestors would lure caravans into the valley to be trapped and looted of their riches. I don’t mean to discourage you, but your trip here may have been for nothing. There’s no trace of the old road.”

  Cait sensed that her host had satisfied his curiosity and was about to blow her off. She was pondering her next move when fate intervened. Yasmeen had crept up behind her grandfather. She had a mischievous expression on her face as she reached around him, snatched a small cake and stuffed it into her mouth. The dry cake caught in her throat, and the look of sweet-tooth bliss in her eyes turned to one of tearful terror as her round face began to turn purple.

  Amir saw what was happening. He grabbed the little girl, lifted her in the air, and gave her body a shake. Cait sprang to her feet.

  “No!” she shouted.

  She snatched Yasmeen from her grandfather’s arms and applied the Heimlich method from behind, taking care not to break the girl’s ribs. The greasy crumbs were expelled after a few tries. Yasmeen let out the cry that had been stuck in her throat. It was the sweetest sound Cait had ever heard.

  The girl’s mother came running from the house and scooped the bawling girl from Cait’s arms. She and her father had a rapid conversation, then she turned to Cait, smiled, and said, “Thank you.” She disappeared back into the house with the girl.

  “Sorry to grab her away,” Cait said. “I took a basic CPR course once.”

  Amir took her hand, bowed slightly and pressed it to his forehead.

  “Please. No apology. I am in your debt. I would consider anything you wish to be my command.”

  Cait spent three nights as Amir’s guest. He gave her a tour of the lake, showing her where the track once entered the valley, but there was no evidence of ruins. The bandits who had swarmed the area were nomads and left no clue behind. He said that an expedition had explored the area years before, supposedly led by a rich American named Kurtz, but it left suddenly, abandoning the touring car, which Amir had found being used as a chicken coop and restored.

  He drove Cait to the air strip on the third day. Before she climbed into the plane, Amir told her that she would always be welcome. She never dreamed that three years later she would take him up on his offer.

  Cait took a deep breath, exhaled, and jerked on the rope.

  “Lower away,” she shouted.

  She began her plunge into the blackness. At one point in her descent she looked up. The opening was a rectangle of blue sky that seemed no bigger than a postage stamp and getting smaller. The dank air triggered coughing fits.

  Amir’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  “Yes, fine.”

  She wasn’t quite telling the truth. The support timbers were deteriorated and many were missing. She snapped off photos with her digital camera to divert her precarious state of mind. She was engrossed in her task when a shocking cold wetness enveloped her feet and ankles.

  Water!

  Then something grabbed at her legs. Her headlamp revealed what looked like the writhing coils of a thick black snake. She pointed the camera down and punched the shutter with a vague notion in her mind that the flash would scare it away.

  She tried to dig out her radio, but in her haste it slipped from her hand. She jerked on the line. Instead of being pulled up, she continued her plunge until the water and coils were around her waist. She was almost frozen in panic. Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to scream, but the sound caught in her throat.

  The water was nearly up to her chin when the descent stopped. The rope tenders had detected a change in tension and began to reel her up. She popped out of the water, feeling one last horrifying brush of the coils along her legs. Her elbows and knees scraped the sides of the shaft, but she was no longer worried about a cave-in. She wanted out! She was shivering like a leaf when Amir’s men pulled her into the sunlight.

  Seeing Cait’s muddied clothes and pale features, Amir said, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fi-fine, thanks,” she said.

  He escorted her back to the car and ordered his men to get a blanket from the car’s trunk. She sat in the passenger seat, with the blanket wrapped around her body, and sipped strong tea.

  Once her shivering was under control, she looked at the photo she had taken in the shaft then showed to image to Amir.

  “It looks like a section of rubber hose,” he said.

  Cait nodded. “Kurtz dug that shaft to try to get down to the treasure cave, but the hose suggests that his diver died in a wall collapse,” she said. “After that happened he wrapped up his expedition and headed home. Which is probably what I should do. I don’t want to end up the same way. Sorry to waste your time, Amir.”

  He slid in behind the steering wheel, started the car and put it into gear. “You must not be discouraged. Remember that a river is made drop by drop.”

  The Kahn had sprung his enigmatic proverbs before, but she was in no mood for homespun Afghan philosophy. She had spent too many years and traveled too many miles. Her patience was exhausted.

  As they drove off, she glanced at the lake with yearning eyes and made a reluctant admission to herself.

  For all intents and purposes, her Prester John theory was as dead as the diver buried in the mine shaft.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Northern Virginia, the Next Day

  The headquarters for Global Logistics Technologies occupied the top floor in one of the faceless buildings that cluster around Washington like suckling young around a mother sow. With its minimalist design, the three-story glass and aluminum structure easily blended in with the other corporate lairs along the Lee Highway in Fairfax, Virginia. The architectural anonymity was no accident. Many of GLT’s world-wide operations handled military contracts that demanded the utmost in secrecy.

  Abby liked the bee-hive atmosphe
re generated by the scores of offices and cubicles. The busy environment, with its sharply delineated, yet integrated roster of duties, reminded her of the aircraft carrier she had served on during her navy career and suited her no-nonsense personality. She kept the door of her comfortable but plainly-furnished office open so she could simultaneously absorb and broadcast the energy flow.

  As with every morning, she had arisen at 5:30 and had a breakfast of Kenyan coffee, fruit and whole grain toast without butter. She watched the morning news as she ran on her treadmill, then she showered and slipped into one of her conservative dark outfits that were as close as she could get to a Navy uniform without looking as if her designer was John Paul Jones.

  She had driven her silver-colored Mercedes SL convertible from her country home in Leesburg, arriving in her office promptly at seven o’clock, and had glanced first thing at the agenda for the staff meeting scheduled for 8:30. She jotted a few notes and had started to go over a contract to provide army depot support when she felt what ghost-hunters call a presence. A feeling that she was not alone.

  She looked around the edge of the oversized computer monitor. Hawkins was leaning against the door frame. He was wearing a visitor’s ID in the lapel of his blue blazer and had a lopsided grin on his bearded face.

  Abby’s jaw sagged in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Don’t you remember our phone conversation a few hours ago?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Then you’ll remember telling me I had to get here by eight.” He pointed at the wall clock, which read 7:55.

  “But I never imagined—”

  “That I could be here as promised?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Hawkins wouldn’t have imagined it either. After he contacted Abby the night before, he had used the special number Fletcher had given him to call if he needed support services. In this case, back up had come in the form of a ride on a private jet and the use of a car with government plates. Having Fletcher’s number was akin to having a genii in a magic lamp.

  “How’d you get here so quickly?” Abby asked.

  “I caught a ride to Washington on a Navy plane,” he explained. “My Woods Hole ID got me past your security.”

  Abby remembered the outrageous statements Matt had made after his Navy discharge and wondered if his off-the-wall claim was the sign of a mental relapse.

  Forcing a smile onto her lips she crooned, as if talking to a dim-witted child, “Matt, you’re not even in the Navy anymore.”

  Hawkins stepped into the office and flopped into a chair. “You have any coffee?”

  Abby used the intercom and called for a pot of coffee and two cups, which arrived within minutes.

  “You’re looking well,” she said, staring at Matt over the rim of her cup.

  “Thanks. And you are as lovely as ever.”

  “Thank you. Tell me more about that navy ride,” she said.

  Hawkins had tuned into the patronizing tone, but he took a sip of coffee and said, “Please call the Naval War College in Newport and ask for Dr. Charles Fletcher. Tell Dr. Fletcher I’m thinking of using your company.”

  “Who’s Dr. Fletcher?” she said.

  He nodded toward the computer screen. “Look him up on the website.”

  Humor him, she thought. Bring him gently back to reality. With a smile frozen on her face, she Googled the war college site and clicked Fletcher’s name from the staff listings. A photo and biography of Fletcher popped up.

  Hawkins studied Abby as she read about Fletcher and called the war college number. Her dark red hair was parted in the middle, and cut short, curving down in points to her chin, framing the same beautiful face he had fallen in love with when they had first met on board ship. The high bridge nose and haughty upward tilt to her chin should have warned him of her strong personality, but he had been intent on her lush body. Once they were ashore, they had begun a heated courtship that culminated a short time later in their marriage.

  Abby’s call had gotten through.

  “Matt Hawkins asked me to call you, Dr. Fletcher. He’s here in my office. He says you can vouch that he is on Navy duty. Oh he’s not.” She smiled in triumph at Hawkins.

  “I’m not officially working for the navy,” Hawkins said in a low voice.

  “He says he’s not officially with the navy, Dr. Fletcher.” The smile vanished. “Oh. He’s been given a consulting assignment? Yes. I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  She hung up and stared at Hawkins.

  “Your Dr. Fletcher confirms that you are consulting for a special assignment. I’d like to know more.”

  Matt got up and closed the door. Then he returned to his chair and gave her an account of his meeting at the War College. Her brow darkened as he told her about the assignment to find a lost treasure in the wilds of Afghanistan. She placed her hands palm down on her desk and gazed at him with a soft expression in the big blue-green eyes that had always reminded Hawkins of tropic seas.

  “We weren’t married very long, but I still care a lot about you and your welfare.”

  “I still feel the same about you, Abby.”

  She allowed herself a quick smile. “What you have just described is a dangerous, may I say, insane mission. You could be killed.”

  “I know that. Which is why I’ve come here to ask for your help. I need your logistics expertise.”

  Abby shook her head. “Matt, look around you, for god sakes. Do you know how many projects we’re juggling? GLT is an international contractor. We’ve got sixteen hundred employees here and around the world. We’re not just military; we serve the commercial and humanitarian sectors as well. We’re moving warplanes and tow tractors. Barracks and kitchens. We make sure that equipment gets where it is needed, when it is needed, anywhere in the world.”

  “That last phrase sounds like a marketing slogan,” Hawkins said.

  “It is,” Abby replied. “I came up with it.”

  “I like it,” Hawkins said.

  “Thanks. Here’s the bottom line. The government’s outsourcing more and more jobs to companies like ours. In addition to keeping military supply lines open, I’m up to my ears setting up camps at a half dozen disaster locations. We’ve got goods and people moving on planes and ships around the world. There’s no company in the U.S. that does the kind of stuff we’re doing, the way we do it.”

  Hawkins had followed his ex-wife’s career since she left the Navy, feeling an indirect pride as he watched her form one of the biggest logistics corporations in the country, eventually becoming its CEO. Her success didn’t surprise anyone who had watched her meteoric rise through the Navy after graduating with honors from the Naval Academy at Annapolis.

  “Hell, Abby, you just made my argument for me. It’s like the Carley Simon song from that James Bond movie. No one in the world does it better than GLT.”

  “I won’t disagree with that, but let me ask you a question. I hope you won’t take this the wrong way. But given your hostile attitude towards the Navy, why did they choose you to go on a mission that has national security at stake?”

  “I asked the same question. Fletcher said I was uniquely qualified, whatever that means.”

  “Even with the unique circumstances of your discharge?”

  “Those circumstances will no longer stand after this mission.” He told her about his bargain with Fletcher.

  “You really are determined about this, Matt.”

  “I think that’s self-evident.”

  Abby pursed her lips in thought. “I’m not saying I will take this job, but if I did, what would you offer in return?”

  “Name it.”

  “Okay then. Two conditions. First I want you to purge your mind of that whole episode in Afghanistan.”

  “Easier said than done, Abby. I can lock up my memories, but I still w
alk with a limp.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but you’ve got to forget the past. You know how damaging your obsession has been.”

  Hawkins was well aware that his moods and outbursts after his return from Afghanistan had helped destroy their marriage. She had been riding high with her career and had a hard time dealing with his suspicions that her beloved Navy had not only failed him but turned on him.

  “I apologize for all that,” he said. “You’re a good woman, Abby.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a quick smile. “But it’s you I care about. Your obsession will kill your chances for a normal life.”

  “I have a normal life.”

  “Oh really, Mr. Normal. When was the last time you had a meaningful romantic relationship?”

  Without thinking about it, Hawkins said, “With you.”

  Silence ensued for a moment. Then Abby said, “Do you really believe that national security is involved in this crazy mission? That if we don’t stop this treasure grab, thousands of people will die?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told, Abby. That’s all I can say.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  Hawkins blinked at the quick decision. He sighed with relief. “Thanks, Abby.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I said there was a second condition. I go to Afghanistan with you. I travel to Kabul several times of year for my work so I can call this a business trip.”

  Hawkins had no intention of having his ex-wife on the mission. He’d let her go as far as Kabul and dump her.

  “Thanks, Abby. I’ll teleconference you tomorrow night to go over strategy.”

  “I’ll start the ball rolling as soon as you leave. Who else is on our team?”

  “No one yet. You were the first one I asked.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “In that case you’d better get busy.”

  She saw him to the door and came back to her desk. She was smiling as she punched out the number for her operations department. Seeing Matt again reminded her that life with Hawkins had never been a bed of roses. But it was seldom dull.