Gold of Kings Read online

  THE TRIP TO SALAMIS WAS probably pointless, but needed to be done. Harry liked how Storm had seen him off, no unnecessary instructions, no reminders of things he’d never forget, just off and go. He was less pleased with Emma’s response—the guarded words, the tension. Not to mention the gun and the gaze to match.

  Which was why he wanted to make this trip alone.

  Once out of Lefkosa’s snarl, the road ran straight and flat and hot under a milky Mediterranean sky. The map called the baking plains the Mesarya. To his left, the Kyrenia mountains ran high and sharp, carving out a patch of sky. Harry found himself recalling mornings on the sea. He had always been an early starter. The seas were often calmest then, the water clearer. He loved the early morning dives, when the light still wasn’t strong enough to filter down below about thirty feet. He loved to stop at the point of liquid twilight and float in the blissful nothingness. He had made some of his biggest hauls while the rest of the world was still dragging itself out of bed.

  Soon as Harry pulled into a Salamis parking lot, he knew the trip was useless, at least as far as finding clues to the treasure. Storm’s findings had been reasonably precise. The early Christians had been relegated to a forest outside the city walls. They formed a separate community, away from the Roman and Greek temple cults that dominated Salamis. They supported themselves as woodcutters and suppliers of charcoal and pine resin, which was used as an early antiseptic. They were excluded from most city activities, and persecuted on occasion. The forest was still there, but had been reshaped into a city park. Families picnicked and kids played and dogs barked. There was no way Harry was going to walk through a city park and come up with a prize.

  Still, he spent a couple of hours scoping out the ruins. Salamis had been almost completely destroyed by the earthquake of AD 332, and the peninsula that had formed its harbor area had disappeared beneath the waves. When Constantine’s mother arrived ten months later and offered royal support, the survivors had chosen to rebuild three miles farther inland. Harry walked the ruins, reveling in the silence and the timeless quality of a billion buried secrets. Part of what made him a good salvager was loving the tales attached to the prizes, like the nine-tenths of an iceberg that remained hidden from almost everyone else.

  A rock bounced down the coliseum wall, making him start. Sean suddenly seemed impossibly close. The brusque old man stumped alongside Harry in his impatient gait, as though angry his aging body could no longer keep up with his mind. Just as he had walked that last night, leading Harry into the church, trying to cut off Harry’s argument by entering hallowed ground. Only Harry had been too hot to pay any attention to such niceties, and he had lifted the church’s roof with his angry blast. But Harry was paying full attention now. And the hairs on the nape of his neck rose with the certainty that he no longer walked alone.

  The Roman road ran arrow straight from the submerged port to the Coliseum. Overhead the wind drifted through the pines. It was a remarkably natural sensation, walking through ruins seventeen centuries old, communing with the dead. Sean’s voice seemed as clear as the murmuring trees and the waves lapping the bitter shoreline. Harry didn’t mind that he couldn’t make out a single word of what old Sean said. The meaning came through anyway, written on the ancient stones and the floating clouds and the deep hush of days beyond count. It was all tied together, threads woven on the loom of mystery. Death and life, treasure and love. All of it.

  By the time Harry returned to the car and headed back to Lefkosa, he knew exactly what needed doing.

  LEFKOSA REMINDED EMMA OF MEXICO. She had vacationed once in Acapulco. She had loathed the other tourists’ frantic laughter almost as much as she had the tequila. She’d started walking the city, delving into the regions beyond the reach of tourist dollars. The second day of her self-guided tour, she’d been stopped by a couple of federales who spoke passable English. They had found it hilarious, this Anglo agent walking the city’s backstreets, searching for she knew not what. So they’d let her play “ride along,” and that night she’d helped subdue a bank robber. After that, they’d basically adopted her. She’d gone to both their homes for cookouts. A relative had taught her how to dive in Acapulco Bay. At the end of her holiday, three carloads had come to see her off.

  Lefkosa held a dusty down-at-heel air, like the areas leading from the glitzy Mexican beaches back inland toward the barrios. Only Lefkosa contained no resort area. It sat at the base of the island’s northern mountain range, on a flat, hot plain beneath a sky turned milky with dust. To her left she could just make out the official border crossing. The car rental agent had told them the border had been closed for two weeks. No reason why, no timetable for reopening. She stared at the towering gate with its banners and flags. Beside it, razor wire glinted around the rooftop of an abandoned building with bricked-up windows, now a part of the no-go zone.

  Storm said, “Harry Bennett is a good man.”

  Emma stared at her. “Talk about out of the blue.”

  “Oh, right. Stand there and tell me you haven’t been thinking about him.”

  Emma kept walking.

  “He’s got his eye on you, girl.”

  “What about you two? He obviously thinks the world of you.”

  “The feeling is mutual.” Storm said to the street ahead, “One moment I feel like I’ve known Harry all my life. Then he does something, and I don’t think I know him at all.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Most people see trouble coming and then run. Harry goes into attack mode. The man I think I know disappears and somebody else takes his place. A primeval warrior. Barely tamed.”

  “Your knight in shining armor.”

  Storm stopped and looked at her. “That’s how it feels.”

  Emma pulled her forward. “Harry is a treasure hunter. A deep-sea salvage man. I’m…”

  “You’re lonely.”

  Emma wanted to deny it. But the lie would not emerge. “What about you?”

  Storm shook her head. “There’s a difference between being alone and feeling lonely. I’m a pro at this game.”

  “What, you’re saying nothing is ever going to break through and get to you?”

  “Someday I’ll tell you about my early home life. I’ve tried men. My scars run too deep to ever give them a decent chance.”

  They passed a café filled with men, only men. Hookahs bubbled. Dice rattled across a backgammon board. The café froze as all the men watched them pass. Emma gave the men five seconds of heat, then changed the subject with “Tell me again what we need from the newspaper.”

  “The Smithsonian maintains an archival record of archeological finds around the world. I spotted a mention of a mausoleum discovered beneath the ruins of what may have been a fourth-century church. The mausoleum walls had carvings the author called curious. Vines and treasures and a shield he could not identify.” Storm pointed at the newspaper’s faded logo on the structure dominating the next block. “The source they quoted was this paper. The discoverer was an amateur archeologist, a former British commandant who had retired here.”

  “When was this?”

  “Winter of ’75.”

  “So, around the time of the partition.” Emma had her foot on the newspaper office’s front step when her phone rang. She fished the phone from her purse and checked the readout. She didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was downtown DC. She passed through the door Storm held open for her and said, “This is Webb.”

  “Agent Webb, this is Evan Raines.”

  “Hold on.” She cupped the phone. “I have to take this.”

  “When you’re done, find me in the archives.”

  Emma nodded and headed back toward the sunlight. “Go ahead.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, sir.” Evan Raines ran the FBI’s National Security Branch. Since his remit covered the Intelligence Directorate, he was Jack Dauer’s direct superior, only removed by six levels. The National Security director also ruled ov
er the Counterterrorism Division, Counterintel, and Weapons of Mass Destruction. The fact that Evan Raines personally placed this call was a very big deal.

  Raines said, “That makes things easier. We need to talk.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Off-the-record.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “As your superior—”

  “You’re wasting your breath and my time. Anything you say is official and will be passed on to my partner in Interpol. If you can’t handle that we have nothing to discuss.”

  “Your partner.”

  “That is affirmative, sir.”

  He sighed. “I’ll be back to you in ten.”

  “Make it twenty.” Only when she cut the connection did Emma realize her heart was racing.

  The newspaper receptionist was a slender man in his twenties who directed Emma up three floors to the archives. She found Storm seated at a long, scarred table surrounded by stacks of yellowed news-print. The papers had become compressed over time until they looked ironed flat. Storm said, “Can you believe it? They don’t even have microfiche.”

  “I just got a call from the FBI. I need to check in with Interpol, then talk to the FBI again.”

  “Take your time. I’m fine here.”

  “Hakim is going to want to know when you will talk with him.”

  Storm’s attention had already returned to the pages spread out before her. “Tell him tonight.”

  “I’ll be downstairs by the front entrance.”

  Emma coded in Hakim’s number as she descended the stairs. Hakim answered with “Where are you?”

  “I’ve had to give Harry my word I won’t discuss any details of where we go or what we find. Not with you, not with anybody.”

  The contrast to her American superiors was jarring. No argument, no verbal shoving. Just, “Harry Bennett knows you are an intelligence officer, yet he relies on you to keep your word. That level of trust is remarkable.”

  She didn’t have time for the burning lump that filled her heart cavity. “Evan Raines just called me.”

  Hakim digested that, then, “Deputy Director Raines has a reputation for being extremely honest and outspoken. It is said these are the reasons why he will never be made director. Assigning him to speak with you sends a clear message.”

  “What should I do?”

  Hakim’s smile filtered through the system. “Your American hard-ball approach has worked well so far. They have responded in less than two days. Raines has phoned you in the middle of the night his time, which suggests they have just reached a decision and feel the matter is so pressing they do not have a moment to lose. I would advise you to continue in the same vein.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The harder you push, the faster they must react, and the more we might learn. Good luck.”

  “AGENT WEBB? EVAN RAINES. WHERE are you now?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

  “That’s hardly the proper way to begin our dialogue.”

  “With all due respect, sir, your picking up the phone doesn’t change a thing.”

  He didn’t take that well. “I’m trying hard as I know how to make amends, Webb. I suggest you limber up and bend a little.”

  Emma did not respond.

  “Look, we all know Jack Dauer made a serious error in judgment.”

  “I want a formal written apology, one that censures Dauer.”

  “Let’s be reasonable—”

  “Your letter must state categorically that any charges leveled against me are bogus.”

  “Dauer did not formally charge you with anything, Webb.”

  Emma did not need to pretend at heat. “I thought you were supposed to be stand-up, Raines. But here you are, feeding me that same old fibbie drivel.”

  “Dauer warned me you made a habit of getting out of line.”

  “Try treating me with the respect I deserve. In the meantime, your letter must include a full commendation, and state that I and I alone was responsible for bringing to light the real issues at stake in this case.”

  “I haven’t seen any such conclusive evidence.”

  “And you won’t. Not unless I hold a letter that counteracts any downcheck Jack Dauer even implies in his report.”

  Raines mulled that over. “I’ll need to get back to you.”

  “I’m not done. Matter of fact, I haven’t even started. I want contact details for Yves Boucaud. And the full reasons why you have been protecting him. In writing.”

  Raines actually laughed out loud.

  “You think Interpol won’t track him down? Here’s your big chance, Raines. Prove us wrong. Show the world how the fibbies can be team players.” When he didn’t respond, Emma added, “Otherwise I’ll break this case without you, and in my official report I’ll give full details as to how the fibbies went out of their way to shield a murderer and a possible terrorist.”

  “That is absolutely not true.”

  “Then prove it.”

  “If I give you my word I’ll do my best to make both these things happen, will you retract your threat to go public?”

  “Absolutely. For another three days.”

  “We’re not adversaries, Agent Webb. No matter what you may now be thinking.”

  “Show me.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  HARRY FOUND THE LADIES WAITING for him in the hotel lobby. The vast chamber echoed a refrain from the era of waxed moustaches and stiff crinoline and gin sipped on sunset verandas. The potted plants were dusty, the furniture lumpy, the walls decked out with campaign flags and animal heads. Storm asked, “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. Nada.” Harry slumped into the neighboring seat and motioned to where Emma sat clamped up tight, arms wrapped around her middle, chewing on something attached to the inside of her cheek. “What’s with her?”

  “She’s been like that since she got a call from Washington this morning.”

  Emma did not look over. Storm’s face, however, looked illuminated from within. Harry asked, “You found something?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Looks to me like it’s a lot more definite than that.”

  “There’s a problem.”

  “Hey. This is the treasure business. Problems come with the territory.”

  She laid out her notes. “Colonel Braitheswaite. Commandant of the Fifteenth Hampshire Foot, whatever that is. Amateur archeologist. According to the Cyprus Times, he loved nothing more than puttering around ruins.”

  Harry could feel the tension radiating off Emma, strong as heat. He had no choice but to turn his back to the lady. One thing at a time. “So the colonel’s a putterer.”

  “There were two articles. One about the colonel, who had retired on Cyprus after running the British bases here. The article described how he refused to leave North Cyprus after the partition. How he was happy here and felt safe and could still get his marmalade from Harrods.”

  “Local propaganda,” Harry interpreted.

  “Pretty much. The other was by the colonel himself. Describing the monastery and how he’d been around it several times over the years. Then on his last trip, he found the entrance to the mausoleum and got inside. He’d planned to go back and take pictures, but that next week the uprising started and the Turkish army landed.”

  “So there’s this one amateur putterer who saw this thing one time.”

  “Yes.”

  “So far so good.”

  “It gets better.” She used her notes as something to anchor her hands and keep them from crawling with the excitement that lifted her voice to one notch below music. “The colonel describes a vine carved into the crypt walls. One that ran the entire way around all four walls.”

  “A vine.”

  “Unlike anything he had ever seen before. There were also mosaics, some in excellent condition. A Menorah. A chest. Three shovels crossed like blades. And a shield that resembled the old Byzantine royal emblems, but with a crest he had never seen be
fore.”

  Harry found it necessary to clamp down hard on his own internal fusion power source. “Now give me the bad.”

  “He never got back inside the crypt,” Storm replied. “Because the Turks turned the area surrounding the ruins into a military compound. Six months later, the colonel suffered a stroke. Three weeks after that, he was gone. I found his obit.”

  Harry leaned back. Thinking.

  Storm watched him. “Pretty bad, huh.”

  “Where is this place?”

  She had a map ready. “The region is called Guzelyurt. Around the peninsula from Kyrenia. Between these two villages here, Yayla and Akdeniz.”

  Harry rose to his feet. “Time to relocate, ladies. Kyrenia is calling.”

  THEY STOPPED AT A KYRENIA real-estate agency advertising weekly rentals. The agent was only too happy to show them a former shepherd’s cottage in Bellapais, a village perched on the hills above Kyrenia Harbor. The agent took the details of Emma’s passport and credit card, accepted Storm’s cash payment, showed them around the place, and departed. They shopped for basics at a local market, enjoying a trace of normality. Emma gradually emerged from her tight shell, even going so far as smiling in response to Harry’s antics.

  When they returned to the cottage, Storm insisted they go off on their own. What she wanted more than anything else was a chance to be alone. As they departed, Emma appeared flushed—radiant and tense and strong and fractured.

  Storm ate a solitary meal of local cheese and salad and bread. Then she took her cell phone out to the minuscule veranda and dialed the number Emma had left. When Hakim answered, she said, “Mr. Sundera, this is Storm Syrrell.”

  “Thank you for speaking with me, Ms. Syrrell. Would you mind if I recorded our conversation?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Hakim’s accent sounded tempered by a gentle nature. “I am not your American authorities, Ms. Syrrell. I do not consider you either a threat or a suspect. You are an ally. An important one. Of course you have a choice.”

  There was more than gentle politeness behind his response. This man reminded her of some of Sean’s favorite clients, people who held lifetime passions down deep, whose money had neither corrupted nor changed the core of them. “In that case, be my guest.”