Ancient Echoes (12 page)

“That’s nothing but a folk tale.” Michael had no patience
for stories now.

“Yet someone paved the way for you to come here, to find
Lady Hsieh’s body.”

“That’s ridiculous. It was my idea to come to Mongolia,”
Michael said.

“Oh? Are you so sure your brother didn’t begin it all?” The limousine
stopped, and the driver opened the door for Michael and Jianjun to leave. Zhao
didn’t get out. “Remember that your government could have stopped you, or
stopped the people watching you. They are more involved than you know. And so
are others. The reason for their involvement is something you might ponder, if
you want to stay alive.” His gaze shifted to the runway. “That small plane is
yours. Once in Beijing, simply show the papers I gave you, and you will be
granted passage. I suggest you do not tell anyone about any of this. Also, do
not deviate from the plans you have been given and attempt to stay in Beijing.
Such actions will not be healthy for you or”—cold eyes leaped to Jianjun—”your
cohort.”

The driver shut the door.

As Michael walked to the Cessna 172, he noticed Mongolian
soldiers holding Russian Dragunov rifles with bayonets attached watched him. He
decided not to argue about leaving the country.

But as he got into the Cessna, Zhao’s words about his
brother reverberated in his head.

Washington D.C.

CHARLOTTE’S CAR WAS in the parking
lot at Dulles International Airport. Only four days had passed since she’d left
home, full of anxiety but also anticipation, to board a flight to Israel. As
she got into the familiar old Taurus and started the engine, the mental and
physical toll of the last few days hit her. She bent forward, her forehead
against the steering wheel as unbidden tears fell. She felt alone, numb.
Whoever was behind this had more money, pull, and knowledge than she. She
should keep her head down, slink into the nearest corner, and fade into the
background, just as she’d done for the last thirteen years.

She sat back, lit a cigarette and indulged in self-pity a
moment longer. But as she did, thoughts of the men who had lost their lives
filled her.
And of Dennis.
His death wasn’t an
accident. She knew it in her heart. Perhaps she had always known it.

Angrily, she stubbed out the cigarette. One person, right
here in Washington, might be able to help her: Professor Lionel Rempart, George
Washington University. She wanted to know more, lots more, about those visits.

She used her cell phone to call the Anthropology Department
at George Washington and asked for the professor, only to learn he was teaching
that year at Boise State University.

She ended the call and stared at the cell phone as the
adrenaline-and-emotion fueled burst of energy drained from her. She needed to
reach Rempart, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She would go home first.
Recharge.
Call from there.

Home, what a comforting word.

Home was an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Alexandria,
Virginia. When she had returned to D.C. after Dennis’ death, she sold their
Dupont Circle co-op and found a place in the country. She wanted quiet and
couldn’t bear the idea of living where she and Dennis had been happy together.

Being honest, she wanted more than quiet. She wanted to
hibernate, unbothered by anyone. Thinking about the way she'd been living her
life gave her pause. Where had the young carefree, gutsy woman gone? The one
who married a man she hardly knew and had followed him half-way around the
globe? The one who wanted to explore the world—both modern and ancient? How had
she lost herself? Had she buried herself along with her husband?

When she walked into the house she stopped a moment in the
hallway, feeling as alien and incomplete as she’d ever felt since Dennis’
death. She took a deep breath,
then
went straight to
the closet where she had stored his papers.

The boxes were neatly stacked. She hadn’t wanted to throw
them away, nor had she ever gone through them. They were his life’s work, all
she had left of the fabulous mind of the man she loved.

She placed the top box on the floor, and sat. Inside, she
found a pile of small leather bound notebooks rubber-banded together. Dennis
took notes about everything and would go through two or three such notebooks a
year. With shaking fingers she pulled out the top one, the last he had used.

The dried blood on the cover and along the edges of the
pages caused several to stick together. Dennis had carried it the day he’d been
killed.

Black and purple spots danced before her eyes. She took
several deep, ragged breaths before she opened it and looked at the familiar
hard-to-read scrawl. A couple of pages had dates and times, appointments
perhaps?

But a page near the end of the notebook, near the last words
Dennis wrote, stopped her short.

This page was easier to read then most, set up as a
checklist. It said:

Thomas Jefferson—OK

Lewis & Clark—OK

Others—OK

PLP—OK

—
OK

Idaho—??

She sat leaning back against the wall, needing to catch her
breath, to think what it all meant. A dark shadow passed outside the sheers
that covered the living room window and then disappeared.

She put down the notebook and crawled to her purse for her
Glock.

The sound of breaking glass came from the back of the house,
then the side, then the living room. A device landed on the floor where she had
been sitting a moment before, and burst into flame with a loud
whoosh!

It caught the box of Dennis’ papers, and quickly moved to
the draperies. An accelerant caused them to burn hot and fast.

Fire leaped around her. Whoever did this must have been
watching the house, saw her drive up, saw her enter. She wanted to run outside,
but didn’t dare. More than one person was surely out there, surrounding the
house, waiting to kill her as she tried to escape. If she stayed, she would die
in the fire.

The farmhouse had a root cellar under the pantry. She threw
her jacket over her head, clutched her handbag and gun, and ran to it. The
smoke was growing thick, and she had trouble breathing. She pulled open the
cellar’s trap door and fled down the stairs, shutting it tight behind her.

Aiming her Glock at the trap door in case anyone came after
her, she used her cell phone to call 911. The crackle of flames told her the
entire house was burning. All Dennis’ papers were being destroyed. She couldn’t
help but wonder if she or those papers had been the primary target.
Or both.
She sat on the ground, keeping her head low as the
ceiling slowly filled with smoke. Two minutes.
Four.
Five.
Then the loud wail of sirens.

She waited until she heard shouts of firemen, then crept
through the spiders and other insects to a wooden ladder that led to the cellar
door that opened directly to the garden, the one farmers used when loading the
cellar with produce.

She slid back the heavy bolt lock and pushed upward. The
door didn’t budge. Years of non-use, plus dirt, leaves and grass covered it on
the outside. Fear of being stuck here, of dying from smoke inhalation, nearly
caused her to panic. She put her back to the door, and used every ounce of
strength to lift. It creaked, snapped,
then
opened.

Still gripping the Glock, she peered out.

Beijing

JIANJUN WAVED THE papers from
Director Zhao as he dealt with PRC customs and immigration. His face grew red,
and his voice higher and louder as the discussion continued. It wasn’t nearly
as straightforward as Zhao had led them to believe, but Jianjun’s background
along with his Beijing accent, the same as used by the governing Communist
Party, served him and Michael well.

Michael stopped listening to the bureaucratic wrangling as
he considered Zhao’s words. If Zhao wasn’t lying, Lady Hsieh’s corpse must have
disintegrated. But how did it happen so quickly?

Michael wondered how much his brother Lionel knew. That
Lionel might be involved in something shady wouldn’t be impossible to believe.
Michael and Lionel were completely different, always had been,
always
would be.

Calls to Lionel’s cell phone and Georgetown landline were
unsuccessful, but the call to George Washington University yielded better, if
unexpected, results.

Michael phoned Boise State University’s anthropology
department and received even more shocking news. Lionel hadn't checked in from
his remote location, and all attempts to reach him had been unsuccessful.

Assurances were made that an electronic or technical glitch
must be the reason, and that Lionel and his students were fine. They had
supplies, a seasoned guide, and the weather was clear and warm. A search party
had been dispatched. A group that size would be easy to
locate,
and they expected good news to arrive any moment.

Michael hung up on the garbled platitudes. Lionel was a desk
jockey, not an out-in-the-field guy. He wouldn’t know the right end of tent. He
had once mentioned Idaho to Michael in connection with the French alchemical
book, and now he was missing in, of all places, Idaho.

It only took Michael a split second to make up his mind.

Time to go to Idaho

 Part II
 

 Idaho

DEREK HAMMILL SNORTED with derision
when he saw the two supposed tough guys sitting at a bar in tiny Riggins, Idaho.
The dark tavern’s unpainted wood walls were decorated with posters and back-lit
fixtures advertising beer and whiskey. A couple of dim amber pendant lights
hung over the lacquered bar.

A former Delta Force major, Hammill had the wide shoulders
and washboard abs of a weight lifter. He peeled off his sunglasses, revealing
deep-set steel blue eyes that peered coldly from narrow slits in a hard, lean
face with a heavy jaw. Pale blond hair made his tan appear darker than it was.
Hammill’s men never referred to him by anything other than The Hammer.

A private jet had brought Hammill and the other seven
members of his team to the McCall airport.

It didn't take long for them to track the stolen satellite
phone to Riggins, a few miles east of Hell's Canyon near the confluence of the
main Salmon River with one called the Little Salmon. The halfwit who took it
must have used it to call just about everyone he knew. The town was small
enough that Hammill found his quarry in the second bar he hit. Simply dialing the
number and waiting for the phone to ring once told him exactly which of the
customers he sought.

Hammill took a stool near Skinny Buck Jewel and ordered a
beer. He then motioned the bartender to refill Skinny Buck and Big Kyle’s
whiskey glasses. Small talk followed.

After a couple rounds of drinks Hammill convinced the guides
to go outside with him to discuss hiring them for some private business. Big
Kyle and Skinny Buck suspected that Hammill would propose something illegal,
but that had never worried them before.

They sauntered down to the river and along the bank. Once
there, Hammill pulled out a 10 mm Smith and Wesson 1076, its bulk making it
look lethal. He released the safety. Big Kyle and Skinny Buck stumbled
backwards, ready to run. “I wouldn't do that,” Hammill's words were soft, yet
deadly. The two froze.

They continued on for nearly a mile to a remote, lonely spot
sheltered by pines and thorny hackberry trees.

“The students and professor you stole the camping gear
from,” Hammill said, “where are they?”

“What students?” Big Kyle asked innocently.

Hammill didn't bother to respond.

Skinny Buck couldn't tear his eyes from the weapon and broke
into a cold sweat. “We don't know!” he said. “They wanted off the rafts after
they overturned. We left them on the river bank like they told us to!”

“Without their gear?”
Hammill's
face contorted with contempt.

“Put the gun down, man.” Big Kyle shifted nervously. “No
need for that. Who are you, a relative? Those kids forgot a couple backpacks,
that's
all. You want them, they're yours.”

“Where did you leave the kids?” Their lies bored Hammill.

“Far from here,” Big Kyle said earnestly.
“On
the main Salmon, up past the Middle Fork.”

“Where were they headed?”

Big Kyle glanced at Skinny Buck and swallowed hard before answering.
“Don’t know.”

“But you know where you left them.”

“Sort of,” Big Kyle said. “But it’s far from here, and I’m
sure they’ve moved on.”