Black Scorpion (9 page)

Enough to set her heart fluttering.

Wasting no time at all, Scarlett placed the pages within the clear plastic, resealed the top, and touched a button. She heard a mechanical whir followed by a dull whooshing sound and adjusted the cool light and magnifying glass to inspect the now protected contents by using easily manipulated tools, built into the protective shell with the controls on the outside, to turn and examine the pages.

As civilization turned from BC to AD, parchment emerged as a more practical alternative to papyrus, making the written word far more accessible to the general public and far longer-lasting given parchment's ability to better withstand the elements. The animal skins were soaked in lime and scraped, stretched, and dried, rubbed smooth with pumice, and cut into sheets then sewn together. Eventually, the Romans also substituted parchment for the wooden leaves of the
tabula
to form a kind of notebook, like the one revealed now, that became the prototype of the modern book. Parchment was folded in half, stitched together and then finished in a cover to protect the accounts, notes, drafts, or letters contained inside.

But the contents of these parchment pages were none of those. The layout of the cursive text made it look more like a journal, a recounting of something in the ancient Latin dialect favored by the most noted scribes of the time. Scarlett had become expert with Latin linguistics from the time of the ancient Romans, but was still under no illusions she'd be able to translate the entire contents of the journal in a single night. That would take days, weeks, or months, even for the most adept in the field given that no writings this aged would be totally intact, requiring sophisticated extrapolation to fill in the gaps. But what looked to be the journal's title, printed boldly on the top of page one, was something else again. And Scarlett positioned both the cool light and the magnifying glass over the clear plastic protecting it for closer inspection.

She felt her heart skip a beat, holding her breath as she checked the titled words, the name of the author beneath them lost to the ages, again to make sure she'd read them right.

*   *   *

The figure laid low on a ridge of the Retezat Mountains that overlooked the archaeological dig site. He held the Brunton Eterna ELO Highpower binoculars to his eyes, marveling at how they provided a sharp view over such a long distance, enhanced further by night-vision capabilities. At just thirty-two ounces they delivered a crisp, clear image thanks to a bright fifty-one-millimeter objective and BaK-4 prism glass with fully multicoated lenses. Right now those lenses could make out nothing of the woman who'd sneaked into the tent toting a leather bag around her shoulder. But he kept them pressed against his eyes anyway, waiting for her to reemerge.

*   *   *

The first inside page indicated that the journal contained the results of an expedition indeed ordered by Julius Caesar himself. From what she could glean from the dates provided, the expedition had begun during the height of Caesar's power, undertaken by a loyalist order handpicked for the task, an expedition of an unprecedented elaborate nature for the time.

She couldn't stop now. It was a tedious process. Translating the ancient Latin text but hearing the words as English in her mind, even imagining she could hear the unnamed author's voice, the cadence and rhythm of the words familiar to her as if she'd somehow encountered this particular scribe's writings before. The process went much better than expected, despite the fact that many of the letters had faded over the thousands of years since they'd been scrawled. Scarlett found herself unable to lift her eyes from the fragile parchment pages, falling into a rhythm that saw her make far more progress through the early sections than she'd ever imagined.

She came to a section where the scribe finally identified himself, having to reread that portion three times to be convinced she had it right. And if she did …

Scarlett heard a shuffling behind her, a cool breeze entering the tent through a parted flap.

“I thought so,” said Henri Bernard.

 

FIFTEEN

L
AS
V
EGAS,
N
EVADA

“The Tyrant Global bonds we issued are trading at their lowest level yet,” Naomi said, checking the numbers on her Tyrant Class Samsung Galaxy Note as they drove back to the airport outside of Carson City. “And the reporting that will come tomorrow on the hearing is almost certain to depress their value even further.

“I think that's what the hearing was all about,” Michael said.

“We need to consider that the value of those bonds makes Tyrant Global a target for a takeover. On top of that, if one party came in and bought up enough of the debt…”

“Aldridge Sterling maybe?”

Sterling Capital Partners managed the largest hedge fund in North America and one of the largest in the world, boasting an AUM, or assets under management, of more than five hundred billion dollars. After long professing to have no interest in the gaming industry, Sterling had reportedly changed his mind and was rumored to be seriously pursuing a significant position in Las Vegas and beyond.

“Maybe he does have his sights fixed on MGM Holdings,” Michael theorized, with that in mind. “Diluting the value of Tyrant Global would make an acquisition of that size impossible for us, clearing the field for him.”

“Then we've got to consider what would ordinarily seem ridiculous.”

“Like what?”

“Like the possibility that Sterling has the head of the Gaming Control Board in his pocket,” Naomi followed.

Michael looked up again from scanning the volume of e-mails that had built up over the course of the hearing. “He's one of the richest men in America. He can put lots of people in his pocket, but he can't put me there and maybe that's the point.”

“Aldridge Sterling is gobbling up more of our bonds on the cheap, hoping we default.” Naomi studied him. “Sterling and Wall Street both think you're vulnerable, Michael, and that makes you weak. They're hurting our capital position and our ability to borrow.”

“Then they're in for a big surprise when I fight to the death to protect what I've built. If Aldridge Sterling is trying to destroy me, I'll find a way to destroy him first.”

*   *   *

“Any other news on your end?” Michael asked her.

“On what?” Naomi asked him.

“You know what.”

She smiled tightly. “Because you always ask me the same question that way, you mean? And the answer's the same, too: No, nothing new on the search for Raven Khan, in spite of the fact that we've hired the best investigators money can buy. She's a ghost.”

“For what we're paying these investigators, they should be able to find a ghost, Naomi.”

“Unless she's dead, a possibility you refuse to consider when it comes to Raven.”

“Because I know she isn't.”

“How?”

“Because I'm not. And she's my sister.”

“But she doesn't know that. And maybe she's not as indestructible as you are.”

“It runs in the family,” Michael said, smiling.

“Apparently, so does disappearing from one's past,” Naomi said, more pointedly. “Becoming another person entirely.”

“Raven was already that person. We can't find her because she doesn't want us to, anymore than she wants to use the private number we've left with all the contacts we've been able to identify. We'll only find her if she lets us, which means we've got to keep trying. Hire new investigators.”

“I told you, these firms are the best.”

“Then find better.”

*   *   *

Michael busied himself on the brief flight back to Las Vegas with the range of motion exercises the physical therapist had shown him on the mini-gym installed in the Gulfstream. He was lucky, went the prevailing medical opinion, not to have suffered any structural damage to the joint. A few more days and it would be virtually as good as new, although the swelling and purplish bruising made the injury seem much more serious than it actually was.

The hearing, and all the unanswered questions it raised, continued to plague him through the remainder of the flight that ended, as always, by flying as low and close to the Strip as FAA regulations allowed for their flight plan. The Seven Sins never looked so grand as when its palatial scope and shape was contrasted against the rest of the Vegas skyline. Gazing at it from the plane somehow made him feel closer to the resort as a symbol of his life and all his accomplishments, as well as all that remained to be achieved. Because the Seven Sins, and Las Vegas, didn't represent ends so much as beginnings. Once his dreams had involved only owning a casino. Now those dreams, realized more and more with each passing day, had expanded into other arenas, his appetite for expansion insatiable. From software, to telecom, to oil and gas, and to real estate and the entertainment industry as well as gaming, Michael Tiranno continued to expand his interests and his footprint as relentlessly as he had built the Seven Sins from no more than a vision.

Michael felt the medallion, the relic that had come to symbolize his success and perhaps much more, against his skin. Traced its outline through his shirt as he was jolted slightly forward with a thud, the Gulfstream having just touched down at McCarran Airport.

“We're home, Michael,” said Naomi.

 

SIXTEEN

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

“How are you feeling tonight, Dad?” Aldridge Sterling said to the figure in the wheelchair at the other end of the dining room table. “I'm waiting for an important call, so I hope you don't mind if I have to interrupt our usual dinner conversation.”

Sterling sat at the dining room table in his fifty-million-dollar penthouse inside the towering 15 Central Park West building, the entire floor offering a panoramic view of the city skyline from every room. But right now all Sterling was looking at were the cell phones on either side of him, waiting for either to ring while also waiting for his staff to finish preparing his dinner.

“Urrrrrrrrrrrrr,” came a gurgling rasp from the other end of the table, where his father sat motionless and unblinking in his wheelchair.

“What was that, Dad?”

“Urrrrrrrrrrrr,” his father uttered, although not necessarily in response to his son, since the great Harold Sterling had stopped responding to stimuli years before, after his third stroke confined him to his wheelchair for good.

“Remember what it was like to be a rich and powerful man? How's it feel to be helpless, useless, to have to wear diapers?”

No response at all this time, except for some drool that Aldridge Sterling watched trickle down his father's chin. The great Harold Sterling was an immigrant Jew who had managed to survive the Holocaust to become one of the most esteemed United States senators of his generation, respected by his allies and feared by his enemies toward whom his animus knew no bounds. He had blazed a trail to leadership of the Senate based on compassion and good will that cloaked the ruthless cunning that emerged in stories and magazine articles about him later. His father was, by all indications, two entirely different men, and Aldridge might've felt closer to him had he known the ruthless side of Harold Sterling better.

Harold Sterling had hoped for similarly great things from his lone son, but Aldridge had found the life of a playboy much more to his liking. Any number of failed business deals had depleted enough of the family fortune for his father to threaten cutting him off on numerous occasions. And when he finally followed through on those threats, it was the greatest thing he ever did for his son; in fact, the very thing that had led to Aldridge Sterling becoming one of the most successful hedge fund managers of all time. At present, he directed a fund that was growing at a marginal rate of an astounding 25 percent annually.

Sterling specialized in betting on failure, leading a recent cover story in a financial magazine to proclaim him “King of the Short.” Making hundreds of millions, even billions, when stocks went down instead of up. Not that his father cared, past ninety now and forever bound to a wheelchair. This hero of the Holocaust, who survived a concentration camp to become the conscience of the senate and the entire United States, kept from the presidency only by the fact he was born a German.

“How will it feel witnessing me become the richest man in the world?” Sterling asked from his side of the table.

The old man finally turned his way, toward a voice instead of a face, no sign of recognition flashing at all. Sterling looked at his father and still saw flickers of his own reflection. Though everything else had given out, the old man's features had somehow remained strong. Same high cheekbones, same deep-set eyes that looked too small for his face. Identical furrows carved across his tanned brow beneath the same thick shock of hair, white in his case but salt and pepper for Aldridge, that had stubbornly refused to fall out. Same piercing eyes that clung to life even after all else had failed him. He'd ground his once perfect set of teeth down to mere nubs and hated more than anything when one of the attendants tried to brush them.

Hard to believe this was the same man who'd built a fortune that had formed the foundation for the Sterling legacy of power. No longer the man who'd gone from Holocaust survivor to American citizen and, finally, legendary and beloved United States senator. No longer any man at all, really.

“How does it feel, Dad?” Aldridge Sterling asked, knowing there could be no response. “How does it feel to be dependent on the son you so despised, to have your life in my hands? I hope somewhere deep inside a part of you can still realize that and it makes your suffering even worse. That's why I cater to your every need, refuse to allow you a merciful death. Because as long as you're still alive, it means you're suffering and nothing pleases me more than to see that.”