The Moses Riddle (Thomas McAllister 'Treasure Hunter' Adventure Book 1) (19 page)

In a rare moment of calm, DJ glanced up at the picture that was tacked to the wall of his cubicle. It had been carefully cut from a magazine. It was of a lake, somewhere in the hills of northern New Mexico. On the far side of the lake were cabins, rustic looking, but new. They were spread apart, with trees between them for privacy. Some had small docks in front, with boats, and some did not. Merely looking at this image immediately dropped DJ’s diastolic and systolic blood pressure five points apiece. The picture represented his retirement. It represented his dream. Everything he’d ever wanted: peace and tranquility, on a beautiful lake. With a boat at his disposal, for those days when he felt like eating fish for dinner. His plan was to retire and to find this dream cabin, where he would live out the rest of his days. Happy and content. Payment for the hectic, frenetic years with the FBI.

Just as he started to drift back to that familiar question, the welcome question, of whether he would buy a Boston Whaler, a Cobalt, or a Sea Ray, Elmo walked by and handed him a fistful of papers.

“Here are the border crossing reports you asked for. Alphabetized by city and cross referenced by geographic location.”
DJ stared at him, images of gurgling motor boats still floated through his head. “Thanks. Good work.” He put them on his desk and wondered what Elmo’s retirement plans were. They had never talked about them. He shook himself back to the present and the search for the ever frustrating archeologist, Thomas McAlister.
This had become one of the most stressful assignments he’d ever had. He remembered thinking what an easy, almost laughable, assignment it originally appeared to be. Watching a man go about finding a treasure. An easy surveillance. But that was before he’d gotten fooled. Thrice.
First McAlister had disappeared right under the watchful eye of his best surveillance team. Then, after finding McAlister at the Camelback Inn, he disappeared again, only to be caught when he was halfway to Mexico. But then came the big blunder. The worst embarrassment of DJ’s career. McAlister had somehow extracted the real Ark, and planted a fake one. Bringing the fake one back to some of the most powerful people in Washington and telling them it was the real thing made him look like an incompetent fool.
No. This was no longer an easy case. Nor would he approach it as one. McAlister was smart and tricky. Wily might be a better word. He was better prepared than most of the adversaries DJ had ever come up against. Sure he was a civilian, but he was smart. Most criminals got a gun and then thought they could do whatever they wanted. They got cocky. Not McAlister. He was too smart for violence. He was a planner. He was the worst kind of adversary. An intellectual one. DJ hated him. Not because he couldn’t keep up with him, but because, with most criminals, he could rely on them to act on a base, primeval level. DJ was in touch with that level and could easily replicate it, which usually helped him predict his opponent’s next move. With McAlister, it wasn’t about emotion or testosterone; it was about brains. Advance planning. Contingencies. Out thinking and out maneuvering his opponent.
McAlister was not to be trifled with any longer. DJ needed to make the upcoming trade cleanly. Then, and only then, would he get his revenge. He had a special surprise in store for Thomas McAlister. A dirty, dark, forever surprise, that would take care of him for once and for all.
DJ looked again at the serene picture of the lake and the cabins and, for a second, by some odd visual aphorism, he could have sworn he saw wind blowing across the water, making little ripples and small waves.
A tempest in his paradise
. He closed his eyes and shook his head, and the image was normal again. The way he liked it. Serene.

After a night outside of Lexington, Thomas started the twelve-hour drive that would put him within a two to three hour striking distance of Manhattan. He wanted to arrive early on Thursday, to scout the city and work out escape routes. They had told him that after the trade they’d leave him alone, but he no longer believed them. He reasoned that if the government wanted the Ark, they would also want every picture, note, and map of its unearthing.

In order to adequately plan, Thomas needed to move around the city inconspicuously. He didn’t need a full disguise, just enough to throw off anyone who was scanning crowds and passersby.

He stopped at a Wal-Mart outside of Lexington city limits and bought what he thought a person from Kentucky might buy, if they were going on vacation to New York. He tried for tourist mixed with serious Nascar fan. His crowning purchase was a pair of brown polyester socks that he wore with white Nikes and a University of Kentucky baseball cap. He added some cheap sunglasses that he grabbed off a rack by the check out counter. He would look nothing like Thomas McAlister. It would be fun playing someone else for a few days.

He got on I-75, which would take him up to Cincinnati. It was a nice drive through a lot of country that he’d never seen before. He was left with two overriding impressions. One was that this part of the country, including the Adirondacks, was one of the most beautiful, underrated parts of the country. The other was that the divisions between social classes was getting wider everyday.

Despite America’s first world economy, despite all the technical progress and productivity increases, there were still large numbers of people living well below the poverty line. The government had forced it. Low income citizens were addicted to minimum wage, welfare and Medicare, and it was impossible to wean them off. The secret effect was the creation of a slave class. Low level healthcare, food and shelter were provided, but what Thomas saw as he drove were people living lives worse than that of the average institutionalized prisoner.

That night, Thomas stayed in a bed and breakfast. The government would be expecting him in the area tonight, or tomorrow, and would be monitoring the major hotels for people named McAlister and single men paying cash. He didn’t think there was any way they could monitor every small independent. He paid cash anyway.

Early Thursday morning, he drove the final three hours to Manhattan. He crossed through the Holland Tunnel and arrived exactly where he wanted to be: Canal Street. He didn’t know where he’d stay. He’d know it when he saw it. He could have asked Drew for a good inconspicuous place but there was a chance they could get to Drew. Anyone would talk, if threatened the right way. At times Thomas thought he was being too cautious, but he had nothing to lose by being overly cautious, and there was Ann to lose if he got caught.

He drove a few blocks on Canal and came to the edge of Chinatown. Street vendors lined the sidewalk selling Dooney & Burke’s knockoffs and $5 sunglasses with Gucci labels.

As he drove, Thomas became instinctively paranoid. Every parked van could be an observation team. He was also suspicious of anyone who looked directly at him. Then, one block later, he saw it. The Hotel Tokyo. Perfect. He passed the hotel, took the first right and was lucky enough to catch someone leaving a parallel parking space. He waited, parked, and was pleasantly surprised to see that the head of the meter had been knocked off by vandals. He grabbed his bags and strode around the

He immediately changed into his tourist outfit, then left to run some errands. He picked up a detailed map of Manhattan and a Kodak Polaroid camera and film. Then he looked for a parking garage about five blocks from the Harvard Club. He’d put the rental car there.

Once that was settled, he walked over to forty-fourth Street and took a look around the Harvard Club. He took pictures of both sides of the street, the alleys behind, and the surrounding blocks, so that he could study escape routes later. He wasn’t sure if he’d need to escape from anything, but if he did, he would be ready.

On the way back to the Hotel Tokyo, he stopped to have a beer at the Lion’s Head Tavern, his second favorite saloon in Manhattan. After two, instead of one, he picked up carryout in Little Italy, and then a
New Yorker
at a small corner market. It would list any conventions or other activities that might affect traffic.

In his room, after dinner, he used the Polaroids with the street map to determine routes that would get him away from the Harvard Club quickly. After an hour, he called Arturo. He felt guilty about his decision and needed Arturo’s reassurance.

Arturo picked up after three rings.
“Arturo, it’s Thomas. Everything all right down there?” “We’re doing well here. How about you?”
“I’ve made it to Manhattan. The meeting is tomorrow.” “Have you decided what you are going to do?”
Thomas had left Mexico with the question unanswered. Would he

trade fairly for Ann? Or would he try to trick them again? Since Ann was gone he’d been deeply troubled. He’d missed her. But there was more. A feeling he couldn’t remember ever having in any great quantity before. It was fear. He was scared of losing Ann. The prospect of not having Ann made him realize how much he’d factored her into the rest of his life. Despite the historical value of the Ark, the short answer to Arturo’s question was . . . yes.

There was a thick suspense on the line as Arturo waited for Thomas’s answer.
“Yes. I’m going to give them the real thing. That’s why I called. I wanted you to know. You’ve been with me almost the whole way. I hope you understand. I have to give it to them. No tricks this time. A straightup trade. I need her. I need her healthy and with no strings attached. I love her, my friend. I hope you understand.”
“What do they say? You can’t put a price on love? You just proved it. I understand. If it were my Maria or the treasure, I’d do the same.”
Thomas let out a long-held breath. “Thanks for understanding, and for the vote of confidence. I go back and forth, but I know I’m doing the right thing.”
“She’s a treasure. Get her back and bring her back down to Mexico. We’ll excavate the site. We’ll do it right this time, and we’ll take long siestas in-between.”
“Are we all set for tomorrow?”
“Yes, we are ready. It’ll be there.”
“Be careful. Stay back.”
“Don’t worry, these guys scare me. We’ll make the drop and then we’re out.”
“Good. I’ll call you afterward.”
“Of course. I’ll be waiting. Good luck. Tell Ann I miss her.”
A nervous twinge shot through Thomas. He’d be seeing Ann tomorrow. “OK. Bye.”
He hung up and shook his head.
God, I’m getting soft!
Then he reminded himself that trading an object, however valuable, for a person was not soft. It was compassionate. Humane.
Maybe I’m getting old
. The thought made him shudder
. Why couldn’t they have kidnapped someone else? Anyone else! Then I could tell them to keep her.
But somewhere, deep, deep inside, he knew he would’ve traded it for anyone, because it was the right thing to do.

before the wake-up call he’d asked for. Amazingly, the hotel did have room service. He ordered a full breakfast, but even after eating and reading the
New York Times
, it was still earlier than he had originally planned to wake up.

There was no longer any reason for the tourist garb. The government needed him, he was in the city, and if they saw him now, so what? He was going to tell them where the Ark was at one o’clock anyway. Maybe they could coerce him into telling them a few hours early, but why?

Since he was going to the Harvard Club, he dressed somewhat formally. But also made sure they were comfortable clothes that he could move quickly in if he had to. Khakis, a white oxford, a loose navy blazer, and a pair of brown Cole Haan loafers. As he dressed, he pondered how to spend the next five hours.

He didn’t have to dwell on the problem long. He’d visit his old haunt, The Met. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, in Central Park, north of the Plaza Hotel. The minute it occurred to him, he hurried so that he could get there sooner. It was the perfect distraction. He had made plans and been over them numerous times and now he needed a good, solid distraction so that his unconscious mind could work: review, check and re-check.

At twelve sharp, Thomas was sitting on the bench in front of Jules Bastien-Lepage’s masterpiece,
Joan of Arc
. He had given up trying to figure out how many shades of green the painting contained. It was his favorite in the Metropolitan, and as he looked at it, three thoughts entered his mind simultaneously. One was that counting shades of color would be pointless, because the green was blended so masterfully. The second was that if this painting were even close to portraying the real woman, then Joan of Arc must’ve had strikingly beautiful eyes. The third was that it was almost time to go get Ann.

He checked his watch for the tenth time and sprang up, heading toward the cafeteria, where he knew there was a bank of phones. He dialed the number the cowboy had given him and someone answered on the first ring. It was not his tormenter. This man was younger and more tense.

“Harvard Club. Third floor. Conference room 222. One o’clock sharp. Got it?”
“Yes, but—“
Thomas hung up the phone. He walked briskly out of the Metropolitan, past the lions, past the hot dog vendor, going south toward the Plaza, wondering if, at that moment, government men were scrambling to surround the Harvard Club.
The Plaza Hotel sat at the first intersection south of the museum. Thomas casually walked in and booked a room for two nights. He used a fake name and paid cash. The FBI would expect him to leave New York immediately after the trade, so he’d decided to stay.
He pocketed his key and kept walking south, block by block, until he reached forty-fourth Street and the Harvard Club. It was exactly 12:45. His palms were sweating and he had butterflies in his stomach. Worse, he was early. He decided to go in anyway.
He crossed forty-fourth and walked towards the club. It was in the middle of the block. He scanned the street and noticed two plain white vans that could potentially be filled with agents. He seriously doubted they were. Too obvious. No big antennas or one-way mirrors, just ordinary vans. The street was empty. Thomas assumed it was always that way after the noon rush. He glanced back at one of the vans, and because of the way the light fell on the window, he thought he detected movement, but he couldn’t be sure. He turned to face the club, then quickly swung around for a quick look, but he was too late to see the arm of the agent who had been reaching to the dash to grab his cell phone.
Thomas walked deliberately down the street. When he was adjacent to the door, he turned abruptly and pulled open the heavy door. He found himself in a luxurious foyer. It was very old, very Eastern. The foyer smelled like money, not metaphorically, but like actual dollars mixed with wood polish. The walls were dark mahogany, the floor marble. The familiar Harvard coat of arms hung behind the receiving desk.
Generally, it was what he expected, but it made him realize he should’ve done more than take pictures outside yesterday. He should’ve come in, learned the exact layout, been more prepared. On a day like today, there should be no surprises. Luckily he was early and had a few minutes to look around. A few minutes to make up for his lapse.
He told the severely beautiful blonde behind the desk that he was a guest of Drew Montgomery and that he would be using room 222 for a two hour meeting beginning at one o’clock. Before he could tell her his name, she said, “Certainly, Mr. McAlister. Please be seated and an escort will be here shortly.”
Before Thomas had time to cross his legs, a man in a black business suit entered from a side door. “Please come with me, Mr. McAlister.”
Thomas followed through two doors into an even larger receiving room. They moved on toward a huge wooden spiral staircase. The wall along the staircase was lined with oil paintings of stern-faced old men. Probably past club presidents. It seemed working at the Harvard Club was very serious business. At the top of the staircase, his escort turned left down a long, wide, deserted hallway carpeted in plush ruby red. They stopped outside Room 222.
The man turned the heavy, well-oiled brass handle and said, “Here you are, Mr. McAlister.”
“Thank you.” The room, a rectangular conference room, was decorated as beautifully as the rest of the building. The walls were the same dark wood, only instead of paintings of proud old men, they held wonderful impressionist renderings of flowers and meadows. The carpet was the green of freshly minted dollars.
There was a small mahogany buffet with coffee, soft drinks, and cookies at the far end of the room. The man walked over to the food table and showed Thomas a button to push if he needed to order more refreshments.
Thomas noticed another door, opposite the one they had entered through.
“Where does that door lead?”
“It opens to a back hallway. One we use to deliver food and drinks to the rooms. So that waiters don’t upset members by traipsing through the main corridors with food carts and drink trays.”
“Is the door left unlocked at all times?”
“Yes, sir, unless someone asks that it be locked . . . which has happened a few times.” The man smiled awkwardly.
“Thank you. I’m going to wait here for my guests. Please remind the woman at the front desk that they will use my name and not Mr. Montgomery’s.”
“Very good, sir.”
The minute the man left, Thomas opened the door to the back hallway. No one. The hallway, with its tile floor and tan walls, was stark in comparison to the public routes. One end held more doors leading to other conference rooms, the other a stairway.
He returned to his conference room and poured a glass of Evian. He had finished half the glass, when there was a knock at the door. He stood at the head of the long conference table. “Come in.”
The door opened and a man in a mildly wrinkled blue suit walked in. He quickly, expertly, glanced around the room then turned around and said, “Okay,” to someone outside the room. Then, Ann stepped into the room.
She looked full of life, so much more substantial and so much more beautiful than he remembered! “
Ann
!” He rushed to her. She held out her arms and smiled with tired, sympathetic eyes. For a fleeting moment, Thomas noticed it: was it sadness? Regret? Something else? But it was so short, gone so quickly, that even the lingering memory of it was quickly over-ridden by all his other emotions.
He lifted her off the ground, burying his head in her soft, citrussmelling hair. A thousand thoughts and feelings flooded into his mind. He reached up and wiped his clouded eyes. “I love you,” he whispered. Holding her close was comforting. He pulled her closer, tighter, and as he did an odd thought came to him.
It was nothing. Less than trivial . . . but he did wonder how she was able to get her captors to provide her with the shampoo she always used, the one she’d used in Mexico and Arizona. After they kidnapped her, no one had come for her things. He still had them. But it was nothing, of course. There were countless explanations; coincidence, or possibly the fact that she was an important hostage and was given a choice of personal grooming products. All that mattered was that they were reunited, and that she was safe.
“I love you, too,” Ann whispered, kissing his neck between words. Suddenly, he remembered there was another man in the room. They disentangled, but Thomas still held Ann’s hand. He saw that she was crying.
The man was impatient looking. He was thin and about 6’2”. He had black, fifties-law-enforcement hair. It was slicked back and Thomas could still see the rows the teeth of comb had made. “Let’s make that phone call, McAlister. They’re waiting in Mexico City.”
“Who are you?” Thomas asked.
“Peobles, FBI.”
“Okay, Peobles. Let’s do it.”
Thomas had moved the phone to the end of the table nearest the second door. He pushed the button for speaker phone, got a dial tone, and entered the number he’d been given. One ring and it was answered.
“Hello from Mexico City.” It
was
the cowboy. He’d gone to Mexico City himself. Evidently he wanted no more mistakes.
Peobles said, “He’s here, sir.” Thomas was looking at Ann. She was clearly glad to see him, but she seemed distracted. She had her arms crossed in front of her, and she was watching Peobles’ every move. Like one business person might watch a peer in a meeting. She seemed to be waiting to see what was going to happen. It occurred to him that maybe she thought he had a special plan. Maybe she was ready to act on his cue. If so, she’d be surprised to see that he had none. He really was trading the Ark for her.
Thomas heard his name. The cowboy was speaking to him. “All right, McAlister, tell us where to go. And no runaround.”
Thomas glanced once more at Ann. She was staring at the telephone. “First, I want your name. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“You’re speaking to Special Agent DJ Warrant.”
“Are you at the airport, Special Agent?”
“Yes. We have a chopper out on the apron ready to go. Scuba team, Egyptologist, Bible scholar, Bible, instant carbon dating, everything. Just like you said.”
Thomas focused on the voice. It was distracting having Ann nearby. “First of all, shut the chopper down. You won’t need it. Now listen carefully. Write this down. Short-term parking. Section A-12. Light blue Aerostar minivan. The crate containing the Ark is in the back of the van. The top of the crate can be pulled off by hand. Underneath the lid you’ll find cotton filling material. I used it because I cut the top off of the original clay casing. Under the filling is a small metal box. Give the box to your Egyptologist. Inside, he’ll find a wood sample wrapped in plastic. I scraped that sample off the Ark. He can use that for dating. It’s real. You’ll see that when you date it. There is nowhere else on earth that I would be able to find 3300 year old acacia wood. If you don’t believe me, I also put a razor blade in the metal box. You can scrape off a new sample. If you want to take the crate apart and see the whole thing for yourself, you can, but I advise against it. The key to the van is on the right front tire. Did you get all of that?”
There was a pause, while DJ finished writing down the instructions. “You
bastard
! A chopper, a scuba team! You fucking bastard!” “Hurry up and get to that van before it gets stolen, DJ.” DJ’s voice roared through the phone. “Cut the chopper! Follow me.”
Thomas asked Ann if she wanted to sit, but she shook her head. He asked her if she wanted a bottle of water. Still, no. After about ten uncomfortable minutes DJ’s voice crackled, “I found the key! I’m going to unlock the back door. McAlister, if you have this thing booby-trapped, you’re a dead man!”
“There’s no trap.”
He could hear the rattle of the keys and the squeak of the hatchback being opened. Arturo had rented the van at Avis under a false name, then retrieved the Ark from his brother’s ranch, where they’d hidden it in an old cenote. Thomas had given Arturo detailed instructions on when and where to leave the van, so that it would only be unattended for a few minutes.
DJ wondered how wise it would be to take this crate back to Washington unopened. “Doctor Nelson, over here. Come on, man. Move! You’re the Egyptologist. Can you date this thing from McAlister’s sample? Or should we open it?”
“I do not think we need to open it here, Mr. Warrant. First of all, this parking garage does not have
any
of the characteristics of even of the most primitive laboratory. It is not . . . secure. Secondly, if you believe anything that you read in the Bible
, anything at all
, then this is not an artifact you want to fiddle with. The powers this container are said to posses are so immense as to be indescribable. And I agree with Dr. McAlister: there is nowhere else on earth that he would be able to get a 3300-year old piece of acacia wood, but then again, Dr. McAlister has proved very resourceful. So, I—”
“Get to the point, Nelson.”
“My recommendation is that I quickly scrape a new sample from the top of the Ark, and date
that
sample. Is that acceptable?”
DJ liked the idea. By dating their own sample, they could be sure they were getting the real thing. Plus, he had a gut feeling that McAlister was giving him the real one. He could hear it in his voice. The man would never risk losing Ann.
“Do it, Nelson.” Then to Thomas, “Hey, McAlister . . . we’re going to shave a new wood sample and use that for dating. Any reason why we shouldn’t do that?”
“That’s fine. Just tell Nelson not to take too much or he’ll scar the box.”
DJ didn’t pass that along. At this point, he didn’t care if Nelson carved his initials into the damn thing.
For the next three minutes, there was complete silence on both ends of the phone. Peobles was getting jittery. Thomas noticed he had the skittish habit of pressing on his jacket, below his left breast, to make sure his sidearm was still there. Most men do that with their wallets and don’t even know it.
Suddenly Peobles blurted, “Status from Mexico, please.” Thomas smiled. What jerks these guys were.
DJ took his phone off mute. “We’re dating it, Peobles. Keep your shirt on.”
Three more minutes passed. Then DJ’s voice blasted into the conference room. “It’s real! I repeat, Peobles. It’s the real thing.”
Ann looked at Thomas, searching his face. She was shocked. Had he given it to them. No tricks? “Y-You gave them . . . the r-real Ark?”
Thomas looked her in the eye and nodded, confirming what she already knew. He had made the ultimate sacrifice for her. Fame, fortune, redemption, all the things that Thomas needed badly, were all gone. All for her.
Thomas stood and Peobles, a bit too quickly, said, “Hold on, Thomas.” Then more calmly, “Sit back down a second. I want to give the team time to clear out of the parking lot. We need to make sure you don’t have a little ambush up your sleeve.”
“Sure, why not. Ann? Join me?” Thomas pulled out a second chair, but Ann declined.
“I need to speak with Agent Peobles for a minute. In private. It won’t take long.” Peobles and Ann left the room together, leaving the door to the conference room partially open.
They were talking in hushed voices and seemed to be arguing about something. They must’ve gotten to know each other pretty well during her captivity. Maybe Peobles had been in charge of Ann. Either way, they were arguing like brother and sister. Their familiarity disconcerted Thomas and he felt a sickness begin to rise in the pit of his stomach.
Ann stepped back in the room and shut the door with deliberate care, her back to Thomas. She pressed her forehead against the door. Thomas stood, waiting for her to turn and run to him. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. This was everything. He yearned to feel her pressed against him. Firm. Soft. So warm and alive. But she didn’t come to him right away. She stood by the door with her back to him. Standing straight. Rigid.
“Annie? Hey, Annie, what’s wrong?”
Still, she made no move to face him. She was looking down at something in her left hand, holding it close to her chest. Thomas didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know why she was acting so strangely.
“Annie?”
Suddenly, in one smooth, professional motion, she whirled and there was an explosion. A milli-second later he was lifted and thrown backward, with such force, such overwhelming speed and power, that he immediately, sickeningly, knew that he’d been shot at point-blank range. He landed on the carpet with a thud.
Ears ringing, eyes closed, Thomas could feel the trickle of blood running down between his arm and shoulder. It felt like someone was running a feather slowly across his side. No pain. Had he not known it was blood, it would’ve tickled.