The Moses Riddle (Thomas McAllister 'Treasure Hunter' Adventure Book 1) (24 page)

DJ was thirty minutes into a much needed REM sleep when the motel phone beside his bed began its annoying ringing. At first the sound entered his dream, and the red phone was in his canoe, ringing as he paddled across a lake. It was the same lake as the one in the picture on his cubicle wall. But then he noticed that the phone cord ran off the boat into the lake, and this startled him, because he knew he should’ve had that cord plugged into a cigarette lighter. Shocked at his oversight, at not having a lighter installed in the canoe, DJ finally realized the phone was ringing for real. He sat bolt upright, breathing hard, with a very, very disturbed look on his face.

“What?” he growled into the mouth piece.
“Agent Warrant, this is Oliver Handman, Central Desk security officer at the National Museum of Art. You are third on my trouble call list, sir.” The man sounded young and nervous.

“What’s the problem?”
“Break-in, sir. We’re not sure what, if anything, was taken.” DJ started to lose control. White noise. He couldn’t form a thought.

Didn’t know what to do. He took a deep breath and tried to reel himself back in
. But still, the anger, the unbridled fury, was rising
. He had been in crises before and he knew how to act.

“Son, I have two questions for you, and I need exact answers. Got it?” “Yes, sir.”
“How long has it been since the break-in occurred? If I’m third on

your call list, it can’t have been long.”
“Well, the problem is, sir, it was a professional job. They took out
the perimeter men and used high tech camera attachments to freeze the
lenses. The cameras aren’t set to identify the attachments for twenty
minutes. I was alerted about five minutes ago. It has taken me that long
to get through my emergency check, re-check procedures, sir.” “So we’ve lost twenty-five minutes.
Damn it
!” It was McAlister. The
sneaky son-of-a-bitch was trying to steal back the Ark!
“Get down to Dr. Valmer’s personal conference room in the basement immediately. Find out if there’s a large crate on the table.” “Yes, sir, but I have to make two more notification calls first, as part
of my calling —”
DJ cut him off. “Forget the procedure. You go
now
, Handman, or
you’ll be spreading manure with the grounds crew next week! And you
run! I’ll hold.”
“Yes, sir.” DJ heard the click of the man’s shoes, while he grabbed
his cellular phone to dial Elmo. He held the cellular phone against one
ear and the hotel phone against the other.
Elmo answered. He was in the room next to DJ’s. Right away Elmo
sensed a tension in DJ’s voice. He could tell there’d been trouble. “Pull
up the contact list for stopping flights in and out of D.C.!” Thirty seconds later, Elmo said, “Got it.”
“Start calling. I’ll be over in a few minutes to help. I’m waiting for
someone on the other line. I want
all
air traffic in and out of Washington
D.C. stopped. Have authorities check every plane for Thomas McAlister
and the Ark. Send them all his picture.”
“I’ll start now.”
Elmo had detected an odd tone in DJ’s voice. He’d known DJ’s dislike
of McAlister was intense, ever since the day in Mexico when he had hit
him without cause. DJ didn’t usually do things like that. It seemed that
with McAlister DJ had met his match. He had been frustrated for weeks.
Never had they had so much trouble with one man. And now, just as soon
as they’d gotten the Ark back, they’d lost it again. But this time Elmo had
heard something in DJ’s voice that he’d never observed before. Fear. Cold
fear. If DJ didn’t deliver the Ark this time, there was going to be trouble,
and trouble for DJ meant trouble for Elmo. He put his computer aside
and picked up the phone. He dialed the first number on the screen, the
head of Airport security at Dulles.

A little over four hours after picking Thomas up at the Dakota, Ethan’s men carried the crate out of the hotel’s service elevator and down the hallway and into Taylor’s apartment. Thomas directed them to the guest bedroom.

Back in the living room, Thomas shook hands with each of the men and then handed Ethan a black Coach briefcase. “The cash is in here, including your bonuses. Thanks for a job well done. Most professional. And thanks for not asking what’s in the crate.”

Ethan shrugged. “Not my business. Be careful. You have it back, but this is probably not over.”
As he was shutting the door, Thomas added, “Nice meeting you, Ethan.”
Ethan briefly turned back, smiled, and said, “My name’s not Ethan, and we never met.”

While Taylor slept, Thomas spent the next part of the night carefully taking the crate apart, nail by nail, board by board. With the removal of each board, he became more alert and more curious. He knew the crate had been built by either the Egyptians or the Olmec. From an archeologist’s perspective, it would have been interesting to find only the crate, with nothing inside. The proper way to disassemble something so rare was in a laboratory, to ensure the retention of every microscopic sliver of wood. Thomas documented the structure on graph paper as he disassembled it, including the size of each piece, where the nails had been placed, and other significant marks and indentations. He didn’t like the fact that he was doing this work in the field but he had to get the Ark out of its huge, cumbersome crate so that he could hide it.

Both the Maya and the Egyptians were creative cultures, but he had never seen anything like the clay container that held the Ark. It had amazed him in Mexico, and it had the same effect on him this time. Between the clay shell and the Ark was tightly-packed hay. The hay had held up well over the years and was still thick and protective. As Thomas removed more boards, he wondered if this hay were from the same fields as the hay the Egyptians mixed with mud, to be stomped into building blocks by Hebrew slaves.

Moses had enclosed the Ark in a casing of clay, to protect and seal it, and had used the hay as someone would use tissue paper around a gift. He then had it fired in a kiln using only enough heat to set the clay. Ingenious.

After disassembling the crate, Thomas began to gingerly chisel down the ancient clay encasement. It was brittle and fell away easily. Soon he could see the plain wooden sides of the Ark. The acacia grain was clear and beautiful.

He fought off his desire to further examine the Ark. It was getting late and by now DJ would be mobilizing to pay him a visit. Thomas assumed Drew and Taylor’s apartments would be among first places DJ would look. He began working faster.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to preserve the clay casing, he threw archeological training and convention aside and approached its removal like a child on Christmas morning. He worked until six o’clock in the morning. His shoulder was sore, and the bandages, long overdue for a changing, were soaked through with fresh blood. He changed the bandages, fixed himself an early breakfast, took two multi-vitamins and went to sleep.

It was a long, dreamless sleep, from which he was awakened at four that next afternoon by the doorbell. He heard Taylor in the living room and suspecting who it might be, he quickly rose, splashed water on his face, draped a flannel shirt over his shoulders, changed into a worn out pair of jeans, put a baseball cap on his uncombed hair, and went out into the kitchen.

He was pouring milk on cereal as Taylor escorted their visitors into the living room. He heard DJ’s deep gravely voice, heavily accented, and grinned to himself.

DJ and two other men had just taken seats in Taylor’s exquisitely decorated living room when Thomas entered, cereal bowl in hand. “Special Agent Warrant, I believe. The one who sucker punched me in Mexico, and had me shot two days ago. I should probably leave the room before you throw a grenade at me.” Thomas turned back toward the kitchen.

“No, no, don’t leave, Mr. McAlister. Stay. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Thomas smiled and said, “Well, that’s mighty governmental of you, DJ. Thanks.”
Taylor was hovering, enjoying the spectacle immensely. “May I get anyone a drink? I’m absolutely parched.”
Everyone accepted at once. It was obvious they wanted drinks so that they could stay longer. Taylor prepared himself an early cocktail, gave Thomas an orange juice, and the government men Diet Cokes.
For several seconds, no one spoke. Finally, DJ broke the silence. “I’m here to pick up what you removed from the National Museum last night, McAlister. If you give it back now, there will be no charges filed.”
There was a pregnant pause. A slow smile crept over Thomas’s face, and he was about to say something when one of the younger government agents spilled his Diet Coke all over Taylor’s glass coffee table while reaching for the bowl of peanuts.
The carbonated drink spread out all over the table and threatened to overflow onto Taylor’s Persian rug. Taylor dashed off to the kitchen and DJ flicked the young man a handkerchief, which he used to stop the flow, at the table’s edge. Taylor returned with a stack of hand towels and began placing them, still folded, atop the spill.
“I’m very sorry, sir.” the agent stammered, clearly embarrassed. “If this stains the carpet, here’s my card. Send me the cleaning bill.”
Taylor was about to inform the guest that the cleaning bill for the carpet would be more than the agent’s entire annual salary, when he suddenly stopped mopping and burst into laughter. He belted out a deep, honest laugh and tears filled his eyes. “Oh, my,” he finally sighed. “I’ve got to get these towels back into the kitchen!”
“Wait a minute, Dr. Taylor. What’s so damned funny?” DJ asked.
Taylor continued into the kitchen. Still cackling, he yelled, “The spill reminded me of an old joke about government agents. I heard it a long time ago. Trust me, you wouldn’t think it humorous.”
Thomas gave Taylor credit for coming up with such a rapid response. The old man was still mentally spry. He knew exactly why Taylor was laughing, and it made him smile, too.
DJ looked like he hadn’t believed Taylor’s answer.
Early that morning, after Thomas had removed the Ark from its crate and clay casing, he’d searched the entire building for a place to hide it. He’d even gone up to the roof, and down to the basement. No place looked secure enough. The Ark was just too big.
While he was eating breakfast, at six o’clock in the morning, he had turned on the television. A home shopping show was selling knives. The second item they offered was the best machete he’d ever seen. Bonehandled, with a hand-forged steel blade made in Spain. He had to have it for Arturo. He had placed his bowl on the coffee table, so that he could search for a pad of paper and a pencil, and when he did, he froze. He’d found his hiding place. Taylor’s coffee table was not really a coffee table. It was a large Bedouin trunk on which sat a thick rectangle of glass. It was an artifact transformed into a functional piece of furniture. The Bedouin chest was roughly the same size as the Ark. He and Arturo were the only people who could recognize the Ark. No other human since Moses had seen it.
Thomas had built a fire in Taylor’s fireplace and burned the crate and the hay that had held and protected the Ark. It grieved him deeply, but keeping it around would’ve given him away. Figuring out where to put the pieces of the clay case was the next problem. He ended up putting them into two of Taylor’s large Greek urns. The clay looked like it had been put there by an interior decorator.
Finally, he’d taken the glass off the Bedouin chest, put the chest at the foot of his bed, draped some clothes across it, and then replaced the Bedouin chest with the Ark. Topped with the glass piece, it looked like an ordinary piece of furniture. There was very little chance anyone would ever believe the simple coffee table in Taylor’s living room was the Ark of the Covenant. It was the perfect hiding place. Literally under the agents’ noses.
Taylor, who had noticed that his chest had been replaced by what could only be the Ark when he was cleaning up, was still chuckling and wiping tears from his eyes, when he returned to the living room with a small wet towel, to wipe away the last of the stickiness.
DJ watched him as he worked. He was becoming impatient. “McAlister, I’ll say it again. I’m here to get the Ark. I know you took it last night. I have proof.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I gave you the Ark two days ago, right before you had me shot. If you’ve lost it, that’s your problem. I’m no longer involved.”
“Where were the two of you last night?” One of the other men removed a pad from his inside jacket pocket, ready to take notes.
Thomas shook his head, bored with their behavior. “We were right here, watching the video
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
. It’s still sitting on the VCR over there.” He pointed across the room to the armoire that held the television.
“You can prove that?”
“Yeah, Phoebe Cates has nice breasts.”
“I meant, can you prove that you were here?” DJ was not used to insubordinate behavior.
“Not only was I here with Taylor, but I talked on the phone, too.”
“To whom?”
“Drew Montgomery.” DJ made a note.
Taylor spoke up, “I don’t mind a little drop-in entertaining on occasion, gentlemen, but unless you have a search warrant, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. After all, this is my home.”
DJ countered. “We do have a warrant issued from a New York District court at 9:00 a.m. this morning. If you don’t mind, we’d like to start our search right now.”
“Show me the document first, Mr. Warrant. If it’s authentic, then by all means search away, gentlemen. But think twice before you break or damage anything. I know former Secretary of State William Bennet well. We went to Harvard together, and he obtained diplomatic permission for me to get into certain African and Asian cities many times while he was in the Senate. He commented on the value of many of my artifacts just last month, when he was here for dinner. I’d hate for him to hear that any of his agents broke anything.”
DJ rolled his eyes and said, “Go easy, men.”
The three men spread out, each taking a different section of the house. As they searched, Thomas poured himself another orange juice.
Thomas and Taylor relaxed on the couch, while the men searched every room, all over the roof, and in the basement storage areas.
When they were out of the apartment, Taylor expressed his astonishment in a quiet, reserved voice. “That’s it, isn’t it?” He gazed underneath the glass at the solidly built, weathered box.
Thomas heard a quiver in Taylor’s voice. His old friend was deeply moved. “Yes,” he said. “That’s it. Beautiful in its simplicity, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t glowing or anything.”
“No. It hasn’t done anything weird since I’ve had it.”
“The crate?”
“Burned. I saved the interesting clay encasement though.” The agents began returning from their fruitless search. “I’ll show you more, after they leave.”
The men reentered the room. The two younger ones sat down, and began sipping their watery Diet Cokes again. Taylor didn’t offer to bring them new ones. DJ continued his search in the living room. He opened cabinets and looked in the armoire. He even got down on his hands and knees to feel under the couches, in case Thomas had disassembled it. Finally, he returned to his chair and sat down. His left knee was literally inches from the Ark.
By law, DJ could ask Thomas anything he wanted. And by law, Thomas didn’t have to answer. There were many reasons DJ didn’t issue a warrant for his arrest. The government had stolen the Ark in the first place, the government had tried to assassinate McAlister, and an arrest would make everything public. Arrests were matters of public record. Nobody in the government, especially the President and those around him, wanted the public to know that the Ark had been found. DJ tried another line.
“Thomas, look. This problem is not going to go away. I have been instructed to find this thing at all costs. Do you hear me?
At all costs
. Do you know what that means?”
“At what level of government did this authorization come from?”
“The highest,” DJ said automatically.
“Then, DJ, I guess you’d better define ‘at all costs’ for me. Why don’t you define it for me, for my friend Taylor, and for the tape recorder I’ve got hidden in the plant on the coffee table?” Thomas retrieved the recorder and held it up to DJ’s mouth. “Okay, we’re ready. Exactly what did you mean when you said you needed to find this thing ‘at all costs’? Did you mean that to find it, you might have to shoot me a second time, Agent Warrant?” And what did you mean when you said it was authorized at the ‘highest level’ of government? Does that mean the President?
DJ shook his head. He saw in Thomas’s face a man who was never— not now, not ever—going to voluntarily tell him where the Ark was hidden. He knew from his profile that Thomas was stubborn. The records showed that on many occasions, in published material and in public, Thomas had challenged modern archeological theories to the temporary detriment of his career and image. He had a long history of making his stubbornness pay off. No, he was not going to get anything from the man. He would have to resort to other, more covert measures. The only thing that had happened here was that McAlister, by pulling the tape recorder out of the plant, had proven once more that he was a talented opponent. It infuriated DJ.
His face reddened and he glared at Thomas with intense, spine-chilling hatred. With gritted teeth, he hissed, “Fuck you and your tape, McAlister.” Then, much louder, eyes still fixed on McAlister, “Let’s go, men. It’s not here.”
Taylor showed them to the door. DJ couldn’t resist one last snipe. “I’ll see you soon, McAlister.”
Thomas was draining the last of his drink when Taylor returned. Taylor switched off the tape player and said, “Congratulations! Good show. What are you going to do now, Thomas?”
“Find Ann.”