The Moses Riddle (Thomas McAllister 'Treasure Hunter' Adventure Book 1) (30 page)

Based on a briefing he’d received from Director Hargrove, the President had asked both of them to come to his office for a short meeting. Ten minutes or less, he had said.

When the President entered the room, he was smiling, but when he saw DJ and Hargrove his face turned stern.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” They both stood but the President made no move to come around his desk to shake hands. “Sit.” They sat.
“I have read your briefing on the Commandments Case. It stinks. Hargrove, you brought me this matter and stressed its urgency. DJ, you were responsible for it being carried out at a tactical level. I’ll be damned if I can understand why we can win world wars and send men to the moon, yet we can’t confiscate a little chest from an archeologist.” He rubbed his face, and then took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper under control.
Hargrove nodded, DJ just sat, staring forward, focusing somewhere beyond the President.
“You both know the current evaluation system for government personnel is heavily based on the input and opinions of your superior officers. Correct?”
Hargrove nodded.
“I’ve asked both of you here to personally let you know what action I’m taking. You’re both career men. I feel I have no alternative other than to write a negative evaluation, a demerit, into both of your records.” He looked from one to the other. Both were stone-faced. But, below the facade, nervous tension was boiling. There was nothing worse than a Presidential demerit on a government employee’s record.
“Hargrove, you were ultimately responsible. But as you and I both know, the failure of the project lies with DJ.
That
, in my estimation, is where the real responsibility for the failure of the case lies. With DJ.” Without moving his head, DJ looked directly at the President.
“You had responsibility for making this campaign a success, DJ. You were a respected veteran and because of that were allowed special latitudes not given to just any field agent. In a sense, you called your own shots. And you failed. I’m not saying the entire burden lies on your shoulders, but in my estimate 90 percent of it does. The record will reflect that.”
The President continued. “Your primary mistake was so juvenile, so elementary. Time after time after time you continued to underestimate your opponent. You were outfoxed and outmaneuvered again and again. This was a case study in the dangers of underestimating your opponent. Why, we should use it at Quantico.”
DJ was furious. He’d never, ever had a berating like this in his entire life. The fact that it was from the President was professionally incomprehensible. He was witnessing the death of his own career. If anyone else were doing this to him, even Hargrove, he might retaliate, but the problem was, the President was right. Every word he said was dead-on.
“You came to me, to personally beg for another chance, assuring me you could end the project in mere days . . . because you were using your daughter as bait! You could
guarantee
success, you said. You said nothing could go wrong. And what happened?”

The President opened a manila folder on his desk and read directly from DJ’s final report, “‘The target of the investigative surveillance detected the undercover nature of the agent, with whom he was having a relationship, and permanently terminated the relationship. We now believe the Ark has been sold, and is unrecoverable.’ What the hell is that? Why didn’t you just say that McAlister found out his lover was your daughter and still on your payroll? Now McAlister is off licking his wounds and your daughter is so brokenhearted she wants to quit the Bureau. How many lives did you fuck up during this unsuccessful investigation?”

The President waited for an answer, but DJ said nothing. He sat still, like an oak tree on a windless day. But his mind was racing. He knew if he moved, even twitched, it would be to hurl himself over the desk and grab the neck of the man across from him. He could almost feel the soft skin on the pads of his fingers, the cords in the man’s neck that he would squeeze and savagely rip away from the cartilage that held them in place. He dreamed of giving the President a powerful, solid, even animalistic head butt on the crown of his forehead to stop the inevitable squirming. Then Hargrove spoke up.

“Sir, in DJ’s defense, he did everything he could, more even. It’s one thing dealing with the criminal mind, and quite another—”
“
Save it
!” The President slammed his hand down on his desk. “I don’t want to hear anything more about McAlister or this case. That will be all, gentlemen.”
Hargrove protested the curt dismissal. “Mr. President, won’t you give DJ a chance to speak on his own behalf?”
The President raised one eyebrow. “DJ, do you have anything to say?”
DJ barely heard the question. The President’s voice was muffled and indistinct. It was as if he were underwater, looking out at them from inside an aquarium. Something had happened. He was so angry, and he’d suppressed it for so long, that a minute ago he’d felt a little pinch, somewhere deep within. A tweak. Nothing major. Not yet. But somewhere deep in the recesses of his soul, a reserve of hate had been opened. He’d always known it was there. He’d called on small portions of it from time to time. It had been easy to govern, to turn off. But now, the little door was off its hinges, the filter gone, the dam punctured. And it was bringing forth a blackness, a focused hate, that had never been allowed out before. Even as he sat there he felt it begin to flow. He would nurture it now. Increase its pace, little by little, until the torrent was unstoppable.
Hargrove and the President stared at DJ, waiting for an answer. An uncomfortable amount of time passed and, still, he said nothing. Finally, the President rose from his desk. “Our meeting is over.”
Hargrove rose at the same time, but DJ remained seated. Hargrove tapped his shoulder. “Warrant! Snap out of it! The meeting is over!”
DJ followed his boss out of the office. The President was no one to him now. Before today, the President had represented the United States, a country that DJ had loved serving. Republican or Democrat, he had always respected the Office, and the man who worked in it. But not anymore. None of it mattered anymore.
Now, with hate swelling inside him, he only had one objective. One singular goal that was forever burned into his brain. Having the hate unleashed was refreshing. He would get revenge. Sweet, simple, hatefilled revenge. He would focus, like a laser beam, on the person responsible for his demise: Thomas McAlister.
When DJ got back to his desk, he tore the picture of the serene lake off his bulletin board, wadded it up, and threw it into the trashcan. He replaced it with a picture of Thomas McAlister. McAlister, not the lake house, would be his new retirement goal. He refused to retire with his reputation in ruin while the man responsible went unpunished. He would stay in his current position until he was on top again, and he would nurture the hate, the fury, that was now flowing so freely within him to bring McAlister down at all costs, no matter how long it took.

Shakir, Thomas’s host, had the needed connections. The recording device tied to the telephone line at the beach house where Thomas and Ann were staying was turned on, at Thomas’s request, the day after Ann asked him where the Commandments were hidden. The nice thing was that ordinary bug sniffers didn’t work on this system. That was how Thomas was able to get the recordings of Ann, and that was why her bug detection device didn’t work.

After the listening device was installed, Thomas found that almost every time Ann said she was calling mother, she was really calling her father, DJ Warrant.

Thomas wasn’t sure what hurt him more, losing Ann, or coming to terms with how gullible he’d been. His consolation was that he’d figured it out and, in the end, it hadn’t cost him the true treasure . . . the historical one.

Once he had listened to the recording of Ann and DJ, he’d made arrangements to return to the States alone, immediately. He couldn’t bear to spend another hour with Ann. He left the note, and flew back in a private plane which, by filing as an academic transport flight, had permission to land in Florida. The next day, he had leased a 35-foot Sea Ray and started up the East Coast, taking the Intercoastal Waterway. The recording would keep DJ, Hargrove, and everyone else off his back.

It took a few days but, eventually, the pressure of always having to look over his shoulder, and be two steps ahead, subsided. He started to remember what life was like before the search for the Ark had started. Though there were aspects of the last few months that he’d enjoyed, he was ready for a break.

Despite being a sailor by nature, a motor boat with its shallow draft and faster speed was a better choice for heading up the Intercoastal. He motored at a leisurely pace and stopped often, at isolated locations, mooring at marinas only when he needed more groceries, gas, beer, or books. His cash reserve was running low, because of the chartered flight and the two-month lease on the boat, but he’d have enough to enjoy a short break before reaching New York City.

Thomas was docked at a small well-kept harbor in Elizabeth City, North Carolina, when he received the e-mail message. It was the second email he’d received from Taylor that week. Unlike the first one, which had no title, this message was entitled, “CONGRATULATIONS!” Thomas smirked. There was little in his current life that would justify congratulations. In the period of a few months, he’d lost his job and one of the people that mattered most to him; Ann.

There were bright spots, of course. His friends had been inordinately kind, helping him interpret the Moses Riddle, locate the site of the Ark, excavate it, and snatch it back from the clutches of the government. As low as he was, he still had those things, and the Ark, of course. At least he thought he did, until he read Taylor’s email. Thomas clicked on the word CONGRATULATIONS to open the message.

I was going to send you one of those silly electronic cards, but given my computing skills, it would’ve taken much too long. I wanted to get this information to you as soon as I could.

Not more than an hour ago, I sold your treasure. The deal met all of your criteria regarding price, security, purchaser and visitation rights. The client approved of annual visits for you. I’ll save telling you who the client is until you arrive. Be assured I used my finest contacts and was able to locate the crème de la crème, as they say. I even surprised myself a little!

The two numbers following this epistle represent the sale price and the number of the Swiss bank account into which the currency will be deposited by day’s end. Rest easy, son. This adventure is over on a high note of success. You may not know it now, but it was worth every bit of grief. I look forward to seeing you again. Take your time, though. Learn to relax again. Oh, yeah, and don’t spend it all in one place.

Thomas had accumulated a huge amount of debt during the past couple of months. He glanced down at the sales price number. He looked up. Stopped. Focused. Then looked back down again. His mouth dropped open. Then, he counted zeros, to make sure he was reading it right. It was a fantastically large, almost silly number. He laughed aloud. The laugh sounded foreign and he realized how tense he’d been. He hadn’t smiled or laughed in weeks. He’d been so consumed with Ann and DJ, and with worrying about the safety of the Ark and, lately, with his dwindling bank account, that he’d never stopped to consider what would happen if the Ark actually sold.

If the numbers in the e-mail were correct he could immediately repay Drew and Taylor, and include generous bonuses. Both of them had loaned him the money to pay Ethan, and given him money for other expenses. That alone was a huge burden lifted. He would also be able to handsomely compensate Arturo for his vital help. Arturo was far too proud to accept direct payment, but he wouldn’t be able to stop Thomas from setting up a trust fund for each of his children, to help out with college.

In addition to taking care of other people, he could now realize his own dream. Ever since Washington had fired him, and ever since he’d started the quest to find the Moses Riddle, he’d been thinking about what he might do with the rest of his life. A fascinating, gripping idea had taken root. He was considering launching a campaign to try to find the world’s ten greatest lost treasures. He’d started a list, and was even doing a little research already. So far, he had estimated that even the least expensive expedition would cost more than he could afford.
Until now
. Now, with the money he’d made from the sale of the Commandments, he could afford to search for all of them. He only had to decide which treasure to investigate first. And, actually, it would only be nine treasures. He’d already scratched the first one off the list.

As sweet as the money was, it would not restore his reputation among his peers. Since the entire find and subsequent transaction was private, no one would ever know he had found the original Ten Commandments. There would be no professional redemption. The funny, insular academic world would still consider him an outcast.

He put that thought aside. Right now, nothing mattered but what he was going to have for dinner in the way of celebration. Thomas thumbed through the CDs on the shelf in the main cabin, and selected a Cheryl Crow favorite. On deck, he could hear lively sounds coming from a small harbor restaurant. It sounded inviting. He decided to go there for cocktails and dinner. Later, in the restaurant, the crowd cheered him as he bought everyone a third round of drinks. Yet, even in celebration, he couldn’t help but think how preposterously lonely one could be while standing in the middle of a large group of people.