The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cait was much too excited to sleep. She woke up an hour before dawn, showered and got dressed in a long-sleeve tan cotton shirt, matching cargo slacks and hiking boots. Then she inventoried the contents of her duffle bag to make sure she had her digital camera, flashlight, batteries and notebook. She followed the scent of coffee through the quiet house to the kitchen. There was a fresh pot on the stove and a plate of pastry on the table. Leaning on the plate was an envelope with her name written on it. The note inside said:

She tucked the folded note into her shirt pocket. Amir might be a drug lord, but the old rogue was a considerate host. After a quick breakfast of coffee and pastry, Cait filled a couple of canteens with cold water and went back to her room to collect the duffle. She pulled on a wind-breaker, tucked her hair under a Georgetown University baseball cap and stepped out the front door to wait for her ride.

It was still dark outside, and the temperature was in the forties, although once the sun rose, its heat would quickly vanquish the lingering cold of the night. The village was stirring with life. A pair of operatic roosters had begun a duet, setting off a chain reaction of barking dogs that triggered a wailing chorus of hungry babies.

The guttural rumble of a powerful engine echoed off the walls of the closely-built houses, drowning out the morning concert. Amir’s Cadillac touring car drove up to the front of the house and stopped at Cait’s feet.

The car’s canvas top was folded down despite the cool air. Two bearded men sat in the front seat of the seven-passenger car. The driver was one of Amir’s top lieutenants. His name was Ghatool which meant tulip in Pashto, but with his squat, troll-like physique, fierce beard and hard eyes, he was as unlike a flower as anyone could be.

The name would have more suited the handsome young man who sat in the passenger seat, his hand clutching a rifle. His name was Baht and despite his movie star good looks, his delicate features could not disguise the Afghan toughness that comes from growing up in an environment that punishes weakness.

Baht got out of the car, still holding his rifle and stored her bag in the car’s trunk. Then he motioned for her to get in back and resumed his seat riding shotgun. Moments later, the car passed through the gates of the compound. The Cadillac’s headlights stabbed the inky darkness as the car sped along the road between Amir’s agricultural fields, then into open country, maintaining a steady pace for around fifteen minutes until it slowed to turn off onto a rutted track.

As she rode in the back seat with the air blowing in her face, Cait felt like an Oriental potentate off to inspect her vast holdings. She thought it interesting that Amir had assigned his most trusted men to the routine errand of taking his guest to visit the ruins. The gesture reaffirmed the tie that had developed since she had saved the warlord’s granddaughter from choking.

The stars faded from the heavens as a golden eye peeked between gaps in the shark-tooth mountain range and the sky shifted to purple and blue. Once the sun rose above the peaks, it was as if a thousand flood lamps had been switched on.

Cait slipped on her sunglasses and took in the passing scenery. They had left the relatively flat lands of the flood plain behind and the track threaded its way through a series of linked valleys that separated low hills covered with scrub brush. The big balloon tires allowed the Cadillac to move with relative ease over the uneven ground.

Ghatool eased off the gas pedal as they rounded a bend and pointed through the windshield.

“Look, Dr. Cait.”

It would have been impossible to miss the high crenellated walls of the citadel that rose from the earth about a quarter mile ahead. Ghatool stopped the car and they all got out. Ghatool knelt on one knee and scraped away a patch of dirt. Cait bent close to look at what he was uncovering and saw pavement stones close together.

“A road!” she said.

“Yes, yes. A road.” He stood, bared his horse-toothed grin and extended his arms. “Wide.”

Cait walked to her right until she came to the edge of the paving and did the same thing to her left. The roadway would have been at least twenty feet wide.

“Very wide,” she said. She walked a short distance further where the ground sloped down to a dry wash that ran more or less parallel to the road and past the ruins.

Ghatool made a motion as if he were drinking.

“Water,” Cait said. “A river.”

It made perfect sense. The ancient settlements along the Silk Road were usually situated near springs or a river. Ghatool nodded and said something in Pashto to his friend, who smiled and gave Cait a thumb’s up. They got back in the car and drove toward the high arched gate, unaware that they were being closely watched by unfriendly eyes.

Rashid lay on his belly behind a bush on the opposite side of the wash, peering through a pair of Steiner navy SEAL binoculars he had found in Calvin’s stash. He focused the lenses on the two men, pausing to let his gaze linger on their weapons, and then moved on to Cait, taking in her easy, feminine stride.

Rashid seethed with anger for botching the attempt to murder Hawkins and his friends. He had planned to incapacitate Hawkins with a blow to the head and silently dispatch him with a knife. Then he’d kill the sleeping Calvin and deal with Abby. He had looked forward to hearing the insolent woman beg for her life before he killed her. The theft of the dune buggy and its valuable cargo had assuaged his rage, that is, until the vehicle ran out of gas.

He couldn’t believe the turn his luck had taken. The touring car was a gift from God, he thought. He spread his thick lips in a yellow-tooth smile. He crawled backwards until he was sure he couldn’t be seen, then rose to his feet and walked over to the dune buggy, which was hidden behind a cluster of rocks.

His original plan after killing Hawkins and his friends was to head for a village where he could sell his stolen goods. When he’d run out of gas, he had gathered up water and food and struck out on foot through the rugged countryside, pondering his dim prospects with each step, until he heard the sound of a car engine. He ducked behind a rock and saw the Cadillac pass by. He had followed the touring car on a parallel path, keeping out of view, until they came to the ruins.

Rashid had little interest in a bunch of old stones. He stowed the binoculars and pulled out Calvin’s rifle with the sound suppressor.

He loaded the rifle, tucked a few extra shells in his pocket, and set off on a circuitous route that would take him to the ruins unseen.

Cait asked Ghatool to stop the car so she could use her camera. She stood on her seat and snapped off photos of the fort’s gateway, picturing the image on the cover of the book she was outlining in her head. The title would go under the tall pointed arch of the opening, which had been built twelve feet high to allow for the passage of camels. She’d be sure to include her two colorful companions in the author photo on the back cover.

She finished taking pictures and Ghatool drove through the gateway. In the fort’s heyday, armed guards would have stood at the long-gone wooden gate doors, vetting weary travelers and directing them to the fort keeper who would have assessed them a fee before passing them on to others who would require more payments for lodging and supplies.

The car entered a square courtyard around two hundred feet across. Archways lined three sides of the quadrangle, creating a shaded arcade for vendors to display their wares. Behind some of the galleries would be rooms for travelers and warehouses for their goods. At the center of the open space was a three-story, square building that probably housed the fort keeper and served as an administrative or possibly religious center.

Rather than get into a time-consuming search of the cloisters, Cait decided to concentrate on the building. Ghatool parked near a circular dry fountain around ten feet across. They all got out and Baht retrieved Cait’s duffle bag and slung it onto his shoulder.

He followed Cait who walked around the tower taking photos of every side. The structure was perfectly square. Most of the plaster exterior had fallen off to expose the huge blocks used in construction. There were narrow vertical windows, the frames beveled to allow archers a clear shot in any direction. The windows on the third story were horizontal. She came back to the front of the building and got a flashlight from the duffle.

“I’m going inside to look around,” she said.

Ghatool said something in Pashto to his friend, then he sat down on the short flight of steps that led to the entryway and crossed his rifle across his knees. With Baht leading the way, Cait climbed the steps to the doorway and flicked the flashlight on as she stepped across the threshold into the cool dark interior.

She swept the beam around the room and saw a miniature version of the outside fountain in the center of the chamber. Caravan leaders would be brought in to the reception area to sit around the fountain and refresh themselves while negotiating various fees.

A flight of cleverly-designed winding stone stairs was tucked into a corner. With Baht trailing like a devoted puppy, she climbed the stairway to the second level, which was similar to the first except for the absence of a fountain. She walked around the perimeter, her boots leaving tracks in a layer of dust that looked as if it had been undisturbed for centuries. The chamber would have housed the money-counters and scribes who tallied and recorded the flow of cash that the caravans brought in.

Baht silently watched her, an expression of curiosity on his face.

Cait reached into a pocket then pantomimed dropping imaginary coins into her palm. She described a circle with her index finger.

“Money,” Baht said.

“Yes. Big money.”

“Like Amir.”

She laughed and said, “Yes. Like Amir.”

Another corner stairway led to the third level. The reason for the horizontal windows visible from the outside was to allow space for the walls to be used for display. The openings had been placed so that the shafts of lights coming in from four directions fell on the opposite interior walls.

She stood in the center of the room and pivoted on her heel. What she saw was simply stunning.

She was standing in an ancient map room.

Cait clicked on her flashlight and slowly swept its beam around the room. Her heart ratcheted up several beats. This was not any map, but a detailed rendering, spread out over four panels, of the old Silk routes. The colors had faded through the centuries, but the details were clear.

Like most ancient examples of cartography, the proportions were out of whack, but the shape of the continents was reasonably accurate. The physical features, such as mountains, deserts and rivers, were well represented.

She walked along the walls, tracing the thousands of miles from China to the Holy land. East of China was a sliver of India, and to the west was a blue crescent, representing the eastern corner of the Mediterranean, whose ports were the jump-off for the maritime route to Rome.

The three major routes were marked with a heavy line and the branches in thinner red lines. Only major city names were identified, written in Latin and Chinese. Trading posts were represented by numerous blue dots. Some had palm trees that marked an oasis, or a drawing of a crenellated wall showing the presence of a fortified caravan stop.

The only flaw was a rectangular section of bare stones a couple of feet wide and high between China and Afghanistan. Rows of chisel marks showed that someone had methodically obliterated that part of the map from the record. The floor in front of the marred wall was covered with scattered pieces of plaster.

Cait spent several minutes making a photographic record before she tore herself away from the maps. With Baht following, she climbed to the top of the tower into the blinding sunlight. They were standing on an observation platform that offered views for miles in every direction. Any daylight threat could have been discerned, but more likely it was used to watch for approaching caravans.

As a historian, Cait had long been impressed at the ingenuity of the ancients. Without benefit of computers or powerful machines, they had managed to erect monuments that had stood for hundreds, even thousands of years. But there was another sphere in which the ancients overcame their limitations. She was standing on a formidable example of human cooperation and organization. The tower and the surrounding fortress enabled the existence of an international commercial enterprise. Caravans were tended to and protected, money exchanged, and goods passed across entire continents.

They went back down to the map room and Cait began to take more pictures. Baht cocked his head as if he were listening, and said something in Pashto, but Cait was so absorbed with her task that she only half-heard him before he disappeared down the stairway, leaving her alone. She continued with her work, unaware of the ugly danger that lurked nearby.