The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The antique Cadillac touring car arrived at the warlord’s house in the gray light of the pre-dawn. Amir had assigned two of his most trusted men to escort me to the ruins. Their names were Ghatool and Baht. Both men were armed with automatic rifles, and from their belts hung pistols and knives. Although the air was cool, we drove out of the village with the convertible top down and traveled for about an hour through the rugged countryside until we came to the remnants of an ancient paved road that led to the front gate of the abandoned caravanserai. As I gazed with wonder and excitement at the centuries-old caravan stop, I had no idea of the mystery, and the danger, waiting beyond the silent walls.

Cait leaned back in her in her chair and stared at the words she had typed into her computer. Her mind was thousands of miles and hundreds of years away from her Georgetown University office. She only half-heard the soft knock at the door and assumed it was the graduate student helping with her research.

Without taking her eyes from the screen, she said, “Come in and put the files on my desk if you can find room.”

The door opened and clicked shut. Someone approached and a deep voice said, “Sorry to interrupt. I happened to be in the neighborhood and hoped you could sign this.”

She looked up over the neatly-stacked piles of paper, books and folders that rose above the desktop like castle ramparts. Hawkins stood there holding her Silk Roads book. He had a wide grin on his wind-burned face. Her heart skipped a couple of beats. She smiled with pleasure, told Hawkins to have a seat and took the book from his hand.

Turning to the title page, she said, “Anything in particular you’d like me to say?”

He nodded. “Please dedicate it to your biggest fan.”

Her smile grew impossibly wider. She wrote in the book and passed it back to Hawkins, who read her words aloud:

“To Matt, my biggest fan, from his biggest fan.”

“Perfect,” he said, a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. He thanked her and tucked the book into a canvas rucksack he had slung over his left shoulder. He surveyed the stacks covering her desk. “You didn’t waste much time getting back to work.”

“Research material.” Pointing at the computer screen, she said, “I’m sketching out a first draft of my book on the Prester John treasure.”

Hawkins shifted his tall body in his chair, glanced out the window, and brought his attention back to Cait.

“About that treasure,” he said.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I met with the rest of the team before I came over here.”

“And—?”

“Before I tell you what we talked about, maybe you could answer the question we asked ourselves. What do you think would happen if news of the treasure’s discovery went public?”

“It would be the biggest archaeological event since King Tut’s tomb was found. It would be all over the news. Every major museum in the world would compete to put the treasure on display. There would be television specials galore. It would change our view of history.” She tapped the computer screen. “And there would be dozens of books written.”

“That was pretty much our assessment,” Hawkins said. “Have you given any thought to who owns the treasure and the income it might produce?”

“I’m not a lawyer, but I can follow the historical trail of ownership. Prester John intended the treasure as a gift to the Pope, so the Vatican might put in a claim. Hiram Kurtz found the treasure; it’s possible his descendants would say it belongs to them. The families of the archaeologists on his expedition might want a piece. The government of Afghanistan could say it is rightfully theirs. It was found on Amir’s property and he might say he owns it.”

“Which means that given the treasure’s murky history, the litigation would involve dozens of lawyers worldwide.”

“It would take years and the ownership issues might never be resolved,” Cait agreed, but she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “Even so, there is no reason the treasure couldn’t be displayed and its earnings put in trust until the ownership is cleared up.”

Hawkins was well acquainted with Cait’s persistence, and was prepared to deal with it.

“That might work.” He pointed to the computer screen. “But the treasure didn’t materialize out of nowhere. How did you plan to describe its discovery without mentioning me or the rest of my team?”

Her stubborn smile vanished. “That would be extremely difficult.”

“To say the least. Especially if you factor in the fact that our mission was top secret.”

“In that case it would be virtually impossible to tell the complete story,” she admitted. “But—”

“One more question. What would be the political reaction to the scepter?”

“That’s even more complicated than the ownership issue. The scepter symbolizes the ancient divide between the Christian and Islam worlds.”

“And that symbolism is why the Shadows wanted the scepter, hoping to stir up long-held animosities,” Hawkins said.

“It’s hard to say what would happen, with all the changes in the works stemming from the Arab spring. Everyone hopes that despotic regimes will be replaced with democratic rather than extremist governments.”

“This doesn’t seem to be a good time to turn up the heat,” Hawkins said.

She sighed. “I see where you’re going, but I can’t say I like it.”

“Sorry Cait, but it was the team’s unanimous decision that the scepter and the rest of the treasure remain secret. Abby will keep it stored in her vault. Only five of us will have access.”

Cait blinked. “Five?”

“We’d like to include you.”

“I appreciate your trust,” Cait said. She stared bleakly at the screen. “Damn. I would have loved to have wiped the smug smiles off the faces of my colleagues who scoffed at my claim that Prester John was real.”

“Maybe you still can. There is more than one kind of treasure.”

He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in transparent plastic. He handed the packet to Cait who read the title on the leather bound volume.

“This is the journal of Master Philip!”

“We also voted that you should have access to this. Using the journal, you can backtrack to Prester John and his kingdom. Hell, maybe you can find Prester John’s tomb. You won’t have to mention the mission.”

“Where would I say I found the journal?”

“If anyone asks, say it was given to you by an Afghan warlord who found it in a cave.”

“That might work,” she said. “I could tell the story up to the time the treasure disappears. The revelations would rock the foundation of the historical establishment.”

“That should be very satisfying after all the doubt your research has met with.”

“Of course. But more satisfying would be setting the historical record straight and giving the participants their due.”

Cait’s eyes took on a dreamy look. She had left the present and her thoughts were being drawn to the past like metal filings to a magnet.

“About that dinner I promised you,” Matt said.

She snapped out of her daze. “Oh, Matt. I’m so sorry. I’ve got to get the journal translated immediately.”

“Is that a no?”

“I’m sorry, Matt. You know how hard this is to say after all we’ve been through together. It’s not forever?”

Hawkins smiled and said, “You’re not off the hook. I want a signed copy of your next book.”

He rose to say good-bye. Cait sprang from her chair, came around the desk, wrapped her arms around him and planted a kiss on his lips that curled his toes.

Abby was waiting for him outside.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Okay. A little difficult.”

“Difficult? Then why do you look like the cat that swallowed the canary?”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “I was thinking about an idea I wanted to discuss with you.”

When he explained what he had in mind it was Abby’s turn to smile.

“It’s about damned time, Hawkins.”

The sleek red-hulled lobster boat glided out of the picturesque harbor, passing some of the windjammers that carried passengers to give them a taste of what it was like in the days of sail.

Hawkins was at the wheel and Abby stood on the deck taking photos of the tall-masted boats. Not a wisp of a cloud marred the luminous blue sky. The air was heavy with the salty scent of the sea. Squadrons of sharp-eyed gulls wheeled over the fishing boats searching for scraps of food. The breeze ramped up several knots as the boat entered the open waters of Penobscot Bay, but the bow cut through low mounding waves like scissors through blue silk.

Hawkins’ father had the wooden-hulled boat custom built for his lobster business. When he retired from fishing and became a shore-bound lobster distributor, he converted the forty-two-foot-long workboat into a comfortable pleasure craft that was ideal for island-hopping along the Maine coast. When Hawkins had called and asked to borrow the boat, he had felt like a teenager asking Pop for the keys to the family car, but his father had happily obliged, especially when he learned Abby was coming with him.

After the meeting with Cait, Hawkins and Abby had dashed home to pack their overnight bags and rendezvoused at the airport. Abby had arranged for a small jet that flew them to Portland, Maine where they picked up a rental car. Two hours later, they pulled up to the low-slung Hawkins family home on a rocky point. His father came out to wrap Abby in a bear hug and his mother beamed with delight. She still considered Abby as a daughter. Hawkins stayed long enough to be polite, eat some homemade apple pie and catch up on local gossip before saying that he wanted to get moving so he could make landfall before dark.

His father said the boat was fueled up, well-stocked with food and booze and ready to go. Within minutes of boarding, Hawkins and Abby set a course to Vinal Haven, southwest of Camden, and when they arrived they found an anchorage in a quiet cove. While Hawkins grilled a couple of rib eye steaks and sweet potatoes, Abby made a salad and opened a bottle of 2007 Bordeaux.

Abby had suggested that they dress for dinner. She had exchanged her shorts and polo-shirt for a diaphanous strapless cocktail dress of lavender. Hawkins changed from his cargo shorts and T-shirt into an olive cotton blazer, fresh jeans and a dark green shirt. They sat at a table on the wide deck, enjoying their food and wine by candlelight, watching the sun dip behind the island, and chatting about Calvin and Sutherland.

After their meeting in Washington, Hawkins had asked Calvin and Sutherland what they planned to do. Calvin had grinned like a mischievous kid.

“I’ve been talking to Abby about transporting Amir’s bomber if I can persuade the old bandit to part with it.”

Sutherland simply said, “I’ll let you know,” before she got on her Harley and rode off like the Lone Ranger.

“Do you think we’ll ever hear from Molly again?” Abby said.

“When she’s ready. In the meantime she’ll be watching every move we make.” Hawkins took a sip of wine and stared up at the star-spattered sky. “We’re damned lucky the gods look out for fools.” He realized his faux pas and said, “No offense, Abby.”

Abby laughed softly. “None taken. I’m glad you asked me to go on the mission.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you, Abby.”

“I’ll have to admit I had my doubts.”

“Can’t imagine why. Having Crazy Matt arrive on your doorstep asking you to go on a dangerous treasure hunt seems like a perfectly normal request.”

“I think Crazy Matt is no more,” she said.

“And I think that we’re out of wine.”

Hawkins opened another bottle and filled their glasses. They sipped their wine in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the rhythmical tap of waves against the hull and the piney scent of the warm Maine night. Abby broke the silence.

“We know what Calvin and Molly’s plans are. Where do we go from here?” Abby said.

“I’ll head back to Woods Hole and play with my robotic toys. I assume you’ll go back to running your company.”

“I didn’t mean professionally. I was talking about us. About our future.”

“Ah,” Hawkins said. “Excuse me for being brain dead. It’s a male thing. What’s your take on the situation?”

She put her glass down on the table and got up. She walked to the stern, staring out at the land lights sparkling against the blue darkness, then turned and said, “There may be a chance for us. There may not be. We’re both different than we were. It’s as if we’ve got to get to know each other all over again.”

Hawkins got up and went over to Abby. The soft breeze was blowing the tender folds of her dress against the curves of her body. He put his arms around her and kissed her neck, her ear, her cheek and finally her lips. He ran his hands down from her shoulder blades to the small of her back, exploring the valley of her vertebrae, the firm roundness of her buttocks, the curve of her thighs. She shivered at his touch although the night was warm as his searching fingers brought back tactile recollections of times past.

“No time like the present to get to know each other again,” he said.

They climbed down into the cabin, leaving a trail of clothes behind them, slipped beneath the sheets of the V-shaped berth in the bow of the boat, made love with a frantic urgency, fell asleep, awoke and made love again, slower and more deliberately, and slept until they were awakened in each other’s arms by the squalling of gulls and sunlight through the portholes.

After they got dressed, Abby took the wheel and they headed south to Matinicus Island where they anchored again and Hawkins whipped up a masterful omelet. They rowed ashore, spent the day exploring the rocky island and later that evening explored each others’ bodies again.

The next morning, they set a direct course back to Camden. Hawkins called ahead to his folks and said that he and Abby would love to visit, but they had to get back for an appointment. After returning the boat, they drove to Portland. Abby summoned her jet and Hawkins caught a commercial flight to Boston. Before taking off, they exchanged the lighthearted kiss and hug of old friends and vowed to keep in touch.

The pain of parting stayed with Hawkins during his flight. When his plane landed in Boston, he caught a bus back to Woods Hole. He had called ahead and Snowy was waiting at the bus stop to give him a ride home in the red pick-up. They made small talk on the ten-minute ride. The afterglow of Hawkins’ cruise with Abby was wearing off, sadly. He realized that their romantic interlude had been only that, with no resolution to what he called their situation. He was still thinking about Abby when they pulled up in front of his house. He glanced at the second floor. The bullet-shattered picture window had been replaced.

“Forgot to mention that there’s a surprise waiting for you,” Snowy said.

As Hawkins got out of the truck, Quisset emerged from around a corner of the house and limped over. One of her back legs wasn’t working quite right, and she wore a collar to prevent her from getting at the bandage on her head, but there was nothing wrong with her wagging tail and she did her best to knock Hawkins over with her usual thigh slam.

Hawkins knelt and gave Quisset a big hug that set off a squirming fit.

It was good to be home.