The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER FIVE

Quisset popped out of the doggy door on the front porch and greeted her master, then padded behind him as he climbed to his study carrying a computer disk Fletcher had given him and a glass of the whiskey Fido had liberated from the ocean bottom.

He settled behind his desk and slid the disk into the laptop. While the computer chirped through the booting up process he sipped his drink, wondering if he’d taken on the role of Johnny Carson in the old Mission Impossible parody, when the comedian gets stuck in the phone booth as the tape self-destructs. Funny, he thought, unless you’re the one in the exploding phone booth. Hawkins was no wide-eyed child. The war college meeting stank worse than a week-old codfish. The participants could have come from a casting company. The script had been orchestrated perfectly, with the navy guy playing bad cop to Fletcher’s good cop.

His instincts told him that the assignment was insane, but he needed to take it. Having his discharge reversed, his navy contract reinstated, and the Osprey reimbursed would be nice, but what he really wanted was to learn the truth about what happened five years ago to set him on the course to official derangement. And he was convinced he would find the answer back in Afghanistan.

The computer finished booting up, and Hawkins opened the folder on the disk. The first file it contained was a biography of Cait Everson. He gave her photograph more than a casual glance, memorizing the even features of the dark-haired woman.

Cait was a California girl. San Diego. She had majored in Middle-East and Central Asian history at UCLA, ultimately working her way up to her doctorate degree. She went on to teach at Georgetown as an associate professor. She had visited every country in the Mid-East region at least once and was fluent in or familiar with all of the region’s major languages. She had written several books on her specialty, the Silk Routes. She was in her thirties and already divorced.

He looked again at the photo. Hawkins’ love life had been sporadic since his divorce. Women liked his rugged good looks and his sense of humor, but they were put off when they learned that Hawkins viewed a long-term relationship as anything beyond three dates and a sleep-over.

Dr. Everson was smart as well as pretty. He hoped she hadn’t come to harm.

Hawkins next clicked on the report Cait had sent the State Department. It was entitled:

The report started with a detailed historic overview, fleshing out the Prester John summary Hawkins had heard in Newport. He quickly blew through this part and got right to Cait’s summation, which said:

“Based on the evidence, I have come to the following conclusions. Prester John was a real historical figure who ruled a kingdom whose location is yet to be determined. He received Pope Alexander’s letter and responded by sending the Pope a letter and a treasure, which disappeared in Afghanistan en route to Rome.”

He scrolled down to a document marked Exhibit A and entitled The Kurtz Expedition.

The document contained copies of newspaper articles, dating back to the 1920s, that chronicled the expedition Kurtz had led to Afghanistan. An archeologist with the expedition described the project as “desert road archaeology.” He explained that the ruins of ancient settlements often could be found along ancient caravan routes that seemingly led nowhere. The articles were arranged chronologically, spanning a number of months. The first headline read:

Datelined Ouray, Colorado, the article said that Hiram Kurtz, 58, owned a copper mining empire, but the newspaper apparently held him in little esteem, evidenced by the headline’s mocking tone. Still, it was essentially correct in describing the expedition’s purpose. Kurtz was quoted as saying that he hoped to locate archaeological sites along the forgotten trade routes, but he was particularly interested in stories of legendary women warriors.

Other clips, based on dispatches from Kurtz himself, told of him sailing from New Orleans on his private yacht across the Atlantic. He sailed across the Mediterranean, and through the Suez Canal to India, where he met up with a ship carrying his expedition staff and gear, including a customized Cadillac modified for desert driving. Then came the train journey to Kabul.

The dispatches became less frequent as the expedition set off into the wild countryside, until they eventually ceased altogether. Sensing a lost explorer story, The New York Times got in touch with an enterprising Reuters correspondent who learned that the expedition was still intact. He came across a list of supplies that had come through Kabul for delivery to Kurtz in the field. On the list were two pieces of gear called Schraders. It appeared that Dr. Everson had circled this term on her report and written the words “diving gear” beside it.

Hawkins took a moment to gaze at the Schrader helmet in his collection, then he looked back at the documents. Several months later, Kurtz had been in the news again when his expedition quietly arrived back in Kabul. The Reuters reporter caught up with him and reported that the Cadillac had blown its engine and been left behind. He asked where Kurtz had been. The laconic reply became the headline as well as the story:

“I have been to the Valley of the Dead.”

The article reported that a member of Kurtz’s team had died in an excavation cave-in, suggesting the reason for the tycoon’s mournful reply. But the expedition’s misfortune didn’t end there. It made tragic headlines again just a few weeks later. The archaeologist and other key expedition people died when the Kurtz company minerals carrier they were traveling on sank in the Mediterranean during a fierce meltemi. Kurtz was sailing separately on his yacht or he would have been lost as well. The reclusive Kurtz went back to Colorado. His health had been compromised by the rigors of travel and he died a short while later.

The next few documents detailed more of Dr. Everson’s findings. In one, she described how she had been hunting for traces of lost trade routes in Afghanistan and had come across a lake that was still called the Valley of the Dead.

In another, she revealed how her research had led her to an out-of-print book about the Kurtz expedition, written in 1933, called “The Emerald Sceptre.” The author had relied mostly on news reports, but he had learned from the widow of a project archaeologist about a sheet of ancient vellum the expedition found that may have been part of a longer document.

A message on the vellum, written in Latin, mentioned a great treasure that included an emerald scepter as a gift to the Pope. The letter was signed by Prester John and had what appeared to be a crude diagram on the back. Since no treasure had ever been found, the author speculated that it might have been carried on the freighter Kurtz lost. End of story. Or not.

Hawkins sat back in his chair.

The evidence was sketchy, but Cait believed it suggested that the legend of the treasure was true, and that it might still be in Afghanistan. Believed it enough, at least, to contact the State Department.

Hawkins glanced at his watch. It was one in the morning. If he was going to assemble a team, he needed to get started. He reached for his phone and punched in a name. After several rings, a female voice answered with a sleepy hello.

“Matt? Is that really you?” the voice said.

“Isn’t caller ID a wonderful thing, Abby?”

“Only if you have the brains not to answer the damned phone. How’s my “ex” these days?”

“Fine. I have to see you. How about tomorrow?”

Pause. “Hell, Matt it’s already tomorrow. I’m in the middle of a bunch of big projects. Can it wait?”

“No. It’s important.”

“Where are you now?”

“In my house at Woods Hole.”

Another pause. “The only time I have free is at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there,” Hawkins said.

They said their good-byes and hung up.

Matt then made a quick phone call to make arrangements for the next day. After he hung up, his eye again fell on the photo of Cait Everson, and he wondered if she were dead or alive. And if she were alive, where she might be.

He ignored his instincts and took the positive view. “Good night, pretty lady,” he said. “Can’t wait to meet you.”

Then he shut down his computer and went to bed.