The Lost Kingdom

CHAPTER SIX

Callan Dudley had no problem projecting the crazy Irishman image. It came naturally to him. He also knew the importance of terror, of bullying and intimidating his prey so harshly they could barely think. Time was, back in Ireland he’d have done it for a free pint. Today, he was working for a boatload of cash and for the Pythian group, and with the greatest set of feckin’ arseholes on the planet — the 27-Club.

So they made the mother kneel down on all fours and then covered her in vodka. They bruised the daughter and her boyfriend around the face. When Boyle and Brannan returned to the house looking slightly disappointed and reporting that they’d found no presence of security or bodyguards, Dudley thought it might be time to explain his requirements to their captives.

“Malachi?” He always deferred to his older brother.

“This is yer party, brother. Take it away.”

Dudley motioned McLain and Byram to force the aging, gray-haired man to his knees. Their target, a Lawrence Walcott, the Secretary of the Smithsonian Museum, appeared to be around fifty, with salt-and-pepper sideburns and a wispy moustache. His eyes of course were wide, frightened, his knees trembling.

Dudley enjoyed getting up into the old man’s face. “I’m gonna ask yer some questions. Yer lie yer daughter and her shagger get a bat? Understand?” Lawrence Walcott wanted to, he really did. Dudley could tell he wanted to. But the Irish accent was too much for him.

As expected. Dudley turned to Malachi. “Show him.”

Malachi, grinning, punched first Walcott’s daughter and then her boyfriend in the stomach. Their cries were pitiful, making Dudley laugh.

“Yer get me now?”

“Yes, yes. Please…”

Dudley took a moment to think. Despite the Irishman’s crass violent streak, his penchant toward chaos and brutality, now that his brother and friends had joined the true fight he wanted to prove his worth.

And that meant sometimes having to think.

“Check outside again,” he told Boyle and Brannan. “And check the house too. The Smithsonian has its own police force, an Office of Protection Services. Look for a hidden alarm.”

“Already on it.”

Dudley turned back to Walcott. “So yer want to save time and pain? We’re looking for the Peking Man. And we know it’s in the museum.”

Walcott’s face ran through an entire gamut of expressions. Of course the man was no fool. It would occur to him very quickly that there was no point questioning Dudley’s knowledge, if only for his family’s sake. It would also occur to him that Dudley wasn’t swinging in the wind here — the Irishman knew. So where did that leave him?

Dudley thought, Damage. Quickly, he turned again to Malachi. “The wife now.”

Walcott protested. Dudley gave him a slap. Daley, watching carefully, giggled. Dudley turned to him with a grin. “Yer like that?” He slapped Walcott again, this time reddening his other cheek. Daley burst into laughter. At the same time Malachi was hauling the wife up by the hair and throwing her over the couch.

“The feckin’ Irish bastards have yer now.” Dudley squeezed Walcott’s jaw hard. “If yer want to live you’d better keep yer nose clean and not fib to me.”

Walcott nodded, face screwed up in agony. The asshole’s wife was groaning too as Malachi worked overtime, practicing his jabs, so Dudley thought this an appropriate time to twist the proverbial knife.

“Yer gonna take us to this Peking Man. And give it over. Then we’ll be gone.” Dudley explained that Walcott would acquire the long-lost, probably stolen, relic whilst his family remained under Irish guard. Only when the 27-Club walked away with the artefact would Walcott’s family be released.

“When? Now?” Walcott looked incredulous. “It’s the middle of the day. There will be a thousand people wandering around.”

“Not in the archives,” Dudley said. “It’s not like yer have it on show or admit to ever stealing it. An’ doing it at night would be even more fierce. As yer know.”

Walcott’s face fell even further.

“Family or job?” Dudley smiled, a hunter facing his prey. “Choose.”

He waited, thinking through what the Pythians had already told him. This lost relic, the Peking Man, would make China sit up and take notice, even beg. Couple to that the knowledge of where the Americans found it in 1945 and what they were actually doing there back then, and you had not only China’s attention but their complicit support and enduring assistance. Dudley wasn’t aware what the Pythians required from the Chinese but he knew it wouldn’t be a free tour of the Great Wall. Once the Peking Man was obtained their mission became even more obscure. Something about tablets and Mu. None of it really mattered to Dudley. The Pythians had told him that China might start a war with Taiwan. The war was everything.

Any war.

He grinned, looking over at his brothers. Not only Malachi, but all of them. Brothers in battle. Comrades-in-arms. The 27-Club existed only so its members could live out their ferocious dreams.

Because his oldest brother, Kevan, could not. Dead at twenty seven, killed by the British, Kevan was the reason the 27-Club had been born. Malachi founded it, recruiting his friends to the cause — every one under twenty seven — and then Dudley joined too, already a capable underground brawler at home with violence and unable to reconcile his brother’s death. After that, it was pure mayhem. The 27-Club did indeed make waves, bloody gore-filled ones. They wreaked havoc through many a country before Malachi turned twenty seven himself and then they waited. The gang didn’t slacken in its cruel dealings. If anything, Malachi took more risks.

One by one, the club members all passed the age Kevan was when he died. All but one.

Dudley turned his attention to Walcott, feeling a surge of hatred and a deep rush of anger. “So what’s the decision? Don’t keep me waiting, old man. It’s me birthday today. Twenty feckin’ seven, I am.”

In the end it all went exactly as Dudley expected it to. By the skin of its teeth. But it was a bad situation all around. His mother, the Devil take her, used to say, “Yer can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear”, and that was how he felt right now. Walking the National Mall without weapons he felt naked, exposed. So much space. So much greenery. So much regimented tourism it made him feel sick. He’d taken Byram and McLain with him; extra eyes and ears in case Walcott tried anything. But he needn’t have bothered. Walcott was a pure, dyed-in-the-wool family man. He’d do anything to protect them.

Dudley wished he could be there to see them die. But that old bleeder, Malachi, had earned the honor. No mind, Daley’s gonna record it.

At last the dull red brick façade of the Smithsonian Castle came into view, all spires and arches, windows and a great castle turret. Walcott headed straight up the steps toward the entrance but Dudley held him back.

“Remember now, be a grand fella.”

“Sure, sure. I know what’s at stake here.”

Dudley held out his cellphone, which held a photo of Walcott’s wife. “And don’t forget.”

Inside, they traversed a polished floor along a corridor that gave Dudley the impression it shone with gold. Clearly, it was a lighting trick, but the interior impression of the castle was one of enveloping warmth and security.

Dudley shepherded Walcott past a lone guard who offered only a flicker of recognition. Further they went, making use of an elevator and then a non-public corridor, this one painted bright white and looking as sparse as a monk’s cell. Now, Walcott led them down a clanking spiral staircase, moving deeper into the castle’s innards. Dudley had noticed a sign that read Archives several minutes ago.

“Yer sure?”

“It’s more than a secret. It was never meant to be found. At first a treasure, then secreted away after the tragedy, and now largely forgotten. There are hundreds of old treasures like this around the world, gathering dust, forgotten about by their owners. Who knows if they will ever again see the light of day?”

Dudley thought, What tragedy? But Walcott spoke again before he could ask. “Almost there.”

The now-familiar white walls surrounded them, the space large and full of rows and rows of shelves, all crammed full with sealed cardboard, wooden and metal boxes of every variety, a mishmash of hundreds of shapes and sizes. Dudley saw two other people wandering the stacks.

He leaned in to Walcott. “They gonna be a problem?”

“No. No. Your problem would really have been getting out once you produce and fill your backpacks. But I have an override card. As I said before, once we leave the building I can’t stop the guards challenging us. Even I can only go so far.”

Dudley patted him on the head. “Aye, we’re countin’ on it, old man.”

Byram and McLain gave him feral grins.

Walcott pushed further down the rows, entering an area where the shelves were made of old wood and spaced further apart to accommodate larger items. A fusty smell filled the air, the odor of ancient things. Dust motes spun in the air, visible within the beams of light cast by recessed bulbs in the windowless room. The only sounds were their careful footfalls. Dudley fancied they were way under the red-brick castle by now, possibly even branched out toward the national mall.

“How much further?”

“Not far now.”

Walcott walked with hunched shoulders, following the route by memory alone. His shoes started to leave a dusty trail along the floor. When Dudley brushed against a shelf, a bloom of dust puffed out. They walked through the deepest places of the Smithsonian, seemingly untouched for years and even unremembered by many. Dudley understood it now; he saw how easily something might fade away into history, might be allowed to do just that. Hide it away. Shove it in a box. Place it out of sight, deep, deep in the catacombs. Essentially it was the same principle as storing a container in an attic. Over the years, you forgot what was there and how important or sentimental it might be to you.

Until you revisited.

Walcott finally halted before a set of uneven shelves, their coating of dust attesting to the fact that nothing nearby had been touched for many years. Dudley saw no trails in the fine coating, no fingerprints.

Walcott hesitated. “This… this is ancient history,” he said. “Almost a million years old. It is the oldest known form of primitive man.”

“And what have yer done with it in fifty years? Shoved it in a museum? Naw, not even that.” Dudley gestured angrily. “Hurry up.”

“What can you possibly hope to accomplish with it? Make money? At least here, it’s safe.”

Dudley wasn’t a patient man at the best of times. Without any further warnings he punched Walcott hard behind the left ear, sending the man to his knees.

“Yer wife’s next, pal.”

Walcott struggled upright, reaching out for the skew-whiff shelving. “Help me,” he said. “It’s this one.”

Byram and McLain took hold of a wooden box and lifted it easily to the floor. Walcott bent over, lifting the lid.

“No key?” Dudley asked suspiciously.

“It would only draw attention,” Walcott murmured.

Inside the shabby-appearing but surprisingly well-made box was a layer of foam, which Walcott removed, and then the old bones gleamed up at them. Dudley didn’t stand on ceremony, just whipped out his backpack and forced several of the bones inside. Byram and McLain did the same. Walcott winced with every clink.

“You should wrap them, at least. Don’t you know what they—”

Dudley’s hand struck as fast as a viper’s head, grabbing the Secretary by the collar and drawing him close. “I don’t care. I don’t give a rat’s arse. Shut yer face and do yer job. And yer may get to live.”

Walcott tucked his protestations and grimaces away. The three Irishmen filled their backpacks and strapped them on. Walcott then replaced the wooden box and tried to spread a little dust over the shelves to preserve their untouched appearance. Dudley grabbed his arm and threw him ahead.

“Get on with it.”

Back through the maze of shelves they went, silence their only companion. Timeworn boxes surrounded them, each one a relic, making Dudley wonder just what other treasures the Smithsonian might have secreted down here. If he had time to make Walcott talk, the 27-Club might be able to find enough valuable “lost” artefacts to fund a few operations of their own.

Later.

He stored that nugget away. Truth be told, it was a good reason to keep Walcott alive. Maybe they should show willing and let the rest of his family live too. It would make coming back in a few months so very much sweeter. And productive.

Dudley felt his face creasing into a grin and wiped it clean. This wasn’t the time. Motes of dust swirled and eddied around him, micro-hurricanes displaced by the fury of his passing. Walcott stuck faithfully to the center of the passage but the Irishmen brushed against boxes and shelves and caused more than a little damage. Walcott got a move on. At last they reached the more populated area and aimed toward the metal staircase and then an elevator. Walcott attracted little attention and even those who did recognize him only nodded. The Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution was an important man, appointed by the Board of Regents. Probably not the kind of man most employees felt content to stop and discuss their evening plans or crappy commute with.

Dudley was happy with that. Soon, they exited out into the public museum and made their way toward the rear gardens and, beyond that, the street parking. Within minutes Dudley found himself walking in the fresh air, down a straight path toward four large pillars and open gates. Almost disappointed, he glanced to left and right.

Ah…

The guard approached them from behind a bench where he’d been chatting with tourists. Dudley purposely held his gaze, flicking a disparaging glance at the man’s paunch. When he reached an audible distance he opened his mouth.

Dudley turned to McLain. “Shut that fat fecker up.”

His comrade liked nothing better than to teach security guards what real fighting and real pain was all about. Back in Ulster and an age ago now it had been one of his favorite hobbies. Back then, they had sought out local security guards just for fun, leaving them broken and bleeding, crawling around the floor of the place they were paid to defend. McLain even used to cut his biceps to mark every target they took down.

Back when the 27-Club was young, just finding their feet…

Now?

McLain jabbed the guard hard, making the man’s eyes bulge and his touristy friends scream. When the guard’s hands flew to his throat, McLain used his groin as a punching bag, placing an arm across his upper half and bending him over. When the guard slithered to the floor, incapacitated, McLain lifted a boot over his throat.

“Say goodbye, fat man.”

“No!” Walcott’s voice was unnecessarily loud. “Don’t kill him. He’s done nothing to you. Nothing!”

Dudley grinned. “Aw, come on. McLain here hasn’t killed nothing for days.”

“Please.”

McLain smiled into Walcott’s eyes as he brought his boot hard down on the security guard’s throat.

Dudley shrugged. “I guess it wasn’t the poor bastard’s day.”

“Bastard! That wasn’t necessary. We’re free!”

Dudley eyed the scrambling tourists. “Don’t be too sure. Letting someone live is always a mistake.”

“Do not hurt them. Do not! I will raise the alarm. I will—”

Dudley cuffed him. “Ah, at last, you’ve found a set of bollocks. Let’s call yer family and see how long that lasts.”

Walcott hung his head as Dudley directed them back to their parked car. Without rushing, his comrades and he deposited their backpacks into the enormous trunk. Then, carefully, they slid into the traffic.

“On second thoughts,” Dudley said. “Maybe yer shouldn’t have killed him. Now they’ll be trying even harder to find us.”

Byram shrugged, massaging his heavy bicep.

Dudley smirked. “Best get a move on, old man. Us lads have another vault to visit.”