The Artifact Page 5

  “How would the perps react to any upright trooper,” Andrea continued, “man or woman, who decided that stealing a priceless treasure was wrong?”

  “Lots of things can happen out there away from the strictures of Main Street, middle America. Loaded weapons you’re trained to use, your focus is killing. A few guys with rough backgrounds, in the service as an option to jail. Hard to relate to civilized society back home.”

  “They’re back in it now,” Andrea said, “and we need to find them.”

  Shortly before noon, Andrea poured vodka into an empty can of Coke and replaced the pint back in her desk drawer just as T.P. Viola gave a courtesy rap of his knuckles on her closed door, then poked his head inside her office.

  “Got a minute?”

  “I’m right in the middle of something, Toilet, can we....”

  Viola pushed the door open wide, shut it, then walked to the chair beside her desk and sat down with a manila file folder in hand. The news director of NNC-TV was a short wiry man with thinning black hair, a placid manner that concealed an infallible sense for the best lead story of the day and a sense of integrity forged from steel cables.

  “Oh, come on in, Toilet,” she said, “have a seat.”

  When he had hired Andrea five years ago, no one at the station knew Viola’s first name or what ‘T.P.’ stood for. Within a month, her inquisitive nature discovered that her boss’s given name was Theodosius Pangloss, and the initials stemmed from an incident in his youth when he had served as a navy ensign aboard a destroyer as supply officer. During training maneuvers with the fleet, his ship ran out of toilet paper, and the captain became the joke of the flotilla when he was forced to beg 300 rolls from his peers steaming beside him. Andrea never revealed this information to anyone and only addressed him as ‘Toilet’ when they were alone.

  “Great segment last night.”

  “Thank you, kind sir. Just doing the job that will make Randy cringe when my lawyer submits our contract renewal.”

  “Did you catch the morning news?”

  “Some.” She picked up the Coke can, took a sip and replaced it next to her keyboard.

  Viola reached for the remote on her desk, turned his chair around to face her monitor and clicked it on. The TV screen showed a man and woman sitting side by side at a chrome anchor desk with their station logo.

  “...will go to any lengths to get an audience,” the man said, “which borders on irresponsible reporting.”

  “Yeah,” Andrea quipped, “just like Bernstein and Woodward.”

  “It certainly does,” the woman agreed. “How long will the American people have to wait for the other shoe to drop? So far there are just rumors and innuendo. Suppose their so-called artifact story comes to an abrupt halt right where it is?”

  “Precisely,” the male commentator said, turning from his co-anchor toward the camera. “But if there is a story, if an antique treasure has in fact been stolen from the Arabian desert by renegade American soldiers, that news will be verified first by legitimate sources before we report it right here on....”

  T.P. switched to another channel on which the head and shoulders of a silver-haired anchorman faced his audience. “During the past year, this ‘Preacher Lady’ has raised the hackles of the hard-core faithful and the ire of religious leaders across the country.” A distance shot of an attractive AmerAsian woman with long black hair filled the screen behind the reporter as he continued speaking. “Decried by many as a heretic and anti-Christ, she has caught the imagination of a small percentage of people disenchanted by recent abuses by clergy, Muslim terrorists, unpopular issues such as same sex unions, birth control, female bishops and marriage for Catholic priests.”

  “What’s her point?” Andrea asked. “If she’s against organized religion, how does she expect to establish a congregation to pull in the bucks?”

  T.P. clicked the TV off and turned the chair back to face her. “We have a problem.”

  Andrea cocked her head, her expression querulous.

  “Duncan wants you on the Preacher story.”

  She threw her head back, laughing. “Talk about bogus news!”

  “The woman has captured the attention of half the country, mostly con. That’s news and you know it.”

  Andrea patted her open mouth, affecting a prolonged yawn. “Religious mystics are not my beat, Toilet.”

  “Duncan thinks the artifact is a waste of time and money, while I have a second-stringer juggling a big one.”

  “Some religious fanatic claiming to cure cancer while the patient is in remission from chemo?”

  T.P. transferred the file folder from his lap to her desk. “Here’s the background we’ve accumulated on the Hannah Ogie woman. It’s pretty thin. No real history. She’s surrounded by a half dozen bodyguards, permits no behind the scene photos, refuses all questions.”

  “The mystery mystic.”

  “She’s doing a circuit in the Bible belt now,” T.P. told her. “Get an interview.”

  “What about the artifact?”

  “It’s back burner as far as Rand is concerned.”

  “Not for me, it isn’t.”

  Viola sat erect in his chair, preparatory to standing up. “The artifact fades to black till something significant breaks. That’s non-negotiable.”

  “The artifact won’t pop up on its own the way these perps are hunkered down. If I don’t dig it out they’ll walk away with it.”

  “I don’t have to tell you that Duncan is out for your hide.”

  “Our pubescent pseudo news mogul.”

  “Emphasis on mogul. You keep on beating that empty artifact, make fools of us, Andy, he’ll stuff your contract in the shredder.”

  “And I’ll waltz into any other net with the scoop of the decade.”

  T.P. did not even try to conceal his exasperation. “What else did you get last night?”

  Andy fixed him with a hard stare, but couldn’t hold it. She reached toward the credenza beside her desk, picked up the Military Intelligence summary Captain Brooks had given her the previous night, handing it to him.

  Viola began speed reading through the report, flipping the pages quickly. “As benign as it is, I want to use this before the pool gets out of their press conference at Bragg. Good way to let things hang for awhile after your pitch last night.”

  She sighed, took another sip from the Coke can, pausing a moment before pretending acquiescence. “All right.”

  T.P. stood and turned to leave, pointing at the Preacher Lady investigative summary on her desk. “Let me see thirty seconds of copy before two. I’ll squeeze it into Frank’s three o’clock slot while the pool’s still in the conference at Bragg.”

  Andrea grinned. “They’ll be bullshit.”

  “So will I,” T.P. said, pointing to the Coke can on her desk, “if you don’t lay off that stuff in the office.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Teignmouth, England

  September 2004

  Bradford Jamison had e-mailed a trio of identical messages shortly after reading the morning edition of the London Times account of Andrea Madigan’s special television newscast from Fort Bragg. Seven hours later, three of the most successful international art thieves patched into a secure conference line from their respective domiciles to listen to the plumy voice emanating from the country estate of their respected senior, their personal computers ready to receive encoded messages.

  These independent cracksmen of precious artwork, whose financial achievements during the past decade were largely due to Jameson’s meticulous coaching, now listened attentively as their mentor proposed their association in an undertaking to find and steal the cache of ancient artifacts unearthed in the Syrian Desert by American soldiers.

  “We may very well not be obliged to meet until we locate the items,” Jamison said in English, the lingua franca of the quartet, “so I suggest we maintain our usual pseudonyms for all communications.” A tall, sparse man with military posture, the Englishman wore a
black Cashmere double-breasted smoking jacket and regimental tie reflecting his Imperial Guards service during the 1960s.

  “A splendid idea,” Nero exclaimed from his Milan villa, the wide grin beneath a graying pencil mustache striking a subtle contrast to his dark complexion. “You have a plan, I assume?”

  “Are we convinced that a priceless treasure was in fact unearthed by the American soldiers,” Yank asked from his high-rise co-op in New York City, “or has the Madigan woman created a cause célèbre for her own purposes?” The black man was the youngest of the clique, fit and agile beneath a starched, white-on-white, collarless shirt with diamond cuff links, a chest of tightly curled black hair and delicate gold chain visible in the shirtfront open to his sternum.

  Several thousand kilometers across the Pacific Ocean, wearing the belted, flower-patterned silk robe of his ancestors, Shogun pursed his lips as he rotated a skewed fish over the small brazier in the rock garden of his opulent home in Nagasaki. “There seem to be great evidence circumstantial to aid her contention. The response of U.S. military does not convince.”

  “For myself, I believe a treasure exists,” Boer offered from the veranda of his sprawling ranch beyond the undulating green hills and lush forest of outer Durban. Fresh from a cooling shower after a fortnight in the bush, his attire consisted of stonewashed khaki shirt, walking shorts and leather sandals. “The most credible factor is the proclaimed location of the discovery.”

  The variously accented voices murmured assent, reflecting their knowledge of the history of the northwest Arabian Desert and similar information related to every category of precious art in existence. The fact that the female reporter, the U.S. military and interim Iraqi government did not dispute the area in question was significant. Because three or four thousand years ago, that vast expanse of Syrian Desert had been crisscrossed with caravan trade routes between ancient Babylon, Egypt and Judea.

  “Among the four of us,” Brit said, “we should have known if the Arabian artifacts had been offered for sale or purchased in recent months.” All ears listened for the denials of each in turn. It would be foolish to collaborate in some fruitless pursuit. If any one of them had participated in the private sale of the treasure, he would not be engaged in that conversation now.

  “These soldiers are amateurs,” Nero stated, “who will have difficulty disposing of their loot outside our professional circles.”

  “Is there any concern,” Brit asked, “that the artifacts in question will not be worth our time and effort in acquiring them?”

  “Suppose the prize emanated one thousand, five hundred years within One CE,” Shogun ventured. “The maximum size of the container to fit in the army vehicle, what, one by two meters? An ossuary ancien replete with bones and gifts to fill a room in the Louvre, a trunk of golden icons and precious gems, the remnants of a trading caravan which came to some mishap.”

  “When the Tutankhamen exhibit was shipped from Cairo in ’76 for the U.S. tour,” Yank observed, “it was considered so priceless it was declared uninsurable, despite government pledges.”

  “King Tut was 14th century B.C.E.,” Boer added. “If the Iraqi artifacts are half that age they could be worth billions of dollars U.S.”

  “I salivate,” Nero whispered hoarsely.

  They discussed the split briefly, and despite the Englishman’s initiation and acknowledged leadership of the venture, concluded that future contributions from all could prove significant. Equal shares would be the fairest and least complex method of compensation.

  “Our chance for success?” Brit asked, as he sent previously encoded pros and cons for the project out from his PC.

  “We won’t be going solo on this,” Yank acknowledged. “Small-time operators will not know where to begin or possess the resources to prevail, but could get in our way. Structured organizations, drug cartels will not be deterred despite the fact that they do not have the expertise.”

  “Bin Laden will give it a go,” Shogun said, “as will the Iraqi rebels.”

  “The American government will remain on the alert, despite their disclaimer,” Brit added. “The international news media poking into every nook and cranny.”

  Nero clasped his hands over his broad abdomen, his voice flat, without emotion. “The river could be quite muddy.”

  “The evident thrust of this investigative reporter Madigan,” Brit intoned, “appears to entail the discovery of the soldiers who stole the artifacts. A path which others will indubitably follow, their premise being that once the thieves are apprehended, so will their fortune be found.”

  The American cut in on the line. “There don’t seem to be any other leads. Where do we start?”

  “We should avoid the madding crowd,” Shogun replied.

  “A manhunt does not fall within our area of expertise,” the Englishman told them. “While other parties are searching for the artifact thieves, we will search for the artifact.”

  Brit stopped his pacing at the far end of his library before the French doors, which opened onto a wide balcony above a sprawling green lawn that rolled gently down a broad slope to a copse of birch beyond. “In my considered opinion,” he continued, “these American soldiers have been waiting for the furor of the military investigation to subside. Now that the army has publicly declared the artifact theft a rumor and hoax, the amateur thieves will be anxious to shed the incriminating evidence, impatient for their payoff. With universal awareness of the treasure created by the Madigan woman’s telecast, they will venture forth to determine how best to dispose of it.”

  “Our contacts throughout the world of art,” Nero said, “should allow us to learn in whatever queries or negotiations the thieves engage.”

  Jameson sat down at his computer to e-mail his suggested list of the most logical quasi-legitimate and corrupt art sources for their covert inquiries: art dealers, assistant museum curators, auction house employees, appraisers, gallery personnel, archeologists, representatives of billionaire collectors.

  “Good show!” Jamison finally exclaimed. “Please report any significant findings to me immediately. Let us reconvene again by conference call in a fortnight. My heartfelt appreciation, and best wishes for good hunting.”

  The determined secrecy of the Preacher Lady’s movements, Andrea believed, was designed not only to avoid the press, but confrontation with angry members of religious groups who had been heckling her speeches. She assumed that other competent people had tried to interview Hannah in recent months, and realized that half the challenge in getting her comments on camera would be finding and confronting the woman alone.

  Sammy probed hotel chain databases in the southeast for group room reservations made for five or six men and one woman during the next two weeks. When he found them in the Holiday Inn in Macon, Georgia, he booked two rooms on the same floor.

  He had not been prohibited from working the artifact story by Rand Duncan, and had been scrolling through the 82nd Association web every chance he got. When he came to Andrea’s office with the details of her motel reservations, he told her he had located two Bravo Company troopers, one who had not been quizzed during the MI investigation.

  “The guy was on 30 day leave that summer, from which he’d been transferred directly to the 101st Airborne Division, Fort Campbell, Kentucky.”

  She took the printout from Sammy’s extended hand. “Corporal Brian L. Davidson, Third Aviation Platoon,” she read aloud. “On the ground spring of ‘03 in a unit just like Mitchell’s. Good one, Sam.”

  “Davidson poked into the association site to find a friend back at Bragg. No idea if he knows anybody in Mitchell’s Second, or heard some scuttlebutt about the artifact.”

  “Right now, I have to get ready for my Preacher babe. Track him down for me, will you, Sam? I’ll call you from Georgia.”

  “The other name, William Carr, since discharged, was an MP in Callaghan’s 3rd Battalion.”

  She held the sheet of paper in one hand, and reached for her briefcase with
the other. “Great stuff! Set them up for my Q & A if they sound like they have anything to offer.”

  “Not until after your doctor’s appointment.”

  “I have to cancel that. I do not have time for....”

  He pulled the data sheet out of her hand, folded and put it back in his shirt pocket. “No tickee, no laundee.”

  “Bastard!”

  They sat in partner’s chairs in front of Doctor Lawton, who was seated at a wide table whose surface was all but obscured by stacks of colored file folders. The chief neurosurgeon at Georgetown University Hospital was average height, fit, in his late fifties with a ring of white hair around his bald pate and close-cropped beard to match. His demeanor seemed almost phlegmatic except for the alert brown eyes, which apparently did not require the aid of glasses. The walls of his small, windowless office were lined with bookcases jammed with medical texts, reference books, periodicals and stacks of papers. This cubbyhole was not where he performed his most important work.

  The physician had examined Andrea in an adjoining room, his expression registering no change as he probed the muscles of her left leg and other extremities before concentrating on the back of her neck and spine. He assured her that the MRI scan she had undergone an hour ago revealed no tumors or other major abnormalities, nor did her previous computed and position tomography. The reset test, however, did suggest that a bone in her neck might be pressing on a motor nerve, causing the leg problem. Lawton asked her several questions about the weakened leg, tremors, her right leg, arms, speech and breathing before leading her into his office where Sammy waited.

  “So now it’s my neck,” she told Sammy.

  “It may be,” the doctor corrected.

  “What is this, a game of craps?” Andrea’s response was accusatory. “First it was physical therapy, then medication, now you want to operate on the basis of guesswork?”