The Stone of Archimedes (7 page)

“Who told you to keep track of me?”

“I don't know where it came from. I was working a case in Sicily and was just told to get to Trapani to catch up with you and keep an eye out.” No need to mention the fact that she had been assigned to find the American woman ever since she first contacted Professor Bretti weeks ago. Or the fact that the Greek billionaire, Petros Caras, was somehow involved.

“Right. I'm guessing our State department had something to do with it. How long have you been looking for Professor Sara Halsey Jones?”

She slumped into her chair just as she heard the boarding call for the flight to Malta. “That's our flight.”

He stopped her from getting up. “Just a minute. Answer my question.”

Elisa considered her choices. She had to trust this man. Had been told to do so anyway. “Since she first contacted Professor Bretti and then went to Venezia. I lost her after that.”

Jake Adams finally looked confused. “What flagged her as a target for your agency?”

She couldn't tell him at this time about Petros Caras. “I can't say. Let's just say that Bretti used to work with one of our intelligence agencies in the past. He brought her to our attention.” That was close enough to the truth. “Can we catch our flight now?”

He took his hand in hers and said, “Wait just a minute. I want to see if the men from Greece will be with us.”

Now she smiled. “They will. I've already reviewed the manifest.”

“Nice work,” Jake said. “Okay, then let's go to Malta. Where are you on this flight.”

Laughing, she said, “Right next to you.” She got up and pulled him to his feet.

The two of them wandered to the gate like a real couple. She was starting to think she should have simply observed this man from afar. After meeting him, he sounded like trouble.

Brock Winthrop walked gingerly down the hospital corridor, his buttocks still sore from riding horse with his boss, Senator James Halsey. Jim knew he didn't like those beasts. He was more inclined, like the French, to consider them a delicacy paired with a fine Bordeaux, a more exotic alternative to beef. But he would never mention that to Senator Halsey.

He had gotten a call from another Halsey client less than an hour ago. Actually, he had gotten a call from Buck Halsey's private doctor at this exclusive hospital in Arlington, Virginia, where the senator had transferred his father nearly a year ago. Buck Halsey, eighty years old and failing physically, had been Brock's client first. Right out of college. Although, he was sure, Jim had made that happen. Jim had gone back to Texas to help with the family business, and Brock had moved to Washington, trying his best to make his fortune off the rich and powerful. That was decades ago.

Brock hesitated outside the elder Halsey's room, the waiting area resembling that of a high end Fortune 500 company and not a place for the elderly or the rich to pass to the next life—assuming there was something after all this.

Meeting him there was Doctor Plaunt, a professorial looking character with unkempt gray and black hair and beard, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist and not one of the best geriatric physicians on the eastern seaboard.

They shook hands as usual and Brock said, “Is everything all right?”

The doctor's eyes drifted upward and then back to Brock. “He's not doing well. But he wanted to see you before we call in the family.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I can only assume he wants to get his affairs in order.”

Brock thought about that. Buck Halsey had updated his will a year ago when he was first transferred from Texas to this facility. “Then I must ask you the obvious question. Is he mentally able to make this decision?”

The doctor pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his white lab coat. “This is a letter signed by myself and two other physicians on staff. We all concur that Mister Halsey is of sound mind. It's his body that's failing him.”

Brock opened the envelope and quickly read the simple letter that said what the doctor had just told him. Then he put the letter inside his suit and said, “All right. Looks good.”

He went into the room and saw the frail man that had once been almost identical in stature to his senator son when they had first met decades ago, and Brock felt a rush of nostalgia flush through his body. He turned and made sure the doctor had not followed him into the room. No, they were alone.

The old man's eyes seemed dead already. A cloudy film made him look like a blind man without his sunglasses.

“What are you lookin' at young man?” Buck Halsey said, his voice still a demanding growl.

“Sir, it's Brock Winthrop.”

“I know who the hell you are. I had the doctor call you. Now get a little closer so I don't have to yell.”

Truth be told, Buck Halsey had always scared the hell out of Brock. He had been told stories about how Buck had killed a man at age ten with a shotgun when an escaped prisoner broke into their house and was trying to assault his mother. God only knew how many Germans that man had killed in World War Two.

Brock cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanna get married. What the hell do you think I want from you? I'm damn near dead. I need you to draw up a new will for me.”

Swallowing hard, his mind reeling, Brock said, “Yes, sir. What would you like to do?”

“First of all, have you found Sara?”

Brock shook his head. “No, sir.” He didn't want to tell him about the two failures. “But we have a good man looking for her in Europe now. A former Air Force intelligence officer and former CIA officer.”

“Really? You got a spook working for you?”

“Well, Jim found him. But I'll be coordinating the effort.”

“Good, good. Jim has his hands full trying to keep those damn liberals in the senate from spending all our money.” Buck Halsey coughed for a moment now, his right hand barely strong enough to cover his mouth with a paper towel already spotted with blood.

Brock waited, helpless. Finally, the coughing over, he asked, “Are you okay? Do you want the doctor?”

“I wanna be forty again in bed with a thirty-year-old brunette. But that ain't gonna happen. First order of business. Get me the hell out of here! I will not die in Virginia. The tax implications aside, you get me on a private jet to Texas by the morning. You understand?”

Nodding, Brock said, “Yes, sir. But what if the doctor says you're not strong enough to travel.”

“Fuck the doctor. I'd rather die trying to get back to Texas than try to explain to St. Peter how the hell a Texan ended up dying near Washington, DC. Now you make that happen.”

“Jim isn't going to be happy with this,” Brock muttered.

“A man can't decide where they're brought onto this planet, but we sure as hell gotta have something to say about where we leave it.”

Hard to argue with that. “Yes, sir. What else?”

“Draw up a new will and have it ready for me to sign in the morning before I roll out onto that plane. And here's what I want you to change.”

Buck Halsey went on with great detail explaining everything he wanted done. The man was not only of sound mind, his faculties were much sharper than most men half his age. But now Brock was in a quandary. He had a fiduciary responsibility to his oldest client, but he also had to keep working with his good friend Jim Halsey. And what the elder had just told him was not necessarily in the best interest of the senator. He would have to walk a tightrope on this one, he knew.

During the hour and a half flight from Rome to Malta, Jake and Elisa, the Italian intelligence officer, talked only about how much fun they would have on the beaches—nothing about the real reason for their visit. Jake had purchased his ticket with a debit card he had from a bank in Canada. He kept no more than a couple thousand dollars in that account at any given time, and only used it when he also used his fake Canadian passport. He guessed that the Italian woman had her agency buy her ticket for her, untraceable as an officer of the state.

When they got to the Malta airport, Elisa rented a car, a VW Passat, and they decided to finally give their tail the slip.

He thought about his last visit to the island nation, and realized not much had changed. Perhaps a few new buildings, the stark, white stucco in sharp contrast to the azure sky and aqua marine sea. Glancing at the hills in the distance above the harbor, he remembered how he had met that GRU defector and barely escaped the island with the man. The Russians had shot up a perfectly good BMW as the two of them raced to an awaiting U.S. Navy Seahawk helicopter that brought them to an aircraft carrier just over the horizon to the south. That mission, like most Jake had accomplished, remained classified.

Jake, the reluctant passenger, leaned back into the leather chair as Elisa picked up speed once leaving the airport terminal area. He glanced behind him and saw that the men had been forced to get into a taxi to try to follow. “I think we should have no problem leaving them behind,” Jake said.

“Thanks to you,” she said, as she shifted into fourth gear and hit the gas even harder. “That was a good idea having you hold the taxi out front while I ditched my tail and got the car.”

Jake couldn't take all the credit. “Well, it was you who set up the car on your cell phone from the bathroom of the plane.”

She finally hit fifth gear and let the Passat settle into a cruising speed. “Would you like to tell me where we're going?”

He had spent the time from the professor's office to this moment wondering that same thing. Professor Sara Halsey Jones had to have a compelling reason to come to Malta just a couple of days ago. And it had to have something to do with Polybius and his works. “First,” Jake said, “let me see your phone.”

Elisa gave him a quizzical glance. “Why?”

“I need to access the internet.”

She shrugged and said, “In my purse.”

Jake found her smart phone and quickly got onto the net researching the country's leading authority on pre-Roman history. He quickly found out his choices were limited. Only the University of Malta might have someone Sara would consult. “Wow. Did you know the former leader of North Korea, Kim Jung Il, graduated from the University of Malta? Who knew.” He clicked through the university site and finally found what he was seeking. “Here we go. A professor who specializes in the history of Mediterranean civilization. Director of the Mediterranean Institute. Let's start there.”

By the time Jake looked up, he saw that they were now heading toward the downtown area of the capital city, Valletta.

“Is the university in the old town area?” she asked him.

“No. Actually it looks like it's in a suburb called Msida.” He checked his watch and realized it would be after normal office hours at the campus.

“Should I head there?”

“I don't think it would do any good at this hour. Besides being summer school, it's too late in the evening. Let's regroup and get something to eat.”

“I could eat.”

Using her phone, Jake found them a pizzeria in the old town area of Valletta a few blocks from the main ferry terminal. They each bought personal pizzas and shared a bottle of Chianti.

When they were finishing up their wine, Jake finally asked, “So, would you finally like to tell me why Italy's External Intelligence and Security Service is interested in finding an American college professor?”

Elisa took a sip of wine and then licked a drop from her upper lip. “Seriously? I don't know for sure.”

He could tell she was holding back something. “But someone told you to find me and work with me.”

“True. Would you like some more wine?”

“Gotta love Italian women. They can sure hold their wine. But right now I think you should hold off and answer my questions. Otherwise why should I work with you?”

She was thinking about that, her expressive face giving away, perhaps, more than she liked. “Apparently our government is concerned about some of our antiquities disappearing and being sold to rich people.”

Jake swirled his hand to her, meaning continue.

“The economy in Italy is not great, as I'm sure you know. So some people have started treasure hunting. Even digging around some of our most precious ancient sites, like churches and ruins.”

“What does this have to do with Professor Sara Halsey Jones? You can't tell me she's a grave robber.”

“No, no, no. Not at all. We believe that she has the most honorable of intentions.”

“But you're concerned that others might know she's on to something.”

“Exactly.”

Just then her phone buzzed and she found it in her purse and put it to her ear. At first she simply listened and then she talked so fast Jake could only pick up on a few words. She looked at Jake and he guessed the person on the other end had asked about him. Finally, she said she understood and hung up.

“Your boss?” Jake asked her.

She nodded. “They wanted to verify you were with me. They said a man from your government would be here shortly to give you something.”

Instinctively, Jake reached for his gun under his left arm, but it wasn't there. Great, he thought. They were tracking her and now they would be tracking him as well.

Just as these thoughts rolled through his mind, Jake saw his contact come through the front door and scan the room for him. The tall man was wearing almost the identical linen suit that he had worn the day he had come to offer Jake the job at the Tunisian prison. What the hell was he doing in Malta? The man finally saw Jake and came over to him. He had a small satchel over his right shoulder, which he held onto tightly as he approached and stood in front of their table.

“Rob, what are you doing in Malta?” Jake asked him. Without waiting for an answer, he introduced Rob Pierce as the Cultural Affairs Officer from Tunis. When it was time to describe Elisa, he simply gave her first name and said she was from Italy. But Jake guessed Rob knew more about the woman than he. “Take a seat,” Jake demanded. “You're drawing attention.”