Beneath the Hallowed Hill (18 page)

Bob whirled around and pulled the car into a parking spot near the park, using some fancy maneuver to cut off another contender. The man flipped him off and drove away.

After his heart stopped pounding, Michael couldn’t resist asking, “Did you ever do stunt driving for movies?”

“Too tame.” Bob grinned.

“You must have enjoyed driving with Thomas,” Michael said.

A shadow flitted across Bob’s face. “I taught him. He was a born driver. He handled a plane just as well. I still can’t believe it.”

“We’ve had too many losses,” Michael said.

“Way too many,” Bob agreed. They walked together toward the restaurant. About half a block away, Bob stopped. “Let me go in first and look around.”

“I’m sure everything—”

“Boss’s orders.” Bob was back before Michael could start feeling awkward just standing on the sidewalk. “Looks okay. I’ll eat at the bar.”

“Feel free to join us.”

“There’s a spot for me with a good view.” He walked in ahead of Michael.

Michael hesitated a minute, then gave his name to the hostess. “Your party is waiting, sir,” she informed him. He followed her along the wall until he saw Nancy sitting at the last table right next to the dark wood bar. Bob sat a few chairs away, casually glancing around the room reflected in the large mirror that dominated the wall above the bar.

Nancy popped up from the table and gave him a hug. “It’s good to see you. I ordered for us.” Michael drew a breath to protest, but she rushed on. “I remembered you’re a vegetarian. Besides, what you know about food could fill a thimble.”

“I’m not that bad, surely.” Michael laughed in spite of himself. He could never get annoyed with Nancy’s pranks. She was too full of life, and he needed that right now.

He reached for a white roll, but Nancy batted his hand away. “Try the corn bread. Add some salsa. It’s incredible.”

He took her advice and raised his brows at the spiciness. “You must have gotten right on our research.”

“I was between projects.” Nancy took a bite of the corn bread and half closed her eyes to savor it. “This is the best. Now, down to business.”

Michael glanced at the people at the table next to them, who were deep in conversation.

“We don’t have it,” Nancy said. “Never did. Apparently the rumor was put around as a decoy.”

“Too bad.” Michael reached for another piece of bread, then decided against it.

Nancy had no such compunction. “I did discover something interesting, however.” She scooped the rest of the salsa from the small bowl. “Rigden Jyepo, who was the head of Shambhala—still could be for all I know, those guys are rumored to live way past one hundred. Anyway, he is supposed to have given a ring to Nicholas Roerich. Of course, Helena had the necklace with the piece of—” Her eyes darted around, but the place was packed and the noise level high. “Well, you know.”

Their food arrived. The waiter set down a cut of steak smothered with a barbeque sauce smelling of mango in front of Nancy and gave Michael the
Chile Relleno
. She pointed to his plate. “I’m sure you’ll like it. Here’s my theory. I think there was one stone and followers have embellished the story. Maybe they turned the necklace into a ring to camouflage it, since so many people knew about the necklace.”

“I suppose that’s possible.” Michael was skeptical, but willing to listen. He took a bite of his Relleno, which exploded in his mouth. His eyes watered.

“Too much?” Nancy took it personally when her friends didn’t like her recommendations.

“It’s fine.” He resisted the urge to cough. He had hotter curry in India, but just by a nose. His next bite was a tiny one.

Nancy cut her steak, looking like a cat with a canary. She leaned across the table and whispered, “I know where the ring is.”

“Where?”

“Roerich gave it to Harvey Spencer Lewis.”

“The former Imperator of the Rosicrucian Order?” Michael blurted out.

Nancy nodded, delighted to have surprised him. “It’s in their museum.”

Michael sat back. If she discovered this so easily, Cagliostro probably already knew. He wondered if the museum suffered a robbery. Maybe they wouldn’t report it to the police. It could be that Mueller was casing the museum right now. If they hadn’t stolen it yet, it could only be a matter of days before they made an attempt…provided that this was the artifact they were looking for.

“Michael.” Nancy’s voice reached him from far away.

He looked up. “Thanks for this, Nancy.”

“My pleasure.” She sat back, smiling.

“Did you find anything else about the necklace?”

“Not a word.”

“Do you know this guy John Schmidt at the Roerich Museum?”

“Quiet type, keeps to himself.” Nancy shrugged. “He’s fairly new.”

“How long has he been on this job?”

“Maybe a year? Should I look up his resume and see what I can find out?”

“I’ll look it up. You can ask around if you don’t mind, but be discreet. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He dabbed his forehead with his napkin.

“I promise to be careful.” Nancy grinned. “Too hot?”

“It sort of sneaks up on you.” He scanned the room for the waiter.

“You’ve got to try the Crème Brule,” Nancy said.

“Thanks, but I need to get going.”

“Oh, come on. I don’t get here often, and I can’t eat it all myself. Besides, it will cool you off.” Nancy looked about to pout, so Michael relented.

She ordered then leaned forward. “You know, there’s a collector in Austria who has a beautiful crystal that many people feel is from Atlantis.”

Michael nodded. “In Linz, right?”

“You know about it already.”

“It was stolen.”

Nancy sat back, surprised. “What other thefts do you know about?”

“Just these two.”

The dessert arrived and Michael took a bite to be polite, then had to resist scarfing down the whole thing. After they polished off the Crème Brule, Nancy turned back to business. “Have you spoken with Franz Maier?”

Franz oversaw the German Rosicrucian archives. Michael knew Thomas consulted with him about the six crystal keys before he flew to India. “Oddly enough, we never met,” he said.

“Maybe it’s time to rectify that,” Nancy suggested.

“Perhaps, but I need to go to San Jose first.” He gestured for the waiter. “Check, please.”

* * * *

The next day, Michael parked under the shade of a large elm in front of the English Tudor that was once the home of the first modern Imperator of the Rosicrucian Order, Doctor Harvey Spencer Lewis. Immediately across the street stood a statue of Tutmosis III, Akhenaten’s great-great grandfather. Once a statue of Augustus Caesar was there, positioned so as to point to the house. It was a gift from Mussolini—not because Doctor Lewis approved of his politics, but because he was close with the Italian order. Rumor had it a tunnel ran beneath Naglee Avenue connecting Lewis’s house with his office in Rosicrucian Park; that he’d call his staff to say he’d be right over and ask his secretary to put something on his desk, and when she’d open the door, he’d already be sitting behind it. Stephen, who told him this story, also said the tunnel was crushed during some repaving during the 1950’s.

Michael walked across the street and ambled down the path beside the Francis Bacon Auditorium, Bob following behind at a discreet distance. Doctor Abernathy refused to allow him to fly to California on a commercial plane or travel alone. “Not with Cagliostro on the hunt,” he said.

Michael walked to the brightly colored tiled fountain topped with a glorious winged Isis. The park rumor mill had it that the gold statue that used to stand there was stolen in the 1930’s and replaced with the current brass one. The RCU building behind the fountain was supposed to be the only building in the world to combine Tibetan and Egyptian architecture. At least here was some evidence of Lewis’s connection to Asia.

Michael turned back, pushed open the wrought iron gate marked “Members Only,” and entered the Akhenaten shrine. He sat on a marble bench. Someone put a vase of scarlet roses in front of the rose granite pyramid containing the ashes of Harvey Spencer Lewis. His son’s ashes were marked by an obelisk farther back. Michael closed his eyes to find his silence, then asked for help in thwarting Cagliostro this time. No answer came, but he felt a measure of peace.

He left the shrine and stopped again under the sprawling trunks of the banyan tree, its hollow center representing the One, source of all consciousness in Vedic philosophy. This place always brought him peace, just as Robert always helped him see his way forward. Michael wanted to hear his mentor’s voice in his mind again, reassuring and guiding him. Bob took a few steps closer and looked around, wondering why Michael stopped. Michael sighed, forced on a smile, and followed the sidewalk between the buildings to the front of the museum.

A statue of Tauart standing in the middle of the fountain turned Michael’s smile genuine. Something about the protruding belly and snout of the hippopotamus Neter who protected pregnant women always cheered him up. He clambered up the stairs, walking between the blue and white papyrus columns, and entered. He told his name to the attendant at the front desk. “I have an appointment with the curator.”

“You’re a bit early. She’ll be available in about fifteen minutes. Would you like to look around? I can send someone to find you.”

“I’ll be in the Akhenaten room.” Michael downloaded the audio tour; no rings or other jewelry currently on display matched what he was looking for.

A knowing smile lit the woman’s face. “Of course.”

When Michael reached the room, he found a hunched blond man talking with a group of what looked like college students. “The Rosicrucians trace their teachings back to Tutmosis III and the Pharaoh Akhenaten. This explains the Egyptian architecture and symbols they use, and their fascination with this particular dynasty. We know, of course, that the time lapse and culture changes are too great to make this connection credible. Western metaphysics also claims that the Greek philosophers were trained in what they call the Egyptian mystery schools. This is a prime example of what Edward Said would call Orientalism, how Europeans see Easterners as wise and inscrutable, but this museum does have some pieces worth viewing.”

Definitely a college professor
, Michael thought.

The group filed out of the room, much to his relief, and he stood before the replica of a bust from the Luxor Museum. Akhenaten’s face stared back at him from the case—the full lips, round eyes, and high brow were filled with a peace Michael yearned for. He sat on a low bench and tuned in with his breath, letting his awareness float. He reached out to the image. He knew this bust was cast recently, that it carried none of the resonance with the past the real one did, but his own connection to this master was great enough to overcome the limitation. After a minute, the face of Akhenaten blurred. Michael was in a bright, hot room. He leaned toward someone seated in a gold chair to whisper something in his ear. The faint smell of wax and lotus oil rose up from the seated figure; a young bronze boy fanned them with ostrich feathers.

“Doctor Levy?”

The scene disappeared abruptly and Michael opened his eyes to find a middle-aged woman standing in front of him.

“I finished earlier than expected. I’m Rhonda Dunn.” She walked toward him, extending a hand in greeting.

She has no awareness that she just interrupted a meditation
, Michael thought. He took a deep breath to return himself to the here and now. After all, he came to see her. He shook off his irritation, then stood and shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry to make you come find me.”

“No problem. I enjoy my little museum.”

Michael chuckled. “It’s not so small, really.”

“Compared to the Met?” The corners of her mouth quirked up.

“Ah, well.” Michael glanced back at Akhenaten. “You have the advantage of serving the Rosicrucians, not the general public.” Her eyes darted to his face in confusion. “Besides, I’ve left that position.”

“So I heard.” With a gesture for him to follow, she turned and walked back through the museum.

“I’m writing now, pursuing some life-long interests.” Michael kept his voice low.

“What a pleasure.” They reached her office and she sat at a small round conference table. Michael took a seat across from her. “What interests you here?” she asked.

“So many metaphysical artifacts have colorful histories. I want to retell some of those stories to entertain and uplift people.” He lifted his hand. “We need to teach in many ways.”

She nodded for him to continue.

“Right now, I’m writing about Atlantean artifacts.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure we can help you there.”

Michael held up a finger. “Actually, I’m tracking down a story about a ring given to Doctor H. Spencer Lewis by a Tibetan Rinpoche.”

The blank look on her face seemed genuine, so he continued. “Supposedly the Roerichs gave Doctor Lewis a ring that they got in Shambhala. It was supposed to be from Rigden Jyepo.”