Plague of Coins (The Judas Chronicles #1) (4 page)

“Yes.”

“When you wake up, you do so as if from a deep sleep...sometimes days later. Sometimes weeks, or even longer. Didn’t you once state that one time several years had passed?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling my irritation grow. Maybe I would cut short our visit myself. “Glad to see you’ve been taking such copious notes, doc.”

She nodded thoughtfully, which gave me a moment to reflect on a few of my death/rebirth instances. One of the worst deaths took place in England, back in 1454. Branded unfairly as a heretic, I had just procured silver piece number six. My sentence was severe, and I was to be stretched on a rack and strangled repeatedly to the point of death and brought back to full consciousness. Then, in the Tower of London’s courtyard, I was to be disemboweled and beheaded.

Having gone through all of these tortures before, I really looked forward to getting to do them all at once! All sarcasm aside, the experience was far worse than I could have ever anticipated, forced to clutch the silver coin between my buttocks. I thought for sure I would lose it before my essence’s transportation elsewhere took place. Fortunately, I died before the executioner had finished cranking out my small intestine.

Interestingly, I ended up in the New World, in an Appalachian forest. Still nearly fifty years before the European invasion would begin in earnest, the Cherokees soon accepted me as one of their own. I’ve often wondered if it was the reason why the native tribes were more trusting of the unscrupulous whites that arrived after I migrated back to Europe in 1500. Perhaps they thought everyone from the Old World bore an agreeable temperament like mine.

And the coin? It was waiting for me inside my left hand when I awoke in America. After I had recovered another coin left by an earlier Viking visit to the area that is now Virginia, I counted my blessings that I only had twenty-three more to find. If only I’d known then that I’d still be on the same journey looking for the rest of my bounty five-hundred years later.

“So, tell me what happens to your old bodies?”

I could tell from her widening grin that she was trying harder to trap me in some sort of paradox.

“My old bodies?”

“Yes, you know...the ones you leave behind?”

“Ah yes...I’ve often wondered about that as well,” I confessed. “And sometimes I’ve even investigated what became of the old me. What I’ve discovered when I did bother to investigate any of my deaths is something very curious.”

She leaned forward, eyeing me with the expectancy of a little girl. Perhaps it’s the innocent Evelyn Rose trapped somewhere inside the pragmatic adult. Fingers poised over her laptop, this was new information to her and she was intently bent on collecting it.

But I wasn’t ready to deliver...not just yet. A cliffhanger might do her some good, and maybe soften up her cynical side a bit. I pointed to the clock upon the wall closest to me.

“Sorry, but it looks like our time is up for today.”

Words she’d normally say, and the irony wasn’t lost upon her.

“You are...you
are
such a devil!” she declared, and the smile she wore right then as she shook her head seemed genuine. A mixture of surprise and admiration...at least admiration for the psychotic storyteller, I believe. Or, maybe it was
appreciation
for the tailored navy suit I chose to wear that day, where normally I prefer the casual dress styles of the past forty years.

“I haven’t been called that in awhile.” I stood up to leave. “But at least it gives us something new to talk about when I return from my trip.” I straightened my coat sleeves while watching her admiring gaze sizing me up, lingering the longest at my svelte waist. If nothing else, the suit didn’t hurt the storyteller’s allure.

“Your trip? Where to this time?” Dr. Rose blushed.

She stood up to show me the door. But I motioned that it wasn’t necessary—despite the prospect of one more glance at her sultry saunter, likely enhanced by her sudden arousal.

“To the Middle East, doc.” I reached for the door handle. “To the very home of the devil...or at least one I know quite well.”

Another precious look from her, this time it included a dash of naughtiness. It fit perfectly, I think, with the playful wink I gave her while exiting her office.

Chapter 4

“Get in!”

The gruff male voice resounded beside me, after the black sedan screeched to a halt in front of my Acura. Normally, such an event would draw a protective response from the museum parking garage’s attendants. But their station sat empty, and most of the Smithsonian employees had already left for the day.

Working a few hours late probably wasn’t the wisest idea. But after my late start to the day, things had piled up quickly. Not to mention the extra half hour it took to confirm Alistair’s and my flight arrangements with our preferred travel agent on such short notice, along with the necessary hotel and rent-a-car bookings in Iran.

“Must you guys always play it rough?” I responded, my tone impishly cheerful. I tried to peer into the back of the sedan through the driver’s side window. The darkly tinted windows made it difficult to identify the lone passenger sitting behind the driver.

“Just shut the hell up and get your ass in the car!” the driver snapped. A burly middle-aged man whose sullen scowl announced a sour disposition, his cracked teeth formed an uneven fence inside his mouth as he sneered. Dark sunglasses prevented me from confirming the same depth of malice in his eyes.

“Lay off him, Ted,” said a familiar voice from the backseat. “I’m sure William knows why we’re here.”

“Mike?”

“Yes, William, it’s me.” The owner of the voice leaned forward. “Going to Iran, huh?”

“How’d you find out so soon?”

I’m not easily impressed, but I had just finished talking to my travel agent twenty minutes earlier. I marveled at how quickly the news had traveled to my CIA liaison. Then again, he does work for the primo spy group in the world.

“This time it was more about the itinerary destination than anything else.” Mike’s thick salt and pepper hairline glistened in the sedan’s dimness. I also saw the glow from freshly fitted veneers—a testament to Michael Lavoie’s supreme vanity. His previous set of pearly whites was no worse for wear than the set of teeth my son’s buddy, Harold Mathis, owned. “No one makes a reservation for Tehran these days and escapes notice.”

The back passenger door on the driver’s side suddenly opened.

“Please...join me for a little chat,” said Mike.

“Sure.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle—especially after noting the driver named Ted continued to eye me with deep contempt. He shook his head disgustedly as I slid into the backseat.

“Where’s Chuck?” The door locks immediately clicked shut and Ted’s window rolled up. I envisioned how uncomfortable this would make things for most folks. For me, it was just added incentive to keep our conversation light. “I guess it isn’t easy keeping good help these days, is it?”

I laughed at my own joke, although the big fella in the front seat didn’t take kindly to my playful jab. All the more merriment for me!

“Charley’s on a luxury cruise ship in the Caribbean this week.” Mike glanced weakly toward the front seat, where Ted glowered back at us through the rearview mirror.

Unperturbed, I smiled and nodded at him while my best friend working for the United States government turned his attention back to me. Mike’s vanity far surpasses anything I can recall encountering since King Herod in Judea so many centuries ago. The Armani pinstripe suit and black-saddle loafers by Gucci far outclassed even the tailored suit I wore that day. And a closer look at Mike’s face revealed recent laser treatments to erase the latest fine lines around his eyes and mouth.

The man is undeniably afraid of Father Time. It’s sometimes hard to believe he works for a secretive government. With all the primping and preening Michael insists upon, he hardly fits the profile for a spy—much less the boss of a small army of miscreants steeped in espionage. I figure his infectious charms are what have gotten him this far in life. When I’ve been near him at the D.C. spring and fall galas, I often see a heated sparkle glistening within his deep-set brown eyes. Women love this perpetual playboy bachelor nearing his forty-fifth birthday. Well, I’m sure they love him until they learn how deep his narcissism runs.

“Oh...so this is the best the temp agency could do in the meantime?” My playful barb brought an angrier glare from Ted.

“Let’s get to why you’re here,” said Mike, coolly, motioning for his driver to turn away from us while he scooted closer to me with his open laptop. “I’m calling on another return favor to do a little surveillance for us while you vacation in Iran. Just a couple days of actual work between exploring the Alborz Mountains or catching some rays on the better beaches along the Caspian Sea.”

His turn to poke some humor, I suppose, since he knows full well that I’m not interested in having traditional fun when I travel. He may not know exactly what I’m looking for, but he appreciates my passion for exploring ancient sites around the world. It most certainly is why he approached me nearly sixteen years ago to help him out—to run a few extra errands when abroad as a way to ‘pay the U.S. of A. for the privilege of globetrotting unfettered’. That’s really the way he put it.

So, from time to time I have helped out. Usually it’s easy tasks such as capturing a few photographs or stealing a quick look inside secure files. Things I’m especially adept at. However, every once in a while there is more danger involved. And yes, I have been forced to kill someone before. It was in self-defense. But if not for being put in a precarious position—the
wrong
time and place by Mr. Lavoie—it wouldn’t have happened. I’ve worried ever since what might come next in terms of favors requested by the ‘U.S. of A.’

“I’m traveling with Alistair. So, just as long as whatever you want doesn’t put his safety at risk I’d love to hear what you have in mind.” I moved closer to get a better view of the image on his laptop screen.

“As if traveling to Iran is on the same level as visiting Waikiki.” He pushed the laptop closer to me. “Petr Stanislav is the subject’s name. Perhaps you’re familiar with him in some way?”

The image on the screen actually was familiar. A typical Stanislav male: prominent brow, blonde bushy hair, and intense gray eyes. That along with a big-boned stature, as it appeared the stout middle-aged man on the screen was at least six-feet five inches in height...maybe even bigger, since the juniper shrub in the foreground could be somewhat shorter than it appeared. Same scowl that his grandfather often wore, and even a little like the expression worn by the family’s patriarch several centuries earlier. Romanov third cousins at one time, it meant Petr’s net worth should be many millions—based on my dealings with Vladimir Stanislav in the mid nineteenth century.

“I see it in your eyes, William—you know this man, don’t you?”

Mike could scarcely contain his excitement. Or, maybe it was more a sense of relief, knowing whatever he wanted in regard to this person was now an easier sell. His eyes glistened in the backseat’s dimness, illuminated by the laptop’s glow.

“Yes, I know the family….” I paused to study Petr’s image again. “If he’s anything like his father, this man should be up to his ears in weapons and selling anything he can under the table. He certainly has the millions to do it with.”

“Try billions,” Mike advised, drawing a surprised look from me. “Twenty-eight billion to be exact, which makes him one of the wealthiest people in the world—and one of the most dangerous.”

“Is he dealing arms to Iran?”

“We’re not sure. He’s been spending a lot of time in Iran during the last few months, especially to the north.”

“Maybe he’s trying to get in on the oil reserves before the rest of the world tries to make peace with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”

I allowed myself a short chuckle as I pictured the array of Islamic hoops Mr. Stanislav would certainly have to go through to become best buddies with the current Iranian president. Say goodbye, Petr, to your family’s longstanding affection for the Russian Orthodox faith. Won’t that be fun!

“Possibly, since his family has long held an interest in procuring the lion share from what the Baku oil fields yield annually.... But it might be more than minerals and raw resources he’s after,” said Mike. “I mentioned the Alborz Mountains for a reason. Whether it is oil shale or mineral deposits he’s after, our satellites have spotted some heavy machinery. All of the equipment has either been transported from Russia via the Caspian Sea, or funded through other sources and then delivered to the mountains.”