Ancient Echoes Read online

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  He nodded sadly. “I'm glad you decided to come and hear what I have found. If the tables were reversed, if it were my wife who had died and you had learned something about what she had been pursuing...”

  She stared at him, scarcely able to believe what she heard.

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “I must be off. Shall we meet here at six o'clock?”

  “Fine.”

  He quickly signed a pass to get her admitted through security after hours, then walked her to the door, and took her hand. “Don't be late!”

  “I won’t,” she said, still somewhat dazed by all he had stated and implied.

  “Insh'Allah,” he called. God willing.

  Chapter 3

  Idaho

  HIGH GRAY GRANITE walls cast a gloomy shadow over a narrowing trail as six anthropology students, a professor, teaching assistant, and their guide trudged through the bitterbrush and beargrass that covered the canyon floor of central Idaho's River of No Return Wilderness Area. Jagged mountains, deep canyons, white-water rapids, glaciers, and high mountain lakes filled its scantly charted two and a half million acres.

  Little to no human intrusion had been made in the area, ever. Cascading mountains soared to ear-popping heights and then plummeted to cavernous streams and snaking creeks. Even game was scarce.

  The day before, a chartered bus had carried the university group the three-hundred plus miles from Boise to a place called Telichpah Flat. No more than a few buildings alongside a dirt road, its population reached ten in summer and dropped to zero in winter.

  From there, the group planned to hike two days in, spend five days at the site, and then two days back out.

  They met their guide in Telichpah Flat. He drove the group out the narrow Salmon River Road, and then onto fire roads heading west. Once the roads ended, they left the truck and hiked inland as far as they were able before they made camp for the night.

  Professor Lionel Rempart and the guide disagreed with each other almost from the outset, and their disagreements quickly grew. Rempart had arrived at Boise State University two weeks earlier to spend the school year doing research. A tenured professor at George Washington University in Washington D.C., and one of the country's leading Lewis and Clark scholars, BSU treated his visit as if it were the Second Coming. That he was brother to the dashing, rather mysterious, world-famous archeologist, Michael Rempart, who dated Hollywood stars and was a darling of magazines and TV specials, heightened the buzz surrounding him.

  Now, Rempart stopped and pulled out a map. The guide, Nick Hoffman, folded his arms and waited.

  Watching Rempart and Hoffman, Devlin Farrell knew which one he'd listen to. A second-string wide-receiver on BSU's football team, Devlin found himself spending more time warming the bench than in the game. He knew he'd never have a football career. He exulted in being outdoors, and having aced several anthropology classes gave him the edge to be selected for the field trip. The trip offered a chance to decide if this should be his chosen field.

  Devlin eyed Rempart, a pasty, soft-muscled man in his fifties, with thinning blond hair, glasses, and surprisingly delicate features. His khaki slacks, white polo shirt, navy blue wind blazer, and Merrell hiking shoes were more appropriate for a stroll through a vacation health spa than exploring a forest. Devlin heard he had been divorced three times, had no children, and enjoyed the company of coeds. That any coed would look twice at the tallow-faced professor told Devlin he would never understand women.

  Nick Hoffman, however, looked and sounded every bit as craggy as the surroundings, as if he'd spent his entire sixty-plus years scouting this wilderness. Wiry and hard-muscled, with a long Buffalo Bill mustache, he wore a battered, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, the type commonly seen throughout Idaho with the exception of Boise. A true Idahoan never wore one too new, too high, or with a brim too wimpy.

  Rempart and the guide's argument raged on, growing more virulent and bitter by the minute. Nick Hoffman insisted the route the professor wanted to take was too difficult. The trail had been closed due to a landslide, and the surrounding mountains were too steep for the students. They were young, yes, but a week at a ski resort was about as grueling as their lives got. Hoffman didn't waste his breath on Rempart's own pitiful physical condition.

  Rempart pointed out that taking one of the approved U.S. Forest Service trails around the landslide would add at least a day's walk in each direction, leaving little time at the site. His voice grew high and impatient. “I only brought you here because the University required a guide. I didn't expect you to interfere!”

  “It's too dangerous to leave the trails.” Hoffman's wide-legged stance projected no nonsense. “Why do you think that soil slid? The land is steep and the silt is loose. It's like trying to stand on talcum powder. Step on it, and you get no footing. The question is, why are you so damned determined to get to that particular part of the Wilderness Area? The land out there is all the same.”

  “How can you know if you haven't been there?” Rempart snapped.

  Hoffman attempted to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “Because those who went said so. If you want evidence of Tukudeka activity, you need to head south, like I told you.”

  “Nonsense. I want to see this spot.” Rempart jabbed the map with his forefinger. “And I’m the one in charge here!”

  “That’s fucking pigheaded!” Hoffman shouted. His words stunned Rempart. The much vaunted instructor couldn't believe he'd been spoken to that way. Hoffman continued. “With the trail gone, we can’t safely get there from here in the time you have. Period. Besides that, your map isn't complete. A half mile over is a gorge. It fills up in winter and spring. This time of year it's dry, but too damn steep even for mountain goats. It's not shown on your fancy geo-what-the-hell map, but it's sure as hell there. And once you’re off the trails there’s no way to easily get help if someone is injured. I won't lead you and a bunch of kids into danger!”

  The students backed up as the disagreement spiraled out of control.

  “We’re not going around the landslide.” Rempart folded the map and tucked it in his jacket’s breast pocket. “This field trip is no longer your concern. From here, we'll find our own way.”

  “This isn't a park.” Hoffman's voice sounded low, threatening. “It’s an empty, perilous land. Your cell phones won’t work, it’s too big to patrol, and the wild life can be deadly. I’m the one in charge of your safety.”

  “Not anymore,” Rempart said. “You're fired.”

  No one moved.

  Finally, Hoffman spoke, trying to sound reasonable despite the rush of color to his face, the vein that throbbed on his forehead. “All right.” He took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have spoken that way. You’re the boss and I apologize, but we need to stay on a trail. We’ll have time to reach an area a bit south and west of the spot you wanted to go, but it’ll be fine, I’m sure. It’s all the same out in that wilderness, believe me.”

  Rempart drew himself up to full patrician haughtiness, then turned his back on Hoffman to his preferred route. Over his shoulder he called out, “You know nothing about what’s fine for anthropologists. Pack up and go.”

  “I'm not leaving these young people, Rempart!” Hoffman faced Melisse Willis, the graduate teaching assistant. She was one of three women on the trip. Six feet tall, with short, head-hugging pale blond hair, and sculpted muscles, she looked like a Nordic body builder. She grew up near Montana's Flathead Lake, and knew survival techniques in isolated, mountainous terrain. Nevertheless, important people had to pull strings to get her on the field trip.

  “You've got sense,” Hoffman said to her. “Do something!”

  Devlin saw the struggle on the powerfully built teaching assistant's face, but Rempart held her future in his hands. Melisse didn't dare confront him. “I'm sure,” Melisse said, “Professor Rempart would never do anything that might endanger himself. Or anyone else.”

  Hoffman took his c
ase to the students. “You don't want to do this.”

  Devlin's gaze met those of tag-along Brian Cutter, his best friend who tried to do whatever Devlin did and never quite succeeded.

  Baby-faced, stocky Ted Bellows jutted out his chin as he waited for Devlin and Brian's decision. He tried to look macho and burly, but with thick carrot-colored curls and a red-tinged pug nose, he only looked porcine. His mother sat on the university's board of trustees and had insisted that her son take part in the activities of the famous Dr. Lionel Rempart.

  Vince Norton's eyes showed fright as he peered through black-framed glasses at his fellow students. A wispy man with a boy's body, glasses and shaggy brown hair that never saw a comb, Vince’s claim to fame—and reason for being on this trip—was his ability as a computer nerd. He oversaw care of the equipment, including a satellite computer connection back to the University.

  Devlin faced the two remaining students. Rachel Gooding was slight of build, plain with long brown hair, and was the Anthropology Department’s best student. Brandi Vinsome was the child of aging hippies who built their organic farm into a multi-million dollar business. Brandi’s round face was red from exertion, and her overly generous hips and pendulous breasts had been squeezed into too tight jeans and a skimpy red Nautica hoodie. No one understood why she had been chosen for this trip.

  The girls, too, looked to Devlin for a decision. Alarms jangled in his head. To stay here without a guide and to be led by someone who knew nothing of the area was foolhardy in the extreme and potentially deadly.

  His inner self urged retreat as his senses sharpened to every sound, every smell. Somewhere, a branch snapped like a gunshot, and nearby, an owl hooted. Many Indians considered owls a portent of death.

  But it didn’t take him long to realize, just as Melisse had, that Lionel Rempart controlled his future. He stepped closer to Rempart. As he did, his shadow, Brian, joined him, as did the porcine Ted, and scrawny, quivering Vince.

  A moment later, Rachel followed, and so did Brandi, who looked more scared of going off alone with someone as scruffy as Hoffman than of staying.

  Hoffman's world-weary gaze slowly moved from one to the other. “Heaven help you,” he muttered, then spat, gathered his belongings, and without another word, walked away.

  Chapter 4

  Mongolia

  BACK IN HIS GER, Michael desperately tried to reach someone on his telecommunications equipment and got only static.

  The loud engine of an old GAZ truck sounded in the distance. He ran out of the ger and watched as it approached.

  His assistant, Li Jianjun, jumped out of the truck first. Right after him, the two field experts, Batbaatar and Ravil Acemgul, exited the vehicle.

  “The men, they've run away,” Jianjun said to Michael. “We tried to find them, but couldn’t. They were too scared. Long gone. They even stole a truck!”

  “I saw the skull and demon picture.” Michael folded his arms. “Who did it?”

  “We don’t know,” Jianjun answered. Born in Beijing, he was now a Canadian citizen. Of medium height, with a slim build, his appearance and demeanor were more like that of a college student than a man of 35 years. When he was eight, his family moved from Beijing to Hong Kong, and from there to Vancouver, Canada. He worked at Microsoft in Seattle, bored out of his mind, when he met Michael Rempart. Michael needed someone with Jianjun’s technical abilities, and Jianjun needed someone who would use and appreciate the full capability of his programming skills and computer hacking know-how. They worked together the past seven years.

  “None of us saw or heard anything. When we woke up, we saw that someone had managed to come inside while we slept. Creeped me out!”

  “The men can’t be blamed.” Acemgul felt deeply embarrassed. He was responsible for the workers. Middle-aged, he was of Kazakh descent as were many people in the western part of Mongolia. With skin burned dark by the sun, he had broad cheekbones and a high, straight nose. His bearing held all the strength and athletic ability of a master horseman, common among Kazakhs. “They are superstitious, uneducated.”

  “People in the mountains did it. People who watch the kurgans. They protect everything here. They want us to leave,” Batbaatar said.

  Michael found that hard to believe. “We've been here for weeks mapping, imaging, and now digging. Why didn’t we hear from them earlier? This is crazy.”

  Batbaatar continued. “These mountains, this land, are filled with much that makes no sense to you who are not Mongolian. But that does not make it less deadly.” An ethnic Mongolian, he stood five-foot five, with a broad and stocky body and a round, flat face. Mongolians used only a single name, and “baatar” was a common ending. It meant “hero.” A recent graduate of the Polytechnic Institute in Ulaanbaatar, the country's capital and only modern city, he operated the equipment, made radio contact with the world beyond Banyan Ölgiy, and handled all things meteorological. Now, he held his head high, as if he enjoyed talking about his strange countrymen. “But what they did doesn’t matter because nature will stop us. A sand storm is heading this way. A huge one. It will hit around noon. We need to take strong cover by that time.”

  Despite the strangely colored sky, Michael could see for miles in every direction. The storm wasn't near them yet. “A sandstorm could set us back a week or more.”

  “The sky is still clear,” Acemgul said. “I say let's see how far we can get before it hits.”

  “None of you are listening to me!” Batbaatar’s red-tinged, wind-burned face frowned deeply. “This storm is a monster. Even here at camp I don't know how safe we will be.”

  Michael made the decision. “That’s all the more reason for us to hurry.” He got into the truck. Reluctantly, the others followed, and soon they reached the dig site.

  The dig involved going straight down over a relatively small area. To prevent the earthen walls from collapsing as they dug, Michael’s dig team employed step-trenching, creating a series of large, wide steps heading downward as the hole deepened.

  As the dig neared the underground cavity, Michael bored a three-inch hole through the soil and inserted a long tube with a periscope head and a light. It revealed an open area containing a large rectangular object as well as two smaller objects.

  He had found something, but what it was could only be learned by physically entering the chamber.

  Michael expected to have plenty of time to breach the underground cavity, but they no sooner reached the site when Batbaatar incredulously announced that the storm had grown and picked up speed. Jianjun had rigged up an Iridium satellite connection to Batbaatar's laptop so he could continuously monitor tracking from NESDIS, the National Environmental Satellite Data and Information Service polar orbiting satellites. The storm spanned a full three miles across and would reach them by eleven o'clock rather than noon.

  Michael climbed down into the pit, determined to find out more about his discovery. Acemgul and Jianjun helped.

  Michael and his team had dug within three feet of the tomb when Batbaatar called out, a desperate edge to his voice. “The storm is moving even faster. It's still growing. In one hour, the first wave will hit. We've got to finish up here and leave.”

  Michael refused.

  Twenty minutes later, the moment he had dreamed of since first entering Mongolia happened. He broke through an opening.

  The group high-fived congratulations all around.

  They worked rapidly to shore up the opening so it wouldn't collapse while making it large enough for a man to descend into the chamber.

  Batbaatar used an electronic meter to check for carbon monoxide, methane, mold, bacteria, and other contaminants. Given the all-clear, Michael and Acemgul donned hard hats with battery-powered Petzl caver's headlamps, and carried tools, rope, and a digital camera. They lowered an extension ladder into the hole along with ropes to hoist up finds. Jianjun and Batbaatar remained at ground level watching not only weather instruments, but also those that gave warning of any sudden shifting of t
he earth.

  Michael descended first. He inhaled stale air with a sharp, rancid undercurrent. He breathed through his mouth, trying to keep the fetid smell from his nostrils, yet feeling as if it were pressing against his face, cutting off his air. Sweat broke out on his forehead as it always did when he went deep underground, loosening terrifying memories of his first significant dig. He had been only twenty-six years old, in Kenya. A cave-in buried him. When rescued, he appeared dead, his breathing and heartbeat nearly imperceptible. Not until several minutes passed did he regain consciousness.

  With those memories, as always, the idea struck that perhaps this time would be his last.

  Michael flipped on the light on his hardhat as Acemgul climbed down after him.

  The chamber measured ten feet long by eight feet wide. The rapid flashes from Acemgul's camera created a bizarre, almost strobe-light effect. In the center stood a coffin. The ornately carved wood was dry and rotting. Two small lidded crates lay beside it. A wave of exultation filled Michael. They'd done it. The stories and legends were true.

  They'd found the tomb and treasures of Lord Hsieh.

  Chapter 5

  Jerusalem

  CHARLOTTE REED LIT a cigarette as soon as she stepped out of Al-Dajani’s office. A little calmer now, she headed for the Old City with its ancient arches and stone alleyways. In the Muslim Quarter narrow, crowded streets wended through the souk where shops and outside vendors carried fresh produce, crafts, tasteful art objects, and cheap trinkets. Arab music blared, and the strong scent of shawarma, cumin, and cardamom enveloped the area.

  A lopsided wheelbarrow tilted toward her and she jumped aside to avoid being struck. As she turned, she noticed a figure dart behind a hanging rug as if trying to avoid being seen.

  She hurried on as old terrors came to mind. The crowd grew ever larger, closing in on her, jostling, pushing. She gripped her shoulder bag tight against her side. As an ICE agent trained to go up against art smugglers and thieves, she always carried a 9 mm Glock 19. It was her constant and most trusted companion even though she had only fired it once on the job to shatter a padlock.