Burial Ground

VII

United States Consulate

Lima, Peru

October 22^nd

4:35 p.m. PET

Eldon nearly fell out of his chair halfway through the article when he saw the dollar amount. He leaned closer to the screen and started reading again from the top. There must have been some crucial information he'd missed. His heartbeat raced and his hands trembled. He skimmed: Mochica headdress from approximately 700 AD confiscated from London law firm...returned to the National Museum of Peru...estimated value...and here he paused...

"Two million dollars," he said aloud.

He closed the article and initiated a new search. There were hundreds of nearly identical recounts on as many sites. The words changed, but never the dollar amount. Two million dollars.

The Consul-general abruptly rose from his chair and sent it clattering to the floor. The room spun around him as he narrowly averted tripping over his own feet in his rush to the small closet in the corner of his office. He threw open the door, grabbed the wooden crate from the shelf, and staggered back to his desk. Casting aside the lid, he swept out a blizzard of Styrofoam popcorn and removed the headdress. He shoved the box away and gently laid the exquisite sculpture on the antique surface. It wasn't quite as elaborate as the headdress on the monitor, which appeared significantly larger with its curling, stylized octopus arms, nor was the craftsmanship quite as stunning, but it was every bit as beautiful. Say it was worth even half as much as the other. That was still a million dollars. Even through discreet channels he could surely get that amount. A million dollars would go a long way toward buying him a seat in the Senate.

The rational portion of his brain struggled to the forefront. What he was considering was wrong. The headdress rightfully belonged to the people of Peru, which was the whole reason he had confiscated it in the first place. If he were to get caught trying to sell it, not only would he lose his job and his tenuous standing in the world of politics, but he would undoubtedly find himself a long-term guest in the ghastly San Juan de Lurigancho prison. There would be no more dreams of grandeur, only the reality that even the life he now lived would no longer be within his grasp.

But if he managed to get away with it...

He racked his brain. Who all knew about the headdress? The man who had brought it to him, Wes Merritt, had secreted it from the local authorities, and presumably hadn't mentioned it to anyone else out of some overdeveloped sense of integrity. Eldon had been prepared to return it to the Peruvian government himself, but for whatever reason had decided to wait a few days, which had turned into a week. Maybe these thoughts had been brewing all along and his subconscious had caused him to drag his feet. Regardless, the internet search had confirmed what he already suspected. He was sitting on a veritable fortune, and the only person with whom he had shared the existence of the headdress was the dead man's father, who hadn't seemed to care about it in the slightest, and whomever he might have told. Granted, the elder Gearhardt's political connections gave him pause, but his only proof was a handful of photographs, and he hadn't once so much as called since. For all Gearhardt knew, Eldon had already sent the treasure to the government, which certainly wasn't world-renowned for its honesty. It could have disappeared at any level in that chain.

So what was the worst-case scenario? Gearhardt contacts the Peruvians demanding the headdress. If that were going to happen, it would have already come to pass. The only real threat now was time. The longer it remained in his possession, the greater the chances someone might discover it. If he quickly offloaded it, who would ever know? But how was he supposed to contact potential buyers? Surely there was some sort of broker who dealt in merchandise of questionable provenance. Such a person would demand a significant cut, but even if he cleared three-quarters of a million dollars, he could still take a great leap toward making his dreams come true.

He just needed to figure out how to contact a broker and start---

His office door opened inward and he nearly had a heart attack. Eldon scrambled to return the headdress to the crate, but in his earlier hurry had unknowingly knocked it to the floor.

"Relax and have a seat, Mr. Monahan."

Eldon realized he needed to play it cool. Thus far he had done nothing wrong. For all anyone knew, he was readying the headdress for return at this very moment. He could easily justify the delay since so much red tape still needed to be cut.

Straightening his tie, Eldon righted his chair, calmly sat down, and laced his fingers on the desk in front of him beside the golden relic. He faced his visitor with a practiced smile.

"Going to have to get someone to come up and take care of this mess for you," a uniformed Marine said, taking one of the seats on the opposite side of the desk without invitation. He raised a piece of Styrofoam between his pinched fingers and blew it into the air.

Eldon recognized the man as the head of the Consulate's security contingent, though he had never bothered to learn his name. The man wore his crisp dress blues, but had already removed his white cap, which now rested in his lap. He just sat there with a smug expression of secret knowledge on his hard face, and stared impassively through unreadable brown eyes. His dark hair had been shorn to the scalp, and had only begun to stubble. Eldon placed him somewhere in his mid- to late-thirties.

"It's customary to knock," Eldon said. "As Consul-general, I---"

"Should have sent that fancy golden mask to the proper authorities several days ago," the man interrupted. "You don't think we allow just anybody to walk in off the street wanting to drop off a backpack without thoroughly searching it first, do you? Since then, let's just say I've made it a priority to follow through on my commitment to your welfare."

Eldon balked.

The Marine simply smirked and inclined his head toward the clock on the wall. Eldon had completely forgotten about the security camera, especially after repeated assurances that no one would be monitoring his personal space without cause or consent.

"I wanted to do a little research on the object before blindly consigning it to such a corrupt entity," Eldon said. "Until this very moment, I couldn't even be sure it was of Peruvian origin."

The Marine made him nervous, but he still held the power here.

"I would imagine you encountered the same information that I did then."

"And what information is that?"

The man smiled and leaned back in the chair.

"What exactly can I do for you, Corporal...?" Eldon asked.

"First Sergeant. First Sergeant Kelvin Tasker."

"State your business and be on your way, First Sergeant Tasker."

"I just wanted to drop by and share some of my thoughts. You see, I've been thinking about a couple of things over the past few days. Like...where exactly did this headdress come from, and more importantly, if one were to chance upon this location, what else might one find?" Eldon's stomach turned sour. "I also just happened to notice that a gentleman by the name of Gearhardt registered travel plans for ten individuals with our Embassy. I'm thinking he might have grown a wild hair to see if he can do a little searching for himself."

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing." Tasker rose and pinned his cap under his left arm. "I just wanted to swing by and formally introduce myself." He extended his right hand across the desk.

Eldon eased tentatively out of his chair and grasped the proffered hand. Tasker's palm was coarse, his grip uncomfortably firm.

"Nice to officially meet you, Mr. Monahan," Tasker said. "I trust you'll find that I make a splendid partner."