The Death Relic

38

Payne realized his mistake as soon as he opened the door. He had forgotten to put the sunshade in the windshield when he had parked the Hummer, and now he would be forced to suffer. A wall of heat greeted him like a dragon’s sneeze. In many ways it reminded him of his days at the mill. Working near the blast furnaces in the dead of summer. Sweating so much that he had a permanent thirst. It was so bad at times that he actually looked forward to the rigours of twice-daily football practices, because they were a vacation by comparison.

Years later, when he was stationed in the Middle East, everyone bitched and moaned about the desert heat. The air was dry. The sun was brutal. Lips cracked and skin chafed. To combat the conditions, American soldiers were forced to hydrate on a regular basis. Commanding officers were required to stand there and watch their soldiers drink their daily dose of fluids, whether they were thirsty or not. During this ritual, Payne did his best to lift their spirits by downplaying the heat. He assured his squad that it had been much hotter in Pittsburgh when he was a teenager. Everyone assumed he was kidding. But he was quite serious.

Nothing was hotter than the mill.

Payne reached inside the Hummer and started the ignition. Then he turned the AC on full blast. He wasn’t as worried about the weapons as he was about the artefacts. He didn’t know if the heat would damage ancient relics. He assumed it wouldn’t be a problem — otherwise Hamilton wouldn’t have stored them there — but he didn’t want to take any chances. As long as he was in charge of the items, he would do his best to keep them safe.

A few minutes passed before he climbed into the Hummer. The engine was purring, and the air vents were spitting out cool air. It was still uncomfortable, but not nearly as bad as a moment earlier. More concerned about his cargo than himself, he angled the vents towards the crates, then closed the door with a thud. He casually glanced in the side and rear-view mirrors, looking for witnesses of any kind, then turned in his seat and opened the trunk.

He needed to get some serial numbers.

He grabbed the first AK-47 and inspected its receiver, the main body of the weapon. The number was stamped into the metal, right where it was supposed to be. That meant there was a decent chance that it was manufactured in a proper facility, not a second-rate sweatshop in Africa. According to World Bank estimates, there are over 75 million AK-47s in existence — many of which are counterfeit — which accounts for 15 per cent of all the firearms in the world. He quickly entered the alphanumeric code into a text message, double-checked it for accuracy, then returned the rifle to the crate. He repeated the process with the second rifle. The serial number was almost identical to the first, meaning it was probably part of the same shipment. With any luck, Raskin would be able to track both weapons easily.

Before sending the text, Payne used the encryption feature on his phone. It was a handy little tool that he was forced to use whenever he sent a message to Raskin — even the one containing the bikini photo. Not because the Pentagon required it, but because Raskin wanted to train Payne and Jones in the latest technology. That way, if they ever needed to send a classified document to his office, they would be comfortable with the protocol.

Once the message was encrypted, Payne hit ‘send’.

He stared at his screen until it went through.

From the harried tone of Raskin’s voice, Payne knew there was a good chance that he wouldn’t get his information today. But that was OK with him. He felt privileged to have someone like Raskin in his corner. He was one of the top researchers in the world, someone who was so good at what he did that the Pentagon overlooked his quirks because they didn’t have anybody to replace him. Where most military personnel went to work in business uniforms or dress clothes, Raskin usually wore T-shirts, gym shorts and canvas tennis shoes. According to Raskin, that was the price of genius. He also claimed to have gone through a two-week stretch wearing nothing but a bathrobe and boxer shorts to work, but since very few people had access to his sub-basement office, no one was willing or able to confirm it.

Payne laughed at the image in his head as he tried to close the lid on the trunk. His first attempt was unsuccessful, so he shifted the rifles and ammunition around until there was plenty of clearance space. Unfortunately, that didn’t make a difference when he tried again. Getting annoyed, Payne was about to slam the crate shut when a horrible thought entered his mind. What if the lid wasn’t closing because he had accidentally snagged one of the relics in the back of the crate? For all he knew, something might have shifted during the drive to Tulum, and he could be smashing a priceless artefact without even realizing it.

The thought was not a pleasant one.

Even worse than the image of Raskin in a bathrobe.

Cursing to himself, he climbed out of the H2 and opened the back door for a better view. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a small gap between the two crates and realized nothing from the display case was interfering with the lid. At least, he didn’t think so. Just to be sure, he shoved the trunk against the back of the front seats, widening the gap by a few inches.

With the back door open, sunlight streamed over his shoulder, illuminating the trunk and a whole lot more. For the first time, Payne noticed something between the crates. The manila envelope had been sitting on top of the trunk when Jones had unfastened the bungee cords in the hotel parking lot, but it had slipped between the crates when Jones had pushed back the tarp. Now, through a combination of bad luck and good fortune, the corner of the envelope was caught in the back seam of the crate, preventing it from closing.

Payne wedged his hand between the boxes and removed the envelope by wiggling it back and forth. It was larger than letter-size — made for legal documents and small catalogues — and was stuffed with several sheets of paper. Sealed with a brass clasp, it had no address, or stamps, or writing of any kind. It was merely a vessel for the document within.

Payne opened the clasp and peered inside.

Several pages were stapled together, hastily assembled by Hamilton a few hours before his disappearance. Payne removed the packet and stared at the title page.

A single name had been typed on the front.

It was a name he didn’t know.

Payne flipped through the document and cursed at what he saw. Everything was handwritten in Spanish. One photocopied page after another, filled with elaborate prose that he was unable to read. Every once in a while he spotted a word or two that he recognized from his high-school Spanish, but not nearly enough to make sense of things. He would need Maria for that.

Not ready to call in reinforcements, Payne decided to run a search of his own. He typed the name into his phone’s search engine and waited for the results, but a poor connection slowed his effort. His phone chugged through the data, giving him plenty of time to speculate.

He assumed the man would be local. Maybe a member of Hamilton’s team. Or his weapons’ supplier. Whoever it was, Payne hoped they could track him down for a long conversation, because at this stage of the game they needed all the help they could get.

Unfortunately, a chat with this guy wasn’t going to happen.

Not without a psychic.

Because the man was already dead.