Reign of Coins (2 page)

“Very funny, Pops.” He leapt from his seat to take it, and powered it on before he sat down again. “Looks like something’s been preloaded…it’s coming up on the screen.”

He motioned for me to take a look. I casually glanced around, looking for anyone suspicious who might’ve planted the device. Paranoia concerning my former CIA employers is usually well founded.

A familiar face appeared on the iPod’s screen.

“Hello, Willie Boy! I’ll bet you didn’t expect to hear from me so soon, after our…our
dispute
about your active status as a special reserve in our agency….”

Cedric Tomlinson. My long time associate and guardian adviser with the agency, until recently, was putting on the hard sell. I had recently nixed any more obligations to the ‘U.S. of A’, as a civilian no less, in an unpleasant face-to-face with Cedric and Michael Lavoie. They enjoyed a good laugh as I stormed out of Mike’s office, and no doubt didn’t believe me when I shouted, “I quit—
forever!”

“Let me see that thing,” I said, gently, as a parent ready to pull out a painful splinter from their kid’s finger. Alistair reluctantly handed over the MP3 player, eyeing me warily.

I merely glanced at Cedric’s smug smile while reaching for the vomit bag next to my seat, depositing the device inside. Before Alistair could stop me, I poured the watered-down remains of my son’s gin and tonic into the bag and sealed it, shaking the combo until the sound of Cedric’s muffled voice ceased.

“Why in the hell did you do that?”
seethed Alistair, still trying to reach for the bag I kept away from him without rising from my seat. I dare say Chauncey Billups could do no better. “Are you trying to get us killed?!”

“In truth, it’s just the opposite,” I replied. “I told the agency we’re done, as far as helping them with their shit is concerned. They’re not taking Viktor’s presence seriously.”

“You told them about Viktor Kaslow?”

“They already knew about him…remember?”

It annoyed me that I’d have to explain everything to him again, after I mentioned Kaslow’s re-emergence in my world to my boy two weeks earlier. Perhaps I could’ve picked a better time than the evening at Sal’s to bring it up, since he was snuggled close to his young girlfriend, Amy Golden Eagle. I realized now he might not have heard a damned thing I warned him about, even though he had nodded like a bobbing-head doll.

“Remember what? Maybe you thought you said it when in reality you didn’t.”

“Oh, I said it all right, and even Amy agreed the danger was too great for any of us to stay in association with the CIA,” I said, lowering my voice to where it was an undecipherable hiss except to him. “It wasn’t just my sighting of the bastard in Caracas, when I completed the last favor for Michael that I’ll ever give him. Amy said she saw Kaslow hanging around Jeremy’s place one night.”

“At his townhouse near downtown?”

“Yes.”

He sighed heavily, as if this were an epiphany concerning the vilest human being I’ve encountered since the leaders of the Spanish Inquisition hunted me relentlessly in the fifteenth century. Meanwhile, I called sweetly for Nancy to come over to us.

“Would you mind disposing this?” I made sure to keep my voice low and sultry. “I apologize, but it seems as if the ham and cheese wrap didn’t agree with my stomach.”

Alistair watched in horror as I handed her the sealed vomit bag. She hurried off to dispose of it while his worried gaze followed her.

“So, what about Viktor Kaslow?” he asked, weakly.

“Well, aside from coming back from the dead, as all of us already knew, he’s been following me since Christmas. He killed James Stewart in Venezuela while I was down there.  Michael and Cedric continue to believe it was an accident.”

“I heard that James fell off a building.” His voice turned solemn, as if reflecting on the one agent he actually liked working with…or used to, anyway.

“That could be true…. But, only if one ignores the fact security cameras caught a blonde man moving to the stairs soon after James went airborne.”

“Oh, I see.”

No you don’t my dear boy. And may you never
see
the terrible wickedness wrought by Viktor’s hands.

“Viktor is far worse now than he ever was when mortal,” I advised, hoping to make a permanent impact. “He’s far stronger, and unlike you, his body is already in the prime of youth again.”

“That’s not why you are worried like this, though, is it?” Alistair eyed me intently. How I longed for the days when he’d adjust his glasses to better see me. He no longer needs magnification to see my expressions clearly.

“No…no, it isn’t.”

I hoped a succinct answer would suffice, and we could move on to other things. But, he wasn’t ready to let the matter go.

“Do you expect him to show up at the coin exhibition?”

“What, and bid on the Cheung collection?”

“Not necessarily…. But, what if he did?”

“That would be bad,” I said, and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I suddenly worried that hidden ears now listened.

“How so?” Alistair’s question sounded nonchalant, and defied the worry clouding his countenance. “You don’t think he’d attack us in public, do you?”

“It’s hard to say…he might. That’s never been his style, though.” I tried to deliver this with the same nonchalance, and thought about hiding the truth about what I feared most for a while longer.

“Do you think he knows about the coins?”

Bingo…almost, anyway.

“I’d like to think he doesn’t know yet,” I said, feeling the corner I had painted myself into getting smaller and smaller. “However, I’m afraid he knows something about me just as bad.”

I could almost feel my son’s pulse quicken and his own dread constrict around his entire being. He had personal knowledge of Kaslow’s cruelty from his own near-death experience in the Alborz Mountains of Iran last year. As if unable to continue speaking, he nodded for me to go on.

“Viktor Kaslow may not know
who
I am,” I said, making sure my tone was hushed and difficult to decipher by anyone other than him. “However, he certainly knows the
what
. It’s in the way he looked at me in Caracas. Usually it takes centuries for an immortal to recognize another, and that’s because we realize we’ve seen each other before, in eras past…. But, somehow, Kaslow knows he and I are virtually made from the same ilk.”

No other words were necessary. My son nodded thoughtfully and turned his attention out the window. Only this time, he wasn’t looking absently at the cloudbank below. He mumbled something. It took a moment to realize he had uttered his first prayer in my presence in more than fifty years.

Chapter 2

The Royal Garden is a splendid hotel overlooking Victoria Harbour. Whenever possible, I like to treat Alistair to the better accommodations the world has to offer. As for me, when traveling on my own, it really depends. I’ve been fortunate to accumulate enough wealth during the past two millennia to not worry about material needs for the next several centuries. At times, I’ve relished being treated like a Saudi prince, lavished with luxury. Other times, I’ve sought austere solitude in the most hostile locales around the world. Often, these areas are afflicted with extreme poverty.

Only once have I taken such a trip with Alistair. He almost died, and this is not the aforementioned trip to Iran last year. It was in South America, where retrieving a coin involved one of the most ruthless and bloodthirsty cartels. All told, my son has experienced close brushes with death in three of our twelve coin hunting expeditions. His sigh of relief when I revealed our present accommodations, shortly after the plane landed, became a prelude to his approving nod as we stepped into our sixth floor suite at the Royal Garden Hotel in Hong Kong.

“I’m liking it so far, Pops,” he said, smiling broadly after laying his laptop case and suitcase on his bed. “But, your coin had better be here, since you’ve now pissed off the CIA. Someone in the agency is bound to show up soon.”

“It’s here,” I assured him, while gazing through a window with the better view of Kowloon Bay. “And, true, if anyone in Washington has a beef with me, they already know where to find us.” I offered a confident smile as he joined me by the window.

“At least you picked something in the historic district. Perhaps after dinner we can explore the area a little, although I assume the science museum has already closed for the day,” said Alistair. “I meant to check on the hours of operation, including the weekend hours before we left Washington.”

“Are you forgetting we moved up nearly a full day?” I reminded him. “When we left Honolulu early this morning, it was Sunday. Now that we’ve crossed the date line it’s Monday evening. Didn’t you notice the late afternoon hustle and bustle as we drove through downtown?”

He looked mortified, as if this realization had just hit him. I reminded myself that he’d retired from teaching less than three weeks ago. For a career academic, the idea of lost time was akin to coming home and finding their pad burglarized.

“This means our sightseeing will be cut short, since the coin exhibition begins tomorrow morning,” he lamented, moving over to a small refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water. “I don’t suppose you can press your charms into action, and see if you can purchase the shekel beforehand?”

“What, and watch the price for it sky rocket?”

“Ha! As if the bidding price for the rarest Tyre shekels could ever rise above two grand! Even if it did, I’ve watched you pay millions for some coins.”

“I can’t argue with that,” I chuckled, thinking about those instances. “We’ll have to see how it goes in the morning.”

“Well, that brings up another point,” said Alistair. He moved over to the window and pointed toward the bay. “Not to sound ungrateful, since this is a posh arrangement. But, what motivated you to stay this far away from the Convention and Exhibition Centre? You, of all people, like to be as close as you can be to what you seek, so your senses can hone in on a coin. This is a definite first.”

He was right. I usually hover over the prize I seek like a kingfisher circling around its nest. However, except for one terrible betrayal in the late thirteenth century, I’ve never had to worry about an unexpected attack coming from my blind side until now. It was another ripple effect from Viktor Kaslow’s reemergence in my world.

“If we optimally plan our departure from the hotel tomorrow morning, it’ll add at most twenty minutes to our arrival at the convention,” I said, for the moment not answering the deeper, implied concern behind his question. “They’re expecting a huge crowd, since so many rare coins will be on display. If we leave late, we’ll likely get swallowed up by the mob.”

“I expect Viktor Kaslow to be somewhere in that crowd, and maybe even a few of Cedric’s people,” said Alistair. “I’m sure you expect them, too. And, don’t forget I’ve studied your older journals. Your obsession with the
Ala ad-Din
silver shekel has brought you to China many times before, including several trips to Hong Kong over the course of the past four centuries.”

I turned away from his probing gaze.

“What makes this one so damned special?” he persisted.

“It’s a long story, Ali,” I replied, scowling as if my Ala ad-Din obsession was his fault. “One told best if we were at the Martini bar downstairs. I could use a stiff drink.”

“Not me,” said Alistair. “But I could go for some Huaisang cuisine. The desk clerk gave one hell of an endorsement for Dong Lai Shun.”

“The Chinese restaurant on the premises?”

“Yep.”

What I needed was quiet ambiance and a drink…or two, and maybe three. Sharing a tale that had only partially made it out of my head during the past millennium was the bigger issue.

“All right,” I agreed. “I’m not sure how much I’ll reveal, since I have no intention of talking about it until the wee hours. Be prepared to listen closely, as I doubt I’ll be willing to share it ever again.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t turn into a lecture, I’ll give you that.”

“Good. I’ll stick to the important things…such as the coin’s lineage and Genghis Khan.”

“Genghis Khan? What in the…are you saying you once knew
him?”

“Yes.”

I left him standing near the window with his mouth hanging open in disbelief while I cleaned up. It was the first of many such reactions that night. 

* * *

“Okay, Pops…I’m ready to hear your story about Ala ad-Din.”

We had just finished an exquisite
Shuan Yang Rou
dinner at Dong Lai Shun, and were working on our second bottle of Bordeaux.
I suppose many of you would expect a bottle or two of
baijiu
, instead. I deferred to Alistair’s preference in hopes it would keep his interruptions to a minimum.

“What do you know about the thirteenth century Shah,
Ala ad-Din Muhammad?”