The Artifact (7 page)

“
A splendid idea,” Nero exclaimed from his Milan villa, the wide grin beneath a graying pencil mustache striking a subtle contrast to his dark complexion. “You have a plan, I assume?”

“
Are we convinced that a priceless treasure was in fact unearthed by the American soldiers,” Yank asked from his high-rise co-op in New York City, “or has the Madigan woman created a
cause célèbre
for her own purposes?” The black man was the youngest of the clique, fit and agile beneath a starched, white-on-white, collarless shirt with diamond cuff links, a chest of tightly curled black hair and delicate gold chain visible in the shirtfront open to his sternum.

Several thousand kilometers across the Pacific Ocean, wearing the belted, flower-patterned silk robe of his ancestors, Shogun pursed his lips as he rotated a skewed fish over the small brazier in the rock garden of his opulent home in Nagasaki. “There seem to be great evidence circumstantial to aid her contention. The response of U.S. military does not convince.”

“
For myself, I believe a treasure exists,” Boer offered from the veranda of his sprawling ranch beyond the undulating green hills and lush forest of outer Durban. Fresh from a cooling shower after a fortnight in the bush, his attire consisted of stonewashed khaki shirt, walking shorts and leather sandals. “The most credible factor is the proclaimed location of the discovery.”

The variously accented voices murmured assent, reflecting their knowledge of the history of the northwest Arabian Desert and similar information related to every category of precious art in existence. The fact that the female reporter, the U.S. military and interim Iraqi government did not dispute the area in question was significant. Because three or four thousand years ago, that vast expanse of Syrian Desert had been crisscrossed with caravan trade routes between ancient Babylon, Egypt and Judea.

“
Among the four of us,” Brit said, “we should have known if the Arabian artifacts had been offered for sale or purchased in recent months.” All ears listened for the denials of each in turn. It would be foolish to collaborate in some fruitless pursuit. If any one of them had participated in the private sale of the treasure, he would not be engaged in that conversation now.

“
These soldiers are amateurs,” Nero stated, “who will have difficulty disposing of their loot outside our professional circles.”

“
Is there any concern,” Brit asked, “that the artifacts in question will not be worth our time and effort in acquiring them?”

“
Suppose the prize emanated one thousand, five hundred years within One CE,” Shogun ventured. “The maximum size of the container to fit in the army vehicle, what, one by two meters? An ossuary
ancien
replete with bones and gifts to fill a room in the Louvre, a trunk of golden icons and precious gems, the remnants of a trading caravan which came to some mishap.”

“
When the Tutankhamen exhibit was shipped from Cairo in ’76 for the U.S. tour,” Yank observed, “it was considered so priceless it was declared uninsurable, despite government pledges.”

“
King Tut was 14
^th
century B.C.E.,” Boer added. “If the Iraqi artifacts are half that age they could be worth billions of dollars U.S.”

“
I salivate,” Nero whispered hoarsely.

They discussed the split briefly, and despite the Englishman’s initiation and acknowledged leadership of the venture, concluded that future contributions from all could prove significant. Equal shares would be the fairest and least complex method of compensation.

“
Our chance for success?” Brit asked, as he sent previously encoded pros and cons for the project out from his PC.

“
We won’t be going solo on this,” Yank acknowledged. “Small-time operators will not know where to begin or possess the resources to prevail, but could get in our way. Structured organizations, drug cartels will not be deterred despite the fact that they do not have the expertise.”

“
Bin Laden will give it a go,” Shogun said, “as will the Iraqi rebels.”

“
The American government will remain on the alert, despite their disclaimer,” Brit added. “The international news media poking into every nook and cranny.”

Nero clasped his hands over his broad abdomen, his voice flat, without emotion. “The river could be quite muddy.”

“
The evident thrust of this investigative reporter Madigan,” Brit intoned, “appears to entail the discovery of the soldiers who stole the artifacts. A path which others will indubitably follow, their premise being that once the thieves are apprehended, so will their fortune be found.”

The American cut in on the line. “There don’t seem to be any other leads. Where do we start?”

“
We should avoid the madding crowd,” Shogun replied.

“
A manhunt does not fall within our area of expertise,” the Englishman told them. “While other parties are searching for the artifact thieves, we will search for the artifact.”

Brit stopped his pacing at the far end of his library before the French doors, which opened onto a wide balcony above a sprawling green lawn that rolled gently down a broad slope to a copse of birch beyond. “In my considered opinion,” he continued, “these American soldiers have been waiting for the furor of the military investigation to subside. Now that the army has publicly declared the artifact theft a rumor and hoax, the amateur thieves will be anxious to shed the incriminating evidence, impatient for their payoff. With universal awareness of the treasure created by the Madigan woman’s telecast, they will venture forth to determine how best to dispose of it.”

“
Our contacts throughout the world of art,” Nero said, “should allow us to learn in whatever queries or negotiations the thieves engage.”

Jameson sat down at his computer to e-mail his suggested list of the most logical quasi-legitimate and corrupt art sources for their covert inquiries: art dealers, assistant museum curators, auction house employees, appraisers, gallery personnel, archeologists, representatives of billionaire collectors.

“
Good show!” Jamison finally exclaimed. “Please report any significant findings to me immediately. Let us reconvene again by conference call in a fortnight. My heartfelt appreciation, and best wishes for good hunting.”

The determined secrecy of the Preacher Lady’s movements, Andrea believed, was designed not only to avoid the press, but confrontation with angry members of religious groups who had been heckling her speeches. She assumed that other competent people had tried to interview Hannah in recent months, and realized that half the challenge in getting her comments on camera would be finding and confronting the woman alone.

Sammy probed hotel chain databases in the southeast for group room reservations made for five or six men and one woman during the next two weeks. When he found them in the Holiday Inn in Macon, Georgia, he booked two rooms on the same floor.

He had not been prohibited from working the artifact story by Rand Duncan, and had been scrolling through the 82
^nd
Association web every chance he got. When he came to Andrea’s office with the details of her motel reservations, he told her he had located two Bravo Company troopers, one who had not been quizzed during the MI investigation.

“
The guy was on 30 day leave that summer, from which he’d been transferred directly to the 101
^st
Airborne Division, Fort Campbell, Kentucky.”

She took the printout from Sammy’s extended hand. “Corporal Brian L. Davidson, Third Aviation Platoon,” she read aloud. “On the ground spring of ‘03 in a unit just like Mitchell’s. Good one, Sam.”

“
Davidson poked into the association site to find a friend back at Bragg. No idea if he knows anybody in Mitchell’s Second, or heard some scuttlebutt about the artifact.”

“
Right now, I have to get ready for my Preacher babe. Track him down for me, will you, Sam? I’ll call you from Georgia.”

“
The other name, William Carr, since discharged, was an MP in Callaghan’s 3
^rd
Battalion.”

She held the sheet of paper in one hand, and reached for her briefcase with the other. “Great stuff! Set them up for my Q & A if they sound like they have anything to offer.”

“
Not until after your doctor’s appointment.”

“
I have to cancel that. I do not have time for....”

He pulled the data sheet out of her hand, folded and put it back in his shirt pocket. “No tickee, no laundee.”

“
Bastard!”

They sat in partner’s chairs in front of Doctor Lawton, who was seated at a wide table whose surface was all but obscured by stacks of colored file folders. The chief neurosurgeon at Georgetown University Hospital was average height, fit, in his late fifties with a ring of white hair around his bald pate and close-cropped beard to match. His demeanor seemed almost phlegmatic except for the alert brown eyes, which apparently did not require the aid of glasses. The walls of his small, windowless office were lined with bookcases jammed with medical texts, reference books, periodicals and stacks of papers. This cubbyhole was not where he performed his most important work.

The physician had examined Andrea in an adjoining room, his expression registering no change as he probed the muscles of her left leg and other extremities before concentrating on the back of her neck and spine. He assured her that the MRI scan she had undergone an hour ago revealed no tumors or other major abnormalities, nor did her previous computed and position tomography. The reset test, however, did suggest that a bone in her neck might be pressing on a motor nerve, causing the leg problem. Lawton asked her several questions about the weakened leg, tremors, her right leg, arms, speech and breathing before leading her into his office where Sammy waited.

“
So now it’s my neck,” she told Sammy.

“
It
may
be,” the doctor corrected.

“
What is this, a game of craps?” Andrea’s response was accusatory. “First it was physical therapy, then medication, now you want to operate on the basis of guesswork?”

Accustomed to the aggressive techniques Andrea often used to provoke reluctant interviewees to blurt out the information she wanted in spite of themselves, Sammy squirmed in his seat as she badgered the hedging physician.

Doctor Lawton tried to smile. “We can’t treat your problem unless we know what’s causing it. I realize the uncertainty can be frustrating, but medical science has yet to provide us with every answer we seek on demand.”

“
You must have some idea what the possibilities are.”

“
Not until we find the causal factor or eliminate enough of them to suggest a diagnosis. Or you develop other symptoms.”

“
Like what?”

“
Anything. Short circuits in other motor controls, pain, tenderness, vertigo--you’re going to have to tell me, Miz Madigan, when and if they develop. It could very well be the neck bone that’s shifted position through a fall or blow or some internal anomaly. We go in and fix it, you’re fine.”

“
Doc, please do not patronize me. I’m a big girl. I have a lot going on in my life I need to deal with now.”

A flicker of doubt crossed the surgeon’s face. “You may have to slow down. You’ll be hospitalized for a few days. It’s not life-threatening surgery, but delicate, so plan on a week or two recuperating.”

“
Two weeks!” She was almost shouting. “I’m up to my eyeballs in the biggest story of my career! I can’t afford two days.”

Sammy shook his head in obvious frustration, his tone resigned. “If you’re not interested in improving your condition, you’re not going to finish this story. What’s the point in me betting my future prospects on a dead-end investigation?”

She turned to examine his face as though she had never seen it before, her expression puzzled, as though she was trying to recall something she had known once, but couldn’t remember. She turned away for several moments, frowning, breathing deeply. Her eyes were moist when she placed her fingers on his arm and dared to look at him again. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

He covered her hand with his and met her gaze without smiling. “No more of this Scientology craziness, OK?”

A little laugh escaped her lips. “Sam, I don’t even believe in God.”

“
You better start taking care of yourself, then.”

She squeezed his muscular forearm, her look contrite and serious. “Promise.”

The physician seemed to regain his composure from Sammy’s support. “Your symptoms are good reason for concern, but by no means discouraging. With intensive diagnostic techniques and remedial action we should be able to reverse the problem.” He pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket and thumbed through the pages. “I want to perform the neck procedure as soon as possible, Andrea. How about Thursday, next week?”

* * * * * *

Andrea’s initial aversion to the Preacher Lady assignment stemmed as much from her reluctance to abandon her artifact leads as her confirmed atheism that made her uncomfortable in any religious context. Once she had studied the paucity of information on Hannah Ogie, however, her innate curiosity started her scheming to secure the on-camera interview that would either expose the woman as a non-issue or prolong her incipient fame and prominence.