The Moses Riddle (Thomas McAllister 'Treasure Hunter' Adventure Book 1) (4 page)

Somehow, someone had learned he was close to discovering an archeological treasure of monumental importance. He hoped they didn’t know what it was. They must have some idea of its value, though, or they wouldn’t have set up such an elaborate and costly surveillance effort. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize someone was following him, bugging his home and office, and monitoring his mail and e-mail. All this effort, and he didn’t even have the treasure in his possession yet. But he would . . . soon.

Regardless of who was doing the spying, the most important thing was that he’d finally gotten out from under the surveillance. He never would have driven down Nightingale in the middle of the day, but the Discovery he was driving wasn’t his, and it had tinted windows. That’s how suspicious and nervous he’d become over the past few weeks. But now, after successfully escaping, he was free to go after the treasure without being followed.

His discovery would send a disabling shock through both the religious and economic worlds. He had tried his best to keep it totally secret but, already, someone was following him, trying to determine what it was, and more importantly, where it was.

Thomas couldn’t help smiling.
His escape had worked!
He was free to slip back down to Mexico to dig up his unimaginable treasure, confident that it would not be stolen from him the minute he brought it up out of its three-thousand year old hiding place.

Rather than turning right off Nightingale to return to the Camelback Inn, Thomas decided to make a left, to stop at a nearby drugstore. He needed bottled water and food for the long drive to Mexico. As he waited at the intersection, a blue Taurus approached from the left. It signaled to turn onto his street, so he made his left hand turn. At the drugstore, he picked up eight bottles of water and a case of Snickers bars, a favorite of many archeologists. The peanuts provided quick protein, and the chocolate both sugar and caffeine for energy.

After returning to the Inn, Thomas immediately turned on the weather channel. Although he wanted, and needed, a quick nap, he pulled out his duffel bag and began repacking.

He’d arrived last night, after crawling through a basement window into his backyard while it was raining. Slowly, so as not to set off any motion detectors, he had inched his way on his stomach around the periphery of his yard to a manhole cover in the back corner. After three minutes with a crowbar, he had lowered himself into the sickening wetness of the sewer and crawled north, to the end of the block, where he had been picked up by his accomplice. They had returned to the Camelback, where he already had personal belongings smuggled out of his house days earlier, in his briefcase.

Suddenly, Thomas froze
. Had that been a noise in the other room?
Was someone trying the door knob? Quickly, he grabbed the small .32 Beretta from his dop-kit and cautiously peered around the doorway of the bathroom. Someone
was
trying to enter. He couldn’t believe the events of the last seven weeks had led to this. Only one day before leaving to unearth one of the greatest treasures known to man, he was standing in a hotel bathroom in Phoenix, a few miles from his house, with a gun drawn, round chambered, ready to shoot whoever was coming through the door.

The call from Dean Washington’s secretary, Carol, came on a perfect, 85° F afternoon in May. Coincidentally, Thomas had recently reminded himself how well things had been going lately. Though not a superstitious man, he’d knocked on wood after having the thought. It wouldn’t help.

Thomas was being summoned to the dean’s office. The dean of faculty, not the dean of students. For a professor, a summons to the dean’s office could be just as bad, if not worse, as receiving one as a student. Thomas’s mood changed instantly. The day took on an entirely different feel. The sun was still shining but the tint had changed, it seemed darker, as if the tone were one octave lower. He was pretty sure he knew what the dean wanted to talk about, and it wasn’t going to be career enhancing.

Dean Washington had hired Thomas six years ago. Thomas had been a first-round draft choice, with a sterling pedigree—an undergraduate degree from Harvard, Magna Cum Laude; a Ph.D. from Harvard; and two years working in Egypt as an associate under Karl Johnson, where he had led the team that found the tomb of Amenophis III.

What was rare, and impressive the Dean most, about Thomas was his extensive fieldwork in Egypt. Although Thomas had not led the expedition, he had led the sub-team that had actually “discovered” the tomb of Amenophis. He did it by developing a technique that injected ultrasonic waves into the ground to locate air pockets beneath the earth’s surface. One of the pockets turned out to be the tomb. Johnson was so happy with his young assistant that he had urged him to stay on for the first round of excavations, which took a year and a half. That, coupled with his excellent educational background, made him an attractive recruit for all the top schools. Most students had one or the other: an education but no significant field work or reams of field work but a less than savory transcript.

Armed with both, Thomas had shunned lucrative offers of a professorship from Harvard, Stanford, Yale, and other top universities. All of those schools were already leaders in the field of archeology. Instead, he had chosen Arizona State because, although it had a good archeological department, he felt that with a strong, innovative department head, it could quickly become one of the best. The Harvard of the twenty-first century. Currently, Arizona’s department lacked vision and leadership. He could provide both. He could lead the department to fame. It would be the Harvard of the West.

Dean Washington had been refreshed by Thomas’s attitude. He marveled at his qualifications and had hired him as the clear successor to Professor Brown, current Dean of Archeology, who was scheduled to retire in a year. The stage was set for Thomas to build his own archeology department—his legacy. He would renew the focus on primary research with well-funded expeditions. He’d add important curricula and hire top professors. He’d set up new fund-raising, and build a new state-of-the-art archeological library that would rival Harvard’s Tozzler. The old, undersized archeological building would be renovated, to provide the new professors with enticing offices. The plan was set. But then something unexpected had happened.

In the winter of Thomas’s first year at Arizona, Professor Brown’s wife had fallen and broken her hip. During her recovery in the hospital, she had contracted pneumonia and, four weeks later, she had died. The entire staff had mourned her death and, when spring came, Professor Brown had made an announcement. He would not retire. He had sold the retirement home that he and his wife had planned to use and was determined to stay. Thomas’s promotion would have to wait.

One year turned into two, two into three. Brown didn’t want to reform the department. He had made it what it was. And Brown had, in fact, built a strong department. In other circumstances, Thomas and Brown would have been much closer, but whenever they were alone, there was a tension between them. The ruling lion, cognizant of his young challenger, unwilling to secede.

Thomas still argued for his ideas, but Brown and his contingent of old guard professors always shot him down. While he waited, Thomas tried to push the department in other ways. He invited interesting guest speakers from other schools. He chaired departmental fund-raisers geared towards expanding the department. And, whenever possible, he tried to introduce new ideas and new ways of thinking about archeology. It was exactly that—the introduction of a new idea—that had resulted in the dean requesting a meeting with him. But this wasn’t the first time.

A year ago, Thomas had invited an amateur “pop” archeologist, named Grady Dillinger, to speak at the university. Not fully adhering to the university’s bureaucratic guidelines, he had arranged for the hall and scheduled the visit himself. When the Board of the University found out about it, they tried to cancel the appearance. But Dillinger had already been paid half his fee and, under the contract, the university would be liable for a huge penalty if the lecture weren’t allowed to take place.

Grady Dillinger believed an ancient
un
recorded culture that existed eight to ten thousand years ago had profound influence on the earliest cultures in “recorded” history (such as the Sumarians, the Egyptians, and the Olmec of Mexico). He argued that these seafaring people were incredibly adept at mathematics and astronomy and that their original homeland was either destroyed or was currently lying under water, due to a cataclysmic earthly event. Somewhat like the theory of the Lost City of Atlantis.

Thomas had always found this theory interesting and, if nothing else, excellent food for thought. Scientific archeologists hated the theory, because it couldn’t be proved. But thinking archeologists—what Thomas called romantic archeologists—loved the idea. More importantly, this was exactly the type of unencumbered thinking Thomas wanted his students exposed to. Thomas was always willing to listen to new ideas. It kept his job interesting, his mind sharp, and his knowledge of current events in his field unsurpassed. Unfortunately, Professor Brown and the Board at the university favored the scientific point of view.
If you can’t prove it, we won’t teach it.

Dillinger’s lecture had been the best attended historical lecture ever given at the university. The audience had so many questions that Dillinger had to stay an hour after the allotted time for the question and answer session. The university Board had been furious. They considered this type of historical “rabble rousing” dangerous, and they focused their anger on Thomas. Washington had given him an official demerit in his record. Thomas had appealed the action, but could do nothing. Such things were not contestable.

When Dean Washington’s secretary phoned, and said the dean wanted to see him as soon as possible, Thomas was pretty sure he knew why, but he had no idea of the profound impact the meeting would have on his life. Since he didn’t have morning classes on Thursday, he made plans to meet with the dean at nine o’clock sharp.

The door to the dean’s office opened at one end of a large rectangular room. Mahogany bookcases ran the length of both walls. The absurdly high ceiling was grounded by plush hunter green carpet. Dark cherry furniture twinkled in the morning sunlight that flooded through the crescent-shaped window behind Washington’s desk.

The secretary announced his presence. “Professor McAlister to see you, sir.” She backed out, quickly shutting the door behind her.
Thomas strode across the office to the desk, his eyes on the dean, who stood staring out the window at the students below. Thomas waited for the him to turn around. When he did, his face was stern, and Thomas knew what kind of meeting it was going to be.
“Morning, Thomas.” The dean motioned to the chair in front of his desk that Thomas always sat in . . . a very old Chippendale, with a pink silk cushion.
“Good morning, Francis.”
“How are you?
“OK, thanks. You want to have this talk over a cup of coffee?”
“Not this morning, Thomas.” That’s when Thomas knew he was in more trouble than usual.
“Thomas, this isn’t easy for me. Do you recognize this?” He held up an article that Thomas had recently handed out to his students entitled, “Similarities across Antediluvian Cultures—Math to Mythology.”
“Of course I recognize it, Francis. I handed it out in my 400-level Egypt class.”
Washington said, “Thomas, what is the policy on new material at Arizona State?”
“This is an article from an academic magazine, Francis. I have the necessary copyright disclaimer on it.”
“This isn’t about copyright, Thomas!
What is the policy on new material?
”
In a rote, unenthusiastic voice, Thomas recited, “It has to be reviewed and then voted on by the Curriculum Review Board in order to be entered into the official university teaching material archive.”
“Right! So what the hell are you doing handing this out to your students?”
“Francis, that is an article published two weeks ago. I saw it, I obtained permission to copy it, and I handed it out. It’s new . . . it’s fresh. The kids love it. The goddamn Curriculum Review Board only meets
once a quarter
! I needed this
now
!”
“Once a quarter is good enough for all the other professors, Thomas.”
“This is the information age. We need to be able to disseminate information quickly. Real time. I know of other professors who don’t like waiting a quarter, who don’t like letting good educational material rot on the vine!”
“Wait, wait,
wait
! Let’s not get off track here. You know our policy, Thomas, and until it changes, it’s
still
our policy.
Everything has to be approved
. Did you not go through the process with this because you knew it
wouldn’t
be approved?”
“I got that article out of
The Journal
two weeks ago. The Curriculum Review Board is not due to meet again for two and a half
months!
My class will be over by then. I’ve got a great group of kids this term. I wanted them to see the damn article!”
“Why not simply tell them where to find it in the Library?”
“Come on, Francis, you used to teach. I wanted them
all
to see it. Not just the one or two brown-nosers that would actually trudge over to the library to read it.”
Dean Washington lowered his voice. “Look, Thomas, this isn’t the first time. You were warned over the Dillinger incident, and then again three months ago when you showed that ridiculous video about where the lost city of Atlantis might be. That makes this your third infraction. The third time, it goes to the council.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “Okay, when does the Disciplinary Council meet? I’ll go explain it to them myself.”
Washington hesitated, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. In a voice of consolation he said, “This thing just isn’t working out.”
Thomas started to reply and then stopped. The words echoed in his head. “What do you mean ‘this thing?’ You mean
me
? What do you mean, this
thing,
Francis?”
Washington sighed again. “The Disciplinary Council had an emergency meeting last night. They voted to suspend you indefinitely. They just . . . they’re just tired of the
constant battle
. You’re suspended immediately, under Article 252, of the School Board Provision: failure to get all classroom materials approved by the Curriculum Review Board, prior to distribution to the student body.”
“The constant battle?
The constant battle
? You mean the constant battle to
teach
? To get kids interested and to get them to
learn
?” Thomas had risen from his chair to stand over the Dean’s desk.
“Call it what you want. Every professor here knows that if you break the rules three times in a row, you can be voted out. You’ve had fair warning, Thomas.” Washington shuffled papers on his desk.
Thomas fell back into his chair, flabbergasted at the extent the Council would go to uphold such a ridiculous rule. “Francis, come on. You know if I’m suspended indefinitely I’m as good as fired. Hell, I am fired. That goes in my permanent record. Why not ask me to resign?”
“They want to make a point with you. They don’t think what you’re doing is right. You’re breaking rules. They think a lesson early in your career will do you good in your next job. You cannot go on breaking rules.”
“These are rules that are meant to be broken! What I’m doing separates great universities from mediocre ones!”
Washington leaned forward, meeting Thomas’s glare. “Look, Thomas, things weren’t working out for you here anyway. When Brown delayed his retirement, that was only the beginning. We’re small here. Not used to bigger ideas. I think you’d be happier somewhere else.”
And that was when Thomas knew it was over. Washington had brought him in, believed in him, backed him. Washington had been his ally, but no longer. They’d gotten to him. Washington had become one of them.
Thomas stood, slightly dazed, and then turned and started to leave. He wanted to get out before he did something he’d later regret. He wouldn’t fully understand the impact of this crushing blow for days, but he understood enough for now.
When he was halfway to the door, he turned. “You sold me out, Francis. You let them railroad me. Didn’t you? You son of a bitch.”
“I’m in trouble, too, Thomas. I let this happen. Some say I let it go too far . . . that I should’ve had a better handle on what was being distributed to my student body.”
“It was a historical article related to archeology, Francis! Not
The Communist Manifesto
!”
“The
Communist Manifesto
is
approved
reading, Thomas.”
“God help you all.” Thomas muttered as he slammed the door to the Dean’s office.
His eyes welled with tears as he walked down the stairs of the administration building to his car. His dream was over. It would never be. He got into his car and started to drive. It was ten o’clock in the morning. An hour later, he was on a dirt road a mile from Highway 89, just south of Florence, with no recollection of how he’d gotten there.
He pulled over and put his head on the steering wheel. Archeology was his life. Teaching had been his passion; his dream, to become head of the department. Because of his driving ambition, he’d put everything else on hold. Now the Board was going to teach him a lesson? It was like living in a nightmare where everything was reversed, where those who tried the hardest, and cared the most, were punished. He was more dedicated, more passionate about teaching students, about expanding their minds, than any member of the Board. And what had it gotten him? Fired.
Thomas felt shattered. His life, its structure, what psychologists would call his “world view,” was toppled. Every decision he had made in the last six years had been filtered by the knowledge that someday soon, he’d be head of the archeology department. But now everything had changed. He was a different person entirely, yet still surrounded by things he’d purchased as part of his old life. He was living in a stranger’s world. A silent tear careened off the steering wheel, then made a dark circle that widened as it spread on his pant leg.