The Seventh Stone (6 page)

Bertoni cradled the Emerald between his thumb and calloused forefinger. He held it to the heavens, letting the sun play through the green, as if looking for an answer. Ahmed ached to tell him that he wouldn’t be the first to seek answers from heaven through the power of the stone. “Do you wonder, Ahmed, why this Emerald was in its own strongbox, kept with a book of some sort?”

Ahmed witnessed the opening of the strongbox. Bertoni had fished the Emerald from a glop of pulp that was once cherished pages. “A Bible,” said Ahmed.

Bertoni raised a bushy white eyebrow.

“
Conquistadors weren’t known to bring books with them on their voyages,” said Ahmed. “But if a missionary came along, then he would have a Bible.”

“
You rascal,” said Bertoni, a glimmer of green in his eye. “You think a missionary spirited this away, hidden in the pages of his Bible.”

“
Only for the greater good,” said Ahmed, intoning a joke when he could not have been more serious. He looked east across the blue abyss. Thaddeus Devlin searched there, in the ruins near his village, for the letter the missionary wrote. Ahmed struggled to keep his thoughts from history and home. His expression might reveal his darkest secrets. Yesterday, when he saw the Tear of the Moon Emerald, he felt the hand of Juan de Salvatierra, the
San Salvador’s
sole survivor, tearing through the fabric of the centuries to grab hold of him.

In last night’s dark hours, as his crewmates snored, he reviewed his daring plan. This Emerald was, indeed, the seventh stone. Without it, the power of the other six sacred stones was toothless. For five centuries it had rested at the bottom of the ocean, where God had sent it. Now His will was once again undone by man. Thaddeus Devlin had told him the gems and the Breastplate possessed a power that could bring catastrophe upon the Earth. He could not let the Emerald fall into the hands of someone like Mishad and his mysterious patron.

“
I heard chatter on the radio last night while the others slept,” Ahmed began, taking that first step on the path to either salvation or damnation.

Bertoni smiled crookedly. “You mean while the others were passed out from drinking,” he said. “There is much to admire about your Muslim religion, that you refrain from alcohol.”

“
I couldn’t make out the words, but the signal was strong,” pressed Ahmed, realizing he was talking too fast, too loud. “The pirates are close.” Ahmed said.

Bertoni frowned. “I have no doubt they are.”

“
You should arm your crew, now.”

“
I don’t know when, or even if, the pirates will attack,” said Bertoni. “My men are mariners, treasure hunters. They can’t do their jobs effectively if they must also be constant soldiers.”

“
You’ve said you could never defend against a surprise attack,” said Ahmed, “but, I tell you, the pirates will attack at any moment. They see we are preparing to hoist anchor. That is the way they work in these waters.”

“
Then we are lost.”

“
The Aquila is well armed,” said Ahmed, “and your men loyal and brave.” And Mishad’s men rangy and backstabbing.

“
It’s true that I could not ask for a better crew,” said Bertoni, “but our armory is spare.”

“
But I saw it, racks of machine guns, several RPGs.” More than enough to deflect Mishad towards easier prey.

“
Almost all sold,” said Bertoni, “at our last supply stop. What good are guns, without food? I needed the funds for this last search. And it paid off, Ahmed. I had almost given up hope.”

A vice tightened around Ahmed’s chest. He sucked in quick, shallow breaths. “How many guns did you keep?”

Bertoni clasped his fingers around the Emerald. “Barely enough to fight off a hungry shark.” It was as if he knew what was coming, the way he looked to the east. He sensed the gunboats approach, as surely as when Ahmed had seen him prepare for a sudden, violent squall before the black cloud even appeared on the horizon. But this time precautions against impending disaster would not save them. His eyes met Ahmed’s. Could he sense Ahmed’s guilt as well? Did he know that he had been betrayed by the man whom he had called friend, this servant whom he had treated like a brother?

The roar of distant speedboat engines skimmed over the waves, the sound reverberating off the
Aquila
broadside. Bertoni snapped up his trademark binoculars. Mathew Joy, who had been known to fix his beloved vessel’s engine cooling system with an empty can of Guinness and a strip of duct tape, called them Bertoni’s x-ray vision glasses. The machinist joked that Bertoni’s penchant for using them for gazing over the empty sea was his way of looking for sunken treasure. These were the men Ahmed had betrayed.

“
God help us,” Bertoni said, “eight pirates, all armed with semi-automatics, probably sidearms as well. Two runabouts, outsized outboards.” He dropped the binoculars to his chest. “One of them is shouldering an RPG launcher.”

“
Pirates!” Thomas shouted from the pilot house, finally spotting the runabouts. The
Aquila
’s klaxon blasted the air, shooting spears of fear into the men on the deck below. For a moment, it was as if time had stopped, the men frozen in place. Then, as one, they raised their faces towards Bertoni.

The captain squared his shoulders. He gestured towards the four men who had been assigned sidearms this morning. “Owen, Charles, take positions on port side. Barzillai, Benjamin, starboard!” He yanked a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them down to Isaac. “Get the rifles, on the double. Fedellah, Obed, Pollard, go with him. Bring every last bit of ammunition. We’ll need it.” He twisted back towards the pilot house. “Thomas, shut off that damn alarm!”

The buzz of the pirates’ outboards roared into a crescendo. The scrappy runabouts approached rapidly, hulls bashing over the waves, the pirates standing on the deck as if nailed to it, their knees absorbing the shocks.

Bertoni let the Emerald drop off his palm, back into its velvet pouch, and tightened the silk ties. He reached for Ahmed’s hand. The captain pressed the soft velvet into Ahmed’s palm and cupped his calloused hands over it. “Take the Emerald,” he said. “Go to the engine room, to the hiding place that I showed you, the one used by the smugglers who once owned this ship. Hide in there.”

“
I will not hide,” countered Ahmed. “I will fight, with you. You need every man.”

“
I need you to keep this Emerald. Do not let the pirates have it. Promise me, Ahmed.”

“
I promise,” he said. “I will never let this Emerald fall into their hands. To do that, I must fight.”

“
To do that, you must live.”

“
They know I am on board.”

“
I will tell them that you were killed and fell overboard. If anything should happen to me, take the Emerald to my father, in Milan, Antonio Bertoni, in the Villa Bertoni, north of the city. Ask any Milanese. They will know him.” Ahmed felt the desperate press of his captain’s hands. “My father must know that I made real my dream. This is proof. Promise me, Ahmed.”

“
I promise you that your father will know his son is a good man, a great man.”

“
Go now, before it’s too late.”

Bertoni released him and clambered up the stairs to the pilot house. Ahmed called after him, but he had quickly ducked into the pilothouse. Ahmed could see Thomas shouting maydays into the radio microphone. Help would never arrive in time. He clutched the Emerald in its pouch, the velvet soft, the Emerald hard, in his hand. He had no time to think. Bertoni gestured sternly at him through the pilothouse window. “Engine room,” he yelled. “Now!”

Bullets ripped through the conning tower’s port windows. Shards of glass exploded across the gangway. A force smacked Ahmed in the thigh. He cried out in agony as his leg collapsed beneath him. He fell to the deck, blood seeping from his thigh.

CHAPTER
8

Thaddeus woke with a start. Pain stabbed his back. It came back to him in a flash. The camp had been attacked at dawn. He had raced to save Ambar and took a slug in his back. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. Muktar stooped over him, his expression grave, his gray and white striped kaftan splattered with blood. Thaddeus grabbed Muktar’s wrist. “How long have I been out?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He had to shake off the dizziness. He had to find that letter and clear out before more people were hurt because of it.

Muktar braced his arm beneath Thaddeus’s shoulders. “Less than one hour,” he said. He held a terra cotta vessel to his lips. “Drink this. Just one little drink.”

The cool water felt like life on his parched throat. “Where am I?”

“
Ambar’s home,” said Muktar. “In Ahmed’s bed. My friend, we send for the doctor. An American doctor. A doctor without a border. He is five hours away only.”

Thaddeus looked around at the whitewashed adobe walls. The sun slanted through the open window onto the handcarved wooden table next to the bed. “Patch me up, a quick fix until I get to the doctor. I must find that letter. More bad men, better armed and better trained, are coming.”

Ambar entered the room. Her dark eyes bore into Thaddeus. He couldn’t blame her. She’d almost been killed this morning. His presence had triggered the attack on her peaceful, isolated village. Muktar rose from the crude wooden chair at his bedside. She sat stiffly on it. She smoothed her skirt over her knees, and placed a parcel on her lap. It was wrapped in a blanket, an intricate Moorish weave of reds, browns and yellows faded with age.

Without a word, Ambar carefully unfolded the blanket. A musky odor, no stronger than a tease, emanated from the folds. Within lay a gold embossed leather folio, burgundy in color, about the size used in Morocco’s finer restaurants to hold menus. It was tied shut with a leather cord. Ambar took the utmost care in untying the knot, but the cord deteriorated in her fingers and a piece of it fell to the pounded earth floor. The folio was old, that was clear, but by the way Ambar handled it, age was the least of its value.

Thaddeus squeezed Muktar’s wrist. “Help me up,” he said, restraining a groan of pain as he raised his shoulders. Muktar grabbed an embroidered pillow from the head of the bed and propped it under him.

Ambar opened the folio’s cover. Inside was a paper, pressed stiff and brown with age. “I see this paper only one time before,” she said, in Arabic, her voice hushed. Muktar translated. Thaddeus’s Arabic was passable, but he wanted to understand every nuance. “It is passed down through generations of my family. My ancestor wished it. It is only to be given to a Christian who is worthy.” She frowned, hesitating, her eyes searching his. “For five hundred years, no Christian is worthy.”

He stopped himself from snatching it from her. “You’ve had this paper all this time,” he said. “All this time that I’ve been searching.” He had interviewed all the villagers and asked them for any local history about a marooned missionary. “I asked you, Ambar,” he said. “You said nothing.”

Her expression was unyielding, her voice steady. “My ancestor wished it to go only to a Christian who saves the life of a Muslim,” she said. She spoke further, but Muktar hesitated in his translation. “To make good, to make equal,” he held his two hands out, raising one while lowering the other, “the past.”

“
To restore balance,” Thaddeus said. Muktar nodded.

She held the paper towards him, and placed it on his open palm. The paper quivered. He was trembling. He tilted the paper towards the daylight fighting through the dust motes from the open window. The writing was faded but legible, with the smudges and scratches of quill dipped in indigo. The flowing artistry of penmanship was from a time when people cherished letters, the only form of communication between distances. “Latin,” he mouthed the word, his throat too parched to speak. He blinked and squinted, struggling to focus as he read the date, “14 February, 1586.” His gaze rushed to the signature at the bottom. “Juan de Salvatierra,” he read.

“
It is the letter you seek,” Muktar said. “Truly, it is destiny, as you say.”

He couldn’t think straight. The sinuous Latin script swam across the page. “Ambar,” he said, “where did you get this?”

“
The priest who wrote this,” she said, “was called Juan de Salvatierra. He washed upon the shore here, after the wreck of his ship, the
San Salvador
, five hundred years ago. He asked my ancestor to be his messenger. He asked Abd al-Aziz, which means servant of the strong. Abd al-Aziz made a vow to the priest to deliver his letter. The holy man was dying. He could not deny him.” She unwrapped another layer of the woven blanket from the parcel on her lap and removed an object from its folds. She narrowed her eyes. “The priest made him take this, as payment, to keep his promise. This, he did not need to do. We do not profit from the death of one we take into our care.”

By God, it was the crucifix. Ambar dangled it from its golden chain. It glinted in the morning sun. He handed Salvatierra’s letter to Muktar and reached towards her. “May I?” he whispered, his throat dry. Ambar let the crucifix and its gold chain fall onto his palm. His hand dipped with the weight of it.

The crucifix was magnificent, about two inches high by one wide of solid gold. Each of its cross bars was tipped with three tiny pearls. The Christ figure hung in such a way as to make the arms look upraised in victory, rather than weak with death. His face was pained, His expression sad but accepting. Below His feet was an uncommon skull and crossbones crafted out of ivory. Above His head, the typical inscription, INRI, was engraved on a golden scroll. INRI was the Latin acronym for Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, the banner written in Hebrew, Latin and Greek which Pilate ordered placed on Christ’s cross to show his “crime.”