Cobb shrugged but said nothing.
‘Hector, if we assume ten tons of gold — which seems like a conservative estimate to me — how much cash are we talking about?’
Garcia calculated the amount in his head. ‘At today’s market value, we’re looking at a minimum of four hundred million dollars.’
Sarah whistled. ‘Not a bad score.’
Papineau agreed. ‘It would be, but most historians believe that the hearse was dismantled more than two thousand years ago. The gold was then melted down and pressed into ancient coins that fueled the local economy. Even Alexander’s sarcophagus was eventually replaced with one made of glass. Logic dictates that the hearse would have been completely consumed before they turned their focus to the casket.’
‘But there’s still a chance?’ Sarah asked.
‘Sure,’ he conceded. ‘There’s always a chance.’
McNutt signaled for a timeout. ‘Hold up. I’m confused.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Sarah mumbled.
He didn’t miss a beat. ‘The geek watches you when you sleep.’
It took a few seconds for the comment to sink in.
‘Wait! What?’ she demanded.
Garcia turned bright red. ‘No I don’t! I swear I don’t!’
She glared at him. ‘You better not, or I swear to God I’ll shove your laptop up your ass. Then I’ll pull it out and shove it up there again.’
Garcia didn’t know whether to be scared or turned on.
Cobb cleared his throat and the group calmed down. There was a time and a place for threats, and this was neither. ‘What’s confusing you, Josh?’
‘What?’ McNutt asked.
Cobb smiled. ‘You said something was confusing you…’
‘Right!’ he said with a laugh. ‘If the hearse was stripped for parts and the gold is long gone, what are we looking for?’
‘Good question — one that I was about to ask myself.’
‘Thanks, chief.’
Cobb turned toward their host. ‘Well?’
Papineau ignored Cobb and spoke directly to McNutt. ‘Joshua, you were in the service for several years. How often do you visit your fallen brethren?’
‘Often.’
It was an honest response from a former Marine.
In the United States, there are 131 national cemeteries that are recognized for their burials of military personnel. The largest two — Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia and Calverton National Cemetery in New York — cover more than 1,700 acres and serve as the burial grounds of more than 750,000 soldiers and their families. McNutt made it a point to visit several of these locations every year.
‘And when you pay your respects, what do you leave behind?’
McNutt pondered the question. His boisterous demeanor was momentarily somber and reserved. ‘Sometimes it’s a personal memento. Sometimes it’s shell casings. Sometimes I pour them a drink from my flask. It all depends on the guy.’
‘You leave them tribute. You honor them with an offering.’
McNutt nodded but said nothing.
‘Alexander was honored as well,’ Papineau said as he began to pace around the table. ‘For centuries after his death, great leaders from far and wide made pilgrimages to his tomb to pay their respects. Julius Caesar, Caligula, Augustus — they all came to honor him. It is a tradition that we continue today, bringing tokens of appreciation for the sacrifice of mortal men, particularly those we admire. Therefore, I ask you this: what would you bring to honor one of the greatest conquerors of all time?’
‘Chocolate?’ Sarah said with a laugh.
McNutt made a face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t bring chocolate on a trip to the desert. It would melt on your camel. I suggest virgins. Lots of virgins.’
Jasmine shook her head. ‘I think you’re confused. Alexander wasn’t a Muslim.’
‘Neither am I,’ McNutt said, ‘but I wouldn’t turn down a bunch of virgins. They travel well, and they’re good for any occasion.’
Garcia nodded in agreement, but wisely said nothing.
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, what’s the answer?’
Papineau shrugged. ‘No one actually knows what was brought. If any records were kept, and there’s no way of knowing if they were, they are no longer available.’
‘Why not?’ Garcia wondered.
‘Are you familiar with the Library of Alexandria?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Garcia, who frantically tried to pull up information on the historic landmark. ‘Just give me a second.’
Jasmine wasn’t about to wait. ‘The Library of Alexandria was the finest collection of information in the ancient world. It was a repository of every significant text known to man. Scholars heralded it as the center of knowledge, a place where the rulers of Egypt could study the past in preparation for the future. It stood as a monument to the nation’s wealth and affluence, a symbol of their prosperity until it was destroyed by fire hundreds of years ago. The exact date and time are still unknown, though several theories abound.’
Papineau grimaced. ‘The loss was catastrophic. Every record, every map, every drawing of the city of Alexandria was consumed by the blaze — as were details about the tomb and the golden hearse. Since the fire various clues and myths have surfaced, but historians have never been able to place them in the proper context.’
Cobb nodded in understanding. ‘It doesn’t matter if you know that the tomb was located next to the market if you have no idea where the market was. Is that it?’
‘Exactly,’ Jasmine said. ‘We have bits and pieces about the city that we could string together into a very rough sketch of ancient Alexandria, but we have never had a primer: something that told us how to arrange the pieces.’
‘Until now.’
‘Until now,’ she said excitedly. ‘Your map may be the key to unlocking the entire history of Alexandria. The Roman occupation. The Persian rule. The Muslim conquest. The location of the tomb and more. There’s no telling what your map might allow us to uncover. How soon until you can arrange for me to see it?’
Cobb shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t think it will take that long.’
‘Can you give me a number?’ For her, the suspense was intolerable ‘A week? A month? A year?’
Cobb rubbed his chin and pretended to do some math in his head. ‘I don’t know… maybe two minutes or so. Half that if I really hustle. How long does it take to run up and down a flight of stairs?’
Jasmine gasped even louder than before. ‘You mean it’s here?’
Cobb nodded. At the conclusion of their previous mission, he had pursued a mysterious IP address that had secretly monitored their secure transmissions from Eastern Europe. Hoping to learn more about Papineau’s agenda, Cobb followed the signal to the Beau-Rivage hotel in Geneva, Switzerland where he intended to confront Papineau’s silent partner — if, in fact, he had one.
Instead, Cobb quickly realized he had been duped.
The signal was nothing more than a digital breadcrumb, intentionally left so that Cobb would follow it to the five-star hotel where a private dinner had been arranged with one of the top historical experts in the world, a man named Petr Ulster.
Neither Cobb nor Ulster knew who had arranged their conversation — a nameless benefactor had paid their bills — but by the end of their meeting, Cobb and Ulster had bonded, and Ulster had entrusted Cobb with a copy of the ancient map.
‘Where?’ Jasmine demanded.
Cobb stood. ‘It’s upstairs in my duffel bag.’
5
While Cobb retrieved the map from his bedroom, the others waited in calm silence — all except for Jasmine, who cracked her knuckles and bounced her knees up and down in order to dispel her nervous energy.