Incan Relic Read online

  Chapter 3

  Champs-Elysees

  Paris

  France

  1:45pm

  Professor Jeanne Marguerite sipped her coffee absentmindedly and stared out through the window a thousand and one thoughts running through her mind. Inwardly she sighed, still staring at the city through the window at the ultra modern cars that came and went by the minute.

  What was wrong with this city.

  Paris was the heart of France in terms of tourism and it was no debate as to why that was the reason. Boasting some of the best architectural beauties in the world, Paris had always been referred to as ‘magnifique' in so many ways which remained indescribable, important landmarks were castles like Versailles which was built by Louis XIV, and one of the three most visited sites in France, churches like Notre Dame a fine example of Gothic architecture. Also Paris was known for its beautiful, world famous statues that were scattered throughout its city streets like Rodin’s Balzac at Montparnasse and Raspail, the statue of Marechel Ney at Montparnasse and Rue de l’Observitoire that Rodin called the most beautiful in Paris. It was also known for its numerous monuments and, of course, for the most famous art museum in the world - the Louvre formerly the fortified castle and home of Philippe Auguste. Many of the more famous museums of the world were here in Paris: the d'Orsay, the Orangery contained Monet’s great masterworks of the pond at Giverny, the Rodin Museum, the medieval Cluny museum; all in all, a total of 43 world class museums, with a total number of museums, in the Parisian area, exceeding 100.

  But the so called critics who always wrote flattering beautiful words about the beauty of Paris also failed to notice the debauchery and the ever growing decadence that threatened to eat up the city. Corruption was at its all time high and it wasn't restricted to just the government, universities, banks etc.

  Paris was dying.

  France was crumbling.

  Maybe it was her recent divorce with her husband, a tight and bitterly contested affair over the custody of their only daughter and sharing of assets, but she had lost all her faith in people.

  Her ringing phone brought her back to reality, she glanced at the LCD and saw the caller ID.

  RECEPTIONNISTE.

  "Yes Claire, I'm at lunch. couldn't this have waited?" she asked speaking rapidly in French.

  "Je m'excuse proffesore, the gentleman said it was urgent"

  "What gentleman? I have no appointments today Claire, tell him to call back later"

  "Proffesore, ecouter, s'il vous plait, he said I should tell you that you both worked together on an assignment to discover the Shroud of Tunis, whatever that means"

  A small gasp escaped her lips.

  "Tell him to wait for me, vous entendez"

  "Yes Professor"

  Slapping a couple of Euros for the over expensive cup of coffee on the table, Professor Jeanne Marguerite sprinted for the doors.

  University of Paris

  2:30pm.

  Hunt stared at the paintings that adorned the professor's office. Memories came washing back, as he remembered an archaeological dig in Tunis with the feisty French woman. Beautiful beyond her forty years and slightly widening hips, blazing red hair that did nothing to mask the intelligence hidden inside. After recovering the shroud which had been rumoured through the legends to wipe the blood of Jesus Christ during his death, she had petitioned it remained in France. Slowly France had turned to the epicentre of religious tourism as pious Catholics from around the globe flocked to see the ancient piece of linen.

  His whole body throbbed and he was extremely exhausted. But most of all he berated himself for putting another in danger. The commandos who came hunting for him, would give up and he had just succeeded in roping another into his dangerous world. His thoughts wandered to Professor Maximilian.

  If you are reading this then I'm dead.

  The door to the office sauntered open and Professor Jeanne came trotting inside and immediately enveloped Hunt in a bear hug. Her body felt warm and welcoming. she smiled at him in a manner he remembered all too well. Friendly yet in control.

  She looked into his blue eyes. "It's been a while Hunt. Frankly I'm surprised to see you here"

  She spoke English with a defined accent which only made it sound beautiful.

  "Yes professor"

  "Jeanne please"

  Hunt smiled.

  "I remember climbing those jagged mountains in Tunis, wondering if today was the day I died or if today was the day I recovered one of the biggest relics the world had ever seen."

  A hint of a smile played on his lips. Those were the good days, climbing in treacherous weather with Professor Jeanne and Max, wondering if they would ever make it out alive, dodging the Tunis rebels who felt the relic was their birthright.

  Professor Jeanne walked over to her cabinet and pulled a Remy Martin and two glass tumblers.

  Hunt eyed her. "Drinking on duty. That's a new one even for you".

  She clicked her tongue impudently. "You don't get to this level in life without some few perks, drinking being one of them"

  Hunt smiled. Never come between the French and their wine.

  "So Hunt, how's Professor Maxmilian, it's been a while since I heard from him, almost since the dig in Tunis"

  Hunt's smile faded.

  Professor Jeanne noticed. She set down the tumblers and walked up to him.

  "What's wrong Hunt?"

  He stared into her eyes and said simply. "Professor Max is dead"

  Professor Jeanne downed her fourth shot of the throat burning whiskey. Tears streaked down her eyes, her voice cracking.

  "What happened to him? How?"

  Hunt unzipped his travel bag, retrieved his laptop and dropped it on her polished oak table. Behind the table, on the wall rested numerous academic laurels.

  "He was murdered"

  Her eyes rose to meet his. "How are you sure of that"

  "Because he managed to send evidence across to me just before he died"

  "Evidence?"

  Hunt began to load up the images sent to him by Professor Max through email. Jeanne wiped the tears and sauntered behind Hunt. She leaned over his shoulders and glanced at the screen.

  A small gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes bulging at the images popping up on the screen.

  "He found it"

  Hunt tried to make sense of the scenario. As an archaeologist he dealt with artefacts and relics all the time, even discovering some high profile ones. He was pretty informed about them, but the images focused on one he had no idea about.

  But Jeanne did.

  "He found the beacon of Marques Francisco Pizarro"

  "The beacon of...."

  "Marques Francisco Pizarro". She walked over to one of her ivory bookcases which contained numerous texts and books in archaeology and linguistics by renowned authors. She searched through the collection with her finger, before settling for one and pulling it out.

  "Marques Francisco Pizarro was a Spaniard and he led expeditions to conquer the Incan empire in..."

  "1524 and 1526" Hunt finished for her. "I don't need the history lesson; I need to know why Max was killed for this lumpy piece of unrefined gold".

  Jeanne ignored him.

  "History states that Marques Francisco Pizarro failed in his expeditions to conquer the empire, but various leading archaeologists and historians seemed to think differently"

  "How so?" Hunt asked.

  "There was a body of thought that hypothesized that he did indeed conquer the Incans in 1526"

  A look of pure surprise crossed Hunt's features.

  "The Incans tried to bribe their way out, they offered Marques Francisco Pizarro and his entourage a treasure of unimaginable proportions" Jeanne continued.

  So unimaginable it would cause men to kill for it four hundred and eighty-six years later.

  "In fact so immense was this treasure that Marques Francisco Pizarro and his second hand man Herman Cortes feared what will happen if such power came i
nto the hands of King Charles I. So He and his second in command Herman Cortes came up with a plan"

  "To hide the treasure" Hunt said.

  "Yes. Marques Francisco Pizarro and Herman Cortes decided to hide this treasure ingeniously, and after hiding with the help of some captured Incans, he killed his remained entourage including the Incans. His own trusted men that were said to number a score and sixty not counting the natives"

  Effective way to keep a secret.

  "What about Herman Cortes?' Hunt asked.

  "Herman Cortes was spared, probably due to the familial ties to Marques Francisco Pizarro"

  "Familial ties?"

  "Herman Cortes was not only his second hand man, he was his cousin" Jeanne replied.

  "Figures" Hunt mumbled.

  "Marques Francisco Pizarro and Herman Cortes made a pact never to talk about the secrets they hid. Marques Francisco Pizarro carried the secret to his grave, but Herman Cortes grew weary of keeping secrets"

  "He created the beacon?" Hunt asked doubtfully.

  "No, Marques Francisco Pizarro did, Cortes just clued people to its existence"

  "Charming" Hunt mumbled under his breath.

  She glared at him. She understood what he was going through. Professor Maxmilian had been like a mentor to him. Like a father. She saw the burning desire in his eyes to find out why the professor was murdered.

  She had the same burning desire.

  "Whoever killed Professor Maxmilian understood the ramification of what he had located in Peru"

  Hunt sat deep in thought. Gears churning in his head. He tried to put the pieces together, but one thing eluded him.

  "The scrawling at the back of the beacon, what do you think it is"

  Jeanne automatically snapped open her glasses case and pulled out a gold-rimmed reading spectacle which she immediately settled on the bridge of her nose. she scrutinized the text carefully, pausing to lean forward where the text was blurred due to sloppy photography.

  He probably shot this before he died

  "I can't figure what language this is"

  "Well then we're fucked!" Hunt growled, running his hand through his thick mane in frustration. Jeanne flinched at his use of profanity.

  Perhaps this death was having much more effect on him than she thought.

  "But I know someone who can" she said gently.

  "No! That's unacceptable" Hunt shot back.

  She whirled facing him, anger blazing in her eyes.

  "That's the best you are going to get Ian!"

  Hunt sighed. He was already regretting his decision to include the French professor. Her speciality was books and lectures not fire fights with commandos wielding SIG sauers and Uzi's.

  "You don't understand; we can't involve anybody else" Hunt said softly. Imploringly.

  She saw the raw pain in his eyes. "Make me understand Hunt"

  "Right after Professor Max sent me this email, an attempt was made on my life" Hunt turned to face her "We can't involve anyone else"

  Her face turned ashen. He feared her knees wouldn't hold.

  "A renegade United States Marine Corp regiment was sent. This wasn't your typical assassination"

  "How? ---Why?" she stammered.

  "I managed to evade them long enough to locate you, but that puts you also in great danger" Hunt said apologetically.

  He glanced at her. He saw those beautiful emerald green eyes harden with resolve.

  Her next words confirmed her stance.

  "Let's find the bastards that did this to Max"

  Paris

  France

  Commander Trent was never one to show fear. Today was an exception. Seated in the bunker room scattered with an array of state of the art surveillance equipment, Commander Trent found out for the first time in his life he was afraid. Afraid of the man in his immaculately pressed Armani suit and his glossy black Armani shoes.

  The man controlled the President of the United States of America.

  The man controlled the nation.

  After a while the man spoke. "What do we have on Professor Jeanne Marguerite?"

  Commander Trent passed him a red folder. Cold, unrelenting eyes studied the contents of the documents dispassionately.

  "Send a tactical squad to her husband's home. Kill him and the little girl"

  "What about the professor?"

  "She is still----useful"

  Commander Trent never flinched. He was a soldier. Following orders was what he did best.

  Hunt stared at the man sitting across the desk. Robert Delacroix stared back at the sullen looking American with equal intent.

  "Now if we could quit the staring contest boys" Jeanne said. Delacroix's face immediately lit on hearing Jeanne's voice. Obviously he was smitten with her.

  "I believe you needed my skills, ma belle” Delacroix said smiling.

  Jeanne glanced at Hunt weighing whether to rope the French linguist into the deadly web they were both weaving.

  Hunt nodded slightly. It was their only chance to find out what was going on.

  Gripping his hands tightly, Jeanne said softly. "Robert, this is dangerous. People have been killed over what I'm about to show you, I won't think any less of you if you decide not to have anything to do with this"

  Delacroix's face blanched as the word killed filtered through his ears. He glanced at the stranger sitting at the far end. The stranger's eyes were dead serious.

  "Show me".

  Hunt had to give the man credit. He had balls. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Jeanne staring at him, eyebrow cocked. The question there was plain.

  What have we done?

  Showing the Frenchman, the images on the screen the fear in his eyes faded and was replaced by excitement.

  ” Ah" He mumbled as he squinted at the screen.

  "Get me a pen and a paper" He demanded.

  Hunt and Jeanne watched as the Frenchman scrawled, pausing periodically to scrutinize his work. He erased some words and replaced them with some other one he thought more appropriate.

  "This writing is Basque" Delacroix said while scribbling. After a while he handed a sheet of paper to them. Hunt picked it up and read the contents.

  In Medellin. there is a secret

  and a great treasure, whosoever

  his eyes on the must prove himself

  worthy of the Inti.

  Hunt read the translation over and over again. He tried desperately to figure out the meaning. Jeanne voiced his thoughts.

  "Medellin?"

  Delacroix immediately spoke. "Me.del.lin" stressing the pronunciation "is a city in Eastern Colombia, the second largest city in the country, population of 2,219,861 as of 2005. it's a major centre of coffee production, it has in recent years gained a reputation as the hub in Colombian drug trade"

  Hunt stared at the man in new sight. Surely within that dull exterior lay a very sharp mind.

  "So Colombia?" Jeanne asked.

  "That seems more and more likely. We should follow the trail and see where it leads" Hunt said.

  Delacroix cleared his voice loudly. "I'm coming along. Seems like I'm already doomed anyway"

  "No!!" Hunt and Jeanne chorused together.

  The Frenchman smiled politely "I do believe you both have no power over my comings and goings, so I'm tagging along"

  Hunt still didn't look convinced.

  "Plus I can provide something we would definitely need."

  "What would that be?"

  Delacroix grinned fiercely "Guns Môn ami. I believe if we are going to die we shouldn't go down without a fight"

  Hunt grinned.

  Yeah frenchie, we wouldn't go down without a fight.

  Paris

  France

  Laura Marguerite sat in the living room, a box of toys cradled in her lap totally absorbed in the images that danced through the glossy display of the television.

  "Daddy!"

  "Yes baby" A hunk of a man sauntered into the living room from the kitchen whe
re he had been making a meal. He bore close resemblance to the little girl seated in the living room. Same blond hair, though the children was infused with highlights of fiery red.

  An attribute she got from her mother. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he saw Jeanne and her fiery red hair. He remembered the smell of her skin when they made love, the softness. He always believed her hair represented the dominant part of her personality.

  Passionate. Fiery. Stubborn.

  "Daddy, when is mommy coming?" The little girl pouted.

  He was about to answer when the doorbell rang.

  "Give daddy a second ok" he roughed her hair and kissed her cheeks.

  She squealed in delight.

  He walked to the door and peered through the door hole. It was the delivery man. In his hands was a box with the delivery insignia.

  "Delivery for Mr Pierre" the man said in French.

  Odd. He never remembered ordering anything.

  He opened the door. The delivery man looked at him with feigned disinterest. Rifling through his delivery bag the man produced a picture. He glanced at the picture, and then he glanced at Pierre.

  "Are you Mr. Pierre sir?"

  "Yes I'm Pierre, though I don't remember ordering anything"

  "It's Ok, soon you won't remember anything at all" the delivery man said with a cold smile.

  A silenced SIG-Sauer materialized out of thin air.

  The delivery man slammed the butt of the gun into Mr. Pierre's nose. Not too hard, he didn't want to break it.

  The delivery man then pointed the weapon to the side of Mr. Pierre's head.

  Phut. Phut.

  The silencer suppressing the sounds of the shots to no more than the sound of a cough.

  Mr. Pierre's body thudded to the floor, blood seeping from the hole in the side of his head.

  The delivery man stepped into house. He listening carefully. The sounds of the television were coming from the living room. He followed the sounds until he got to the living room, a little girl sitting in the middle was watching the television, singing along to the words of a favourite song.

  As if sensing his presence, the little girl turned to look at him and smiled beautifully.

  "Mr. delivery man. are you daddy's friend?" she asked innocently.

  "Yes I'm your daddy's friend, one you won't ever see again" With that the delivery man raised his weapon and fired six rounds in the body of the little girl. The rounds tore through her little body.

  Blood immediately welled up underneath her clothes. Her little eyes glassy.

  The delivery man walked up and checked for her pulse.

  There was none. She was dead.

  Satisfied with his work, the delivery man walked to Pierre's body and dragged it into the living room. Slowing retrieving a vial from his pouch, he first placed the gun in Pierre's outstretched arm and clenched his dead fingers on the butt of the pistol.

  He then took a swab and dabbed the contents of the vial on Mr. Pierre's fingers, especially his trigger finger.

  He then took out a pen and a sheet of paper and set to work

  Chapter 4

  Medellin

  Colombia

 

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