The Moses Riddle (Thomas McAllister 'Treasure Hunter' Adventure Book 1) (28 page)

The simple little surveillance job had turned into the worst case DJ had ever worked on. Ultimately, it got him demoted. It wasn’t an official demotion. He was simply no longer given the high-profile assignments. He was given jobs reserved for less capable agents and for those who were biding time until retirement. Desk jobs. For DJ, this was worse than being fired. He had never been a team player and was not well liked by his peers. When he suddenly fell from grace, they were not shy about letting him hear about it. Even Elmo, who thought he’d work with DJ forever, had become ostracized. Guilt by association. Lately, Elmo had been thinking about putting in a request for a different partner.

The case of the Ark was left open, but no full time resources were assigned. The museum thieves were never found and since the only object taken wasn’t even a part of their official inventory, the FBI couldn’t discuss it with anyone.

After DJ learned that McAlister had found Ann and disappeared, he pleaded with his superiors to let him have a covert team to go get the Ark. He told them McAlister was the key to finding the Ark. He knew he needed only one hour alone with him to obtain the location of the Ark. His requests were denied. He’d lost favor, and the last thing the government needed was an international incident coming from an attempt to kidnap a man in Cuba who wasn’t officially charged with anything.

After a month of fruitless attempts to convince his superiors to let him go get McAlister, DJ was assigned to surveillance of a prostitution ring. Prostitution assignments were the lowest of all. DJ knew there was not, nor would there ever be, any real attempt to stop hooking. All the government was interested in was giving the appearance of doing something to stop it. Beyond that, they didn’t really care. In fact, many government officials used prostitutes regularly.

Elmo knew that he and DJ had been demoted and he was more than a little upset about it. He had hitched himself to DJ while he was a shooting star, and now it appeared as if DJ had burned out. Elmo had to get away from DJ. He was younger and couldn’t afford to go down in flames so early in his career. He was single, had never been married, and had no kids. At thirty-five, he had amassed a small fortune of just under one million dollars. He kept a small efficiency apartment in Quantico and, since he was always traveling, he had no other living expenses. He never ate out, or went to movies, and he rarely bought new clothes. He owned a very old, well-maintained Honda Civic, with a mere twelve thousand miles on it. Research had told him that it was one of the most reliable cars ever made. And it had been.

Most of the time, when he wasn’t working, he researched stocks. Often, during the day when DJ didn’t need him, he went on-line to make adjustments to his positions. He had done well during the bull market years, and he was nearing the amount he had calculated he would need for his very early retirement in Paradise. He planned to travel the globe, to search for the perfect place to live in luxury, on peanuts. From pictures he had seen, he thought that place might be Tahiti.

The problem was that early retirement meant many years with no income, and he needed to make more money
now
. If he could receive two more substantial salary increases, he calculated that he could retire in three years. He needed the significant increases that he and DJ had historically been awarded, which were now a thing of the past. With nothing but regular assignments, they would only get small salary increases. That is, if they got any at all. He had become like the other agents that he’d always overheard complaining about their pay. Regular increases would extend his retirement date, and he didn’t like that. He could only put up with the pretentious, hot-blooded DJ if it meant he’d make more money. He had very little, if any, loyalty. His relationship with DJ was parasitic, much like the Ramora eel, which attaches itself to the belly of a shark for sustenance. When the shark gets sick, the Ramora detaches itself and goes in search of a better shark. Maybe it was time for him to detach from DJ.

Elmo was sitting at DJ’s desk, waiting for him to return from lunch. Today he would tell DJ he was putting in for a new partner. He was nervous. He was pale and would sometimes, without warning, begin to shiver convulsively. The sides of his laptop computer, which he was rubbing now, were worn to a high gloss. Beads of sweat collected on his lip.

DJ came in, saw Elmo, sat down, and began looking through the planner that was sitting open on his desk.
Without looking up he said, “What’s up, Elmo?” Since the prostitution assignment, he had become snappy and short with Elmo.
Elmo was sure DJ could hear his heart pounding. All of the air was sucked out of the room. He swallowed and said, “I . . . I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”
DJ stopped paging through his planner. He looked at his watch and said, “Hold on one minute. I have an important call that I
have
to make.”
DJ picked up his phone and dialed a number. Elmo watched him. He noticed that DJ had used an odd area code that he’d never seen before. It piqued his curiosity. He quickly opened his laptop. It had been on standby, so the screen illuminated immediately. Elmo double-clicked on an icon called TELEPHONY. It was a search engine on his hard-drive that functioned as a worldwide white and yellow pages directory. It also had an area code search function. He could enter any area code and it would tell him what city or country the code was for.
Elmo had only seen the area code of DJ’s call, not the entire number. He entered it and clicked SEARCH. In an instant, the word Cuba appeared.
Cuba? Why on earth would DJ be calling Cuba
? Elmo thought he was privy to everything personal and private that DJ had going on, but he had no idea why DJ would be calling Cuba. Certainly it had nothing to do with the prostitution ring case they were working on. The only reference to Cuba Elmo had heard recently was that it was rumored to be where Thomas McAlister had gone with Ann.
But that couldn’t be it
. Elmo paused
. Or could it? Could DJ have a line on the Ten Commandment’s Case? Could he be calling Ann Davenport
?
Someone picked up on the other line. DJ said, “It’s me.”
The other person said something and DJ replied, “I understand. Call me when the timing is better.”
Elmo was very curious. Obviously DJ had called someone in Cuba, and it had not been a good time for the other person to speak, which meant that there had been someone else present. Maybe it was Ann, and McAlister had been there.
DJ looked up and said, “What’s going on, Elmo?”
Elmo froze. His mind was still in Cuba. He was mentally divided. Half of him was ready to tell DJ he was quitting as his partner, the other half was wondering if DJ had something going on in Cuba related to McAlister. Maybe he had a contact in Cuba. There was even the chance that he was back to working with Ann.
The mere fact that DJ was still working on the McAlister case gave Elmo hope. DJ was still the best agent in the FBI, despite his recent failure, and despite what everyone was saying about him. He still had his special knack of being able to figure out things and synthesize data. If DJ could apply all of his skill, intuition and mental power, there was a chance, a good chance, that he could recover the Ark and the Commandments. If he could get the Ark back, he would be fully redeemed. He would rise from the ashes and become a legend. He would have personally solved a case that the agency had abandoned. And solved it without governmental resources. Full and total redemption.
Elmo was rattled back by DJ’s deep, impatient, nicotine-laden voice. “Well? What did you need to talk to me about?”
Elmo had a decision to make. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to part ways with DJ. If DJ did find the Ark, and Elmo had separated from him, Elmo would become the laughingstock of the bureau. He would become the brunt of their jokes; the agent who set the record for the worst timing to ask for reassignment in the history of the agency. He made his decision.
“I’ve got that data you requested on how the East Coast prostitution ring is importing Russian women. I’ll send it to you via email, so you can look at it when you get time.”
“That’s it? That’s what you’ve been wiggling around in your chair about? Send it to me, Elmo, and find something to do. You’re a nervous wreck.” DJ began rearranging papers on his desk.
“Looks like they’re paying off someone in immigration.” Normally learning about a government official who was on the take would get DJ’s attention, but not today. His thoughts were definitely elsewhere.
“Okay, good, send me the file. Anything else?”
Elmo paused. He considered asking about Cuba, but something stopped him. DJ would need his help soon enough. “No, nothing else. Thanks.”

names and faces during his four year term than in the previous fortyfive years of his lifetime. But when DJ was escorted into his office, the President remembered him instantly. He’d never forgotten DJ; he’d even thought about him from time to time. The agent had made quite an impression on him during their last meeting. DJ was the epitome of a man. A man’s man. Tanned skin, nicely graying hair, stoic face, tall, a solid build. He was a cross between the Marlboro Man and Hemingway.

The man who entered his office today looked ten years older. Only weeks ago he’d held himself erect, and now he was slouching. Unused to failure, the Commandments Case had taken its toll on him. A real man is bothered by failure, the President thought. He doesn’t forget the one that got away. It eats at him, until it manifests itself physically. Very different from the political animal, like me, who spins failure so that someone else gets blamed.

The President welcomed him with a handshake. “DJ, good to see you again. Betty, two whiskeys, please.” He’d read in DJ’s file that he drank whiskey and he wanted to have a drink with this man.

“Thank you, sir, and thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” “No problem, DJ. Your message sounded somewhat urgent and to tell you the truth, after the whole McAlister affair went sour, I’ve been wanting to hear your story firsthand.”
Betty brought them their drinks and left the room. The President raised his glass, “To Moses. A man with a lot of foresight.”
DJ didn’t feel like toasting to his failed assignment, but he was not about to slight the President. “To Moses,” he said. The whiskey tasted good. Maker’s Mark.
“What can I do for you, DJ?” The President asked.
“You’ve denied my requests for a continued search for the Ten Commandments, and I’m absolutely certain I can still find them. I want to change your mind.”
“Our initial concern was that McAlister, or whoever stole them from the National Museum, would make them public, but that has not happened.”
“True, but it could at any time, sir. It’s still a time bomb waiting to explode.”
“Sure, I still worry about it. But what am I to do? I read your requests personally. There is no new evidence. You have nothing new to offer.”
“Sir, I do now. I’m convinced that McAlister is the person who stole the Ark from the National Museum. Two weeks ago, I found a GPS tracking device hidden in the crate that held the fake Ark. I learned that McAlister had the fake made in Phoenix, then planted the GPS. He was able to trace the location of the fake from the minute we confiscated it in Mexico. When he made his trade for Ann, he knew we’d take it to the same place, the National Museum. You see? We had excluded him from our final list of possible thieves, based on the fact that he couldn’t have known where we had taken it. But with his GPS reading, he would’ve known.”
“It’s an interesting piece of new evidence, DJ. If nothing else it shows a new level of extreme foresight on the part of McAlister. But it’s still conjecture. It’s still circumstantial evidence. Not enough to convict on and not enough to deploy another team. Your boss, Hargrove, has too many other crises requiring resources right now. Does this still worry me? Hell, yes. But without some new facts . . . .” The President was shaking his head.
“There’s more.” DJ took a deep breath. He was now going directly over his supervisor’s head by supplying the President with information he had not yet told Hargrove.
“Yes? What is it?”
“I’ve got someone who is close to McAlister.”
“That’s rich. Your last report said that McAlister was rumored to be in Cuba.”
“Yes, sir, the person I’m referring to is with him in Cuba.”
“Who is this person?”
“Ann Davenport.”
“Ann Davenport? Isn’t she the agent who you used last time? And didn’t she fall in love with McAlister?” The President opened the file in front of him and began to skim it.
“Yes, sir. They fell in love. She’s the one who shot him at the Harvard Club.”
“It says here they’re back together again. They’re together in Cuba for Christ’s sake, DJ. They’re probably romping on the beach as we speak. What makes you think she’d ever help you again? Is she even still on active duty?”
“She’s still active. I’m almost positive she’ll get the information I need.”
“Almost?
Almost?
What’s gotten into you, man? Why do you think she’d walk across the street for you?” The President was showing his frustration. “If I made decisions based on
almost
, I’d have been run out of here a long time ago. Have you got anything or
not
? Why do you think she’ll help us?”
DJ was silent. He uncharacteristically chewed his bottom lip. He’d hoped that it wouldn’t come to this. That this level of detail would not be necessary. Not because he was about to violate a confidence, but simply because he didn’t like talking about it. But the President had humbled him, and he hadn’t argued well.
Another minute passed. DJ continued to stare at his drink. Finally, he raised his head and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had tears in his eyes. “Mr. President, I can get her to work with us because Ann Davenport is my daughter.”