Reign of Coins Page 6

  “I see….”

  Alistair mentioned the extensive journals I keep. Several passages are dedicated to Cheung Yung-ching and his unscrupulous business practices. Everything from money laundering, drugs, jewel smuggling, and murder.

  The man speaking with Mr. Lao suddenly laughed uproariously over something the Event Director said to him. Mr. Lao looked confused and smiled painfully, nodding in all directions as if to politely get us all to return to our conversations. But, then the man said something that caught Alistair’s and my full attention.

  “So, I’m supposed to believe this is the entire Cheung coin collection?”

  Expecting another nod from the solemn-faced Mr. Lao, it’s not what happened. He glanced uncomfortably at Cheung Sulyn.

  “It is the entire collection that was promoted across the world, prior to this exhibition,” she said, stepping over to the boisterous rich guy. Something about him that I instantly didn’t like, and it wasn’t his choice of light beige for an Armani suit. “Every item on display matches the list we advertised.”

  “Bullshit,” he said, and then paused to survey those in closest proximity to him. “I don’t care what your damned list says, you and the Convention and Exhibition Centre are holding out on us. I demand to speak with someone higher than you two clowns!”

  I could feel Alistair bristle, and knew he’d go after this idiot. It wasn’t worth drawing attention to our presence. I hadn’t seen anyone covertly CIA or definitely Viktor Kaslow in the crowd around us, but if any of them were there, jumping into a customer satisfaction spat would be a sure way to end the hide and seek game.

  Just before I grabbed my son’s arm, while a murmur swept through the main level of the building, Sulyn moved up to the man and said something with more sweetness than I could’ve dreamed of mustering at that point. She nodded to Mr. Lao to bring the man with him and motioned for Alistair and me to follow them.

  Very strange. Alistair hesitated, and at first so did I. But something in my gut urged me to hurry up and join them as they moved across the open hall to where the executive offices sat. My boy had the good sense to keep up, and we caught up to them just as Sulyn, Lao, and the asshole stepped inside a small boardroom. The sharp-dressed jerk gave us a disdainful look when Sulyn asked Alistair to close the door behind him.

  “What are they doing here?” he sneered.

  My first chance to study the man. Impeccable style, and grooming, with a hairline that covered up just a little too much forehead to be considered handsome. Even so, sleek facial features and bright green eyes would draw the favor of most females, and perhaps a few males, too.

  His air hinted at inherited smugness. This was a soul poorly developed, but with the means to deliver harm to others. All of my senses were on edge.

  “Perhaps it would be best if William and I wait outside for you to finish your business with this rude imbecile,” suggested Alistair. “Unless you need our immediate assistance with this matter, Ms. Cheung.”

  The look of rage that spread over the man’s face provided a stark contrast to Mr. Lao’s horrified expression, and amusement for me. This whole scene was preposterous, and seemed quite inappropriate for Sulyn to involve my son and me in this volatile situation. However, the amused glint in her eyes told me that she had a reason for doing this. Whether proper or not remained to be seen, or played out.

  “I have a proposal that should make everyone happy,” she said, motioning for us to remain where we stood while sending a confident smile to Mr. Lao. “There are other coins available, and if I can persuade my grandfather to at least show them to you, would that satisfy you, Mr…?”

  “Morrow. Christian Morrow,” he said, tugging on his coat sleeves as if that would somehow make him seem cooler—perhaps as much figuratively as it would for a man clad far too nattily for the weather.

  He continued to scowl, but his tone revealed openness to her suggestion. Mr. Lao nodded gratefully, as if amazed that what started out badly on the floor hadn’t immediately escalated into something far worse.

  “Since it is a part of the collection rarely seen outside our family, only you, Mr. Morrow, and Alistair Barrow and his son, William, will be allowed to see it. I can have it brought here tomorrow in the afternoon, provided my grandfather gives the okay….”

  I believe Ms. Cheung said something else. But a strange and sudden dynamic had descended into the room, as this Morrow character—the guy my CIA contacts wanted me to chum up to—and my son stared at each other. It was almost magical watching scorn and suspicion morph into looks of recognition and—dare I say—admiration upon both my son’s and this miscreant’s faces.

  “Dr. Barrow? You are the Dr. Alistair Barrow, who specializes in Middle Eastern studies at Georgetown University?” Morrow shook his head.

  “Yes it is…. So, it is you, Christian,” my son replied, drawing a double take from me. It was as if he were addressing a long lost friend. “Did you ever act on the fellowship offered by my good friend, Dr. Norman Zaire, at North Carolina State?”

  “Graduated in 2006, and the anthropology program was as great as you assured me that it would be.”

  “Well, congratulations, Christian—it’s good to see you again.”

  At least the conversation didn’t progress further. My boy and his new best buddy looked as if they suddenly remembered there were three other people in the room.

  “So, this was a prized student?” I forced a smile while coldness seized my heart. “I’m sure you both have much to catch up on.” No, I didn’t like the man, and worried what might happen next, since Kaslow was supposed to be employed by Morrow.

  “Yes, son, we do,” said Alistair, who probably would’ve added more zeal to his words if not for Cheung Sulyn’s disappointed expression. Getting us all together the next day for a rare viewing of her grandfather’s collection was definitely her intent, but not so much the chumminess. I do believe my son’s luster had been tarnished in her eyes. At least he seemed to notice. “Perhaps we can arrange something tomorrow, after we view the items Ms. Cheung has so graciously offered to show us.”

  “Yeah, that would be good,” agreed Christian, the smugness returning to his countenance.

  A serious talk about playing with vipers in a sandbox was in order for my boy.

  “Let us make the arrangement for two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, and I can either call or email you both to confirm this meeting time for tomorrow later today,” said Sulyn.

  She seemed anxious to end the private meeting and get us back out on the main floor. Even Mr. Lao seemed uptight, but at least his doughy face was no longer red. He moved quickly to lead us out of the room and back to the throng of coin enthusiasts. But before he did, Morrow stopped him, and turned his attention to Cheung Sulyn.

  “Tell your grandfather I’d like to view anything and everything Mongolian he has accumulated during his lifetime,” he said, icily.

  “I will see what I can do to honor your request, Mr. Morrow,” she said, her lips forming a thin, perturbed line. “But, I am fairly certain the Mongolian items in my grandfather’s collection are all here.”

  “No, they’re not,” he assured her, and the remaining warmth in his eyes gave way to his soul’s chill. “I’m looking for something pertaining to Genghis Khan. Your grandfather once reported he inherited an ancient item, personal to the Mongolian Emperor.... Perhaps you know of what I speak?”

  She shook her head, and I doubt my son noticed a telltale sign she was lying. But I did. I’m pretty sure Morrow noticed it, too. Or, maybe it was something he sensed. The eyes of both gave them away…hers flinching ever so slightly, and his taking on an acute glint that made his emerald peepers a little bit brighter.

  “Ask Cheung Yung-ching about a map…one that is supposed to lead to the mythical ‘Mantle of Genghis Khan’. I guarantee he’ll know what you’re talking about.”

  Morrow turned away from her, pushing past us all as he stormed out of the room with resolute purpose. His short boot
heels clicked against the tiled floor as he hurried to the featured coin displays. I continued to listen long after the others couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore.

  Chapter 9

  “Should your coin turn up in Cheung Yung-ching’s more extensive collection, do you plan on stealing it if he won’t willingly part with it for a fair sum?”

  Alistair and I had just placed our dinner orders at one of Hong Kong’s premier restaurants specializing in northern Chinese cuisine, the Hutong. Before I tell you my answer to his brash question, allow me to bring us up to date.

  After our interesting encounter with Christian Morrow, we soon parted ways with Cheung Sulyn and a visibly uptight Lao Wee Kiat James. To Sulyn’s credit, she seemed largely unaffected by the American millionaire’s aggressiveness. In contrast to Mr. Lao’s haste to pursue Mr. Morrow out onto the convention floor, Sulyn leisurely escorted my son and me to her office down the hall to pick up a business card for Alistair. Then, she escorted us to the main entrance, taking the longer route so she and he could chat.

  Sulyn arranged for us to meet at the hospital caring for her grandfather at eight-thirty the next morning. Our afternoon viewing of the rest of Cheung Yung-ching’s collection was also set, for two o’clock.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon visiting Victoria Harbour where we took a ride on the famed Star Ferry. An impressive scenic trip that would’ve been even better had we taken a boat ride along the same general path at night, from what I understand.

  “Well, it depends,” I said, pausing to sip chilled lychee wine. “If the coin is there and my offer of fair market price plus twenty percent doesn’t woo him, I’ll see if I can snag it from his collection and run like hell.”

  I added a devilish grin. Unfortunately, it did little to alleviate my son’s uneasiness.

  “In truth, I’ll be surprised if the damned thing is in Mr. Cheung’s exclusive collection,” I continued. “Remember my mention of how I felt drawn away from Hong Kong proper when we prepared to land at the airport? I’d bet everything I’m worth the coin I seek is still inside the cave I dreamt about last night.”

  “Oh, Pops, please!”

  My boy shook his head in irritation. I did everything to hide my own annoyance. Was this a byproduct of his crystal-influenced regeneration? What a shame it would be if I hurled the damned things into Kowloon Bay.

  “I’m serious, son,” I said, surprised by the edge in my voice. “The steamer chests might contain far more items in terms of artifacts. Perhaps even the mantle mentioned this afternoon by Christian Morrow.”

  That got his attention. He sat up straight and eyed me expectantly. “You’re saying the ‘Mantle of Genghis Khan’ actually exists?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Sheesh! There’s no evidence to support the crazy legends of a ‘fiery blast’ preceding the arrival of his personal army as he moved throughout Asia Minor,” said Alistair, his tone almost pompous in its disdain. “Mere myths created to explain how Khan’s armies overran so many Muslim nations with very little loss of Mongol lives. It’s enormously embarrassing to the followers of Allah that barbarians easily subdued His chosen ones.”

  “I can see why you would believe that…to a degree.”

  But the image in my mind was one I could never adequately convey—to Alistair or any one else. I thought about the metal vest I saw in my dream. Though it wasn’t glowing on its own, the eerie shimmer of light emanating from my coin and reflecting upon it was what rekindled memories of the famous Mongol emperor. The vest in the steamer chest looked damned near identical to the one Khan had worn when we met, that fateful day long ago.

  Granted, the cave in my dream was dark, and it was impossible to say for sure if the vest was the exact one. But the engraved dragons along both sides were immediately familiar.

  While riding the ferry, I searched my mind’s archives for clues. Just before we reached the shore, images of Khan and the distinct attire he wore outside Samarkand came to my mind’s forefront. The vest had to be the very same one he wore. That alone should make the item highly desirable for a collector like Morrow. But, obviously, there was another reason he was determined to procure it.

  Which brings us to another memory. This one deals with what I actually saw eight hundred years ago, after I had put several miles between Samarkand and me. As dusk approached, a loud sizzling crack like lightning striking the ground ahead of a thunderstorm ripped through the air. I glanced over my shoulder and was surprised to see a shimmering purple ring expanding rapidly as it raced toward me.

  I immediately dismounted from my horse and brought us both low to the ground, just before this incredible light passed over us. It disappeared an instant later, while a heavy breeze pushed the trees in the area low to the ground. An explosion in the distance behind me followed this—the likes of nothing I had ever witnessed until the dawn of the twentieth century and the experiments of Nikola Tesla. It shook the ground, though the explosion was nothing near as dramatic as Hiroshima. When I returned to the ruins of Samarkand a few months later, however, walls still standing after its surrender were no longer intact. The damage to them and the palace where Ala ad-Din Muhammad’s treasure chambers once stood was far greater than any human army equipped with catapults and battering rams could accomplish.

  “Are you saying the legend is true?” Alistair grinned playfully, baiting me to give a negative response or face more ridicule.

  “As you’ve seen in your Middle Eastern studies, it’s possible for any legend to have some truth imbedded within,” I said. “The vest, or mantle, I saw in my dream was the same one Genghis Khan wore the day I met him. Shortly afterward, I experienced a blast similar to Nikola’s experiments I once told you about.”

  “The precursors to Einstein’s work?”

  That’s a whole other can of worms I’ll save for a later tale.

  “Yes.”

  “Ha-ha! You can’t be frigging serious, Pops—I mean, come on!”

  “Why do you find it impossible to believe your old man has seen a few amazing things and known a few famous people during his extended stay on planet earth?”

  “It’s not impossible,” he said. “It’s just that…well, I don’t think you’re beyond exaggeration here and there.” He had been chuckling, and it morphed to full laughter.

  Great. Just frigging lovely.

  It brought an image to mind of when Jesus took us to Nazareth the first time. Despite nearly a week’s worth of miracles performed amongst the town’s populace, no one could get over the fact a ‘local boy’ had found fame elsewhere. Probably the biggest moment of empathy I felt for my Lord, when He walked among us—aside from Golgotha. I felt akin, as well, in the present moment, and to His wise observation that ‘a prophet is not honored in his own country’. Except in my case, it often seemed my entire life’s history was met with similar ridicule. Of course, I, too, had shortsightedness when I later betrayed Him.

  At least my kid hasn’t totally dismissed me, he fully believes in my immortality. His block in the eye comes from not being able to picture who I’ve rubbed shoulders with down through the centuries. Guess it’s a good thing I’ve never told him that Roderick, under a different name, was an original signer of the Declaration of Independence. On occasion, he visited George and Martha Washington at Mount Vernon, where they assumed he had a fetish for French powder.

  Once our dinner arrived, I endured a few more barbs that gradually became more and more lighthearted since I refused to be drawn into a debate. With what looked like a full schedule the next day, we returned to the Royal Garden, intending to retire early. However, when we stepped into our room, I knew our plans for that night and perhaps the next day had been nixed. An old CIA acquaintance sat in a chair by the window overlooking Victoria Harbour. He had pulled the curtains closed and left a single light on, turned to its dimmest setting.

  “Hello William and Alistair…. Take a seat.”

  The tone brisk, the icy stare was worse. Sam Daniels had a s
erious bone to pick.

  Chapter 10

  Alistair sat on the sofa while I closed the door behind us. I turned on the recessed overhead light above the living area and set it to the highest setting—Agent Daniel’s perturbed look notwithstanding.

  “Do you truly think a rude intrusion at night will get better cooperation than a more polite meeting scheduled during the daytime?” I told our guest, who kept his right hand near the hidden holster to his cherished Glock beneath his dress coat. Carrying a concealed weapon was probably the only reason he wasn’t dressed casual. “Will Michael or Cedric be joining us, too?”

  “Tonight it’s just me,” said Sam. He glanced up at the short row of bright lights I had turned on and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his coat, tapping one out. The pissing contest had officially begun. “Mike’s on the way here from L.A. and should arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You should realize smoking isn’t allowed in here,” said Alistair, drawing a look of surprise from both Sam and me. It had never been my son’s habit to address any of the agency’s representatives so casually, and with overt disdain. I guess I wasn’t the only one to feel the brunt from my son’s new brashness. “And, I for one like being able to see you clearly, Agent Daniels.”

  Sam glared at Alistair for nearly a minute in silence, while twirling the fresh cancer stick between his fingers. A twelve-year veteran with the CIA, he’d been a career state trooper in Georgia before that time. Not necessarily handsome, Sam’s best feature was his hazel eyes—and it wasn’t saying much. His square jaw and military buzz-cut did little to change the impression he was a boorish asshole.

  “Alistair’s got a point,” I offered, quickly tiring of the conflict simmering between them. “Don’t smoke and we’ll listen to what you have to say.”