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“Welcome to Mystery Deep, Congressman Briggs.”

  Chapter Three

  London, England

  The red flags that hung outside the modest building were the only consideration toward advertisement and company designation the operators deemed necessary for one of the world’s oldest and most prestigious auction houses. Famous for the crowded galleries that were always choked with the rich and famous as they bought up the world’s heritage. These patrons for the most part never knew the finest works were never viewed by the public but were held in trust for private perusal and bidding when legal circumstances called for a more cautious approach to dealing in rare finds. Privacy is what some buyers craved, even more than the treasures they sought to own.

  “As you can see Mr. Constantine, this piece has been appraised at a most reasonable twenty-six point five Million Pounds. The reason for such a valued piece going for so little is the fact that there has been some difficulty in acquiring a proper line of ownership dating back to the fifteenth century. While this object is still verifiably authentic, the current owner would prefer to avoid any legal entanglement in its auctioning. His preferred method is of a private discussion of its sale. In other word’s Mr. Constantine—”

  “It is stolen.”

  The well-dressed auctioneer lost his smile. “Well, sir, perhaps that would not have been my choice of words.”

  “But it is my choice,” the bearded man said from the ornate chair in the darkened office. The man looked over at the display table and the well-lighted object sitting upon it. “Let’s not play games here Mr. Chenowith. You have my letters of introduction, my privacy in these matters is of utmost importance. The names on that letter of introduction should demonstrate how dear I hold my relationships to friends in high places. The gratuity I have given to your house should also attest to my seriousness in acquiring the object in question.” The bearded man slowly rose from his chair and once again stood before the private exhibit. His right hand removed a pure white kerchief from his suit pocket and placed it over his hand as his fingers caressed the blade in its jeweled encrusted sheath.

  “You must admit, the item is mesmerizing, is it not Mr. Constantine?”

  The bearded man turned and looked at the auctioneer who conducted these clandestine meetings once every two weeks for private buyers. He adeptly removed the curved blade from its sheath and examined it.

  “The reward placed by the Vatican is now nearing the cost of the item itself. I believe the archivists want the thief who stole it more than they want the dagger back.”

  The Englishman didn’t like the comment and he showed it by placing the blade next to the sheath and then placed a white silk covering over the knife. He moved to his desk and sat down and picked up a pen and started acting like he was working.

  “Good day, Mr. Constantine, I see you’re not as serious a buyer as I was led to believe.”

  The bearded man smiled as he faced the crooked auctioneer. “I only bring up Vatican interest because I am the thief who stole it,” Mr. Chenowith.”

  The man at the desk looked up, the blood slowly draining from his face.

  “Actually, the blade never belonged to Lucius Pontius Aquila. It is a well-known fact that according to Vatican archives and verified in an obscure and small passage in a letter from Mark Antony to the Roman Senate, immediately after the murder of Julius Caesar, the letter proclaimed that Senator Lucius Pontius Aquila threw his knife into the sewers of Rome for fear of retaliation after the murder had been derided by Mark Antony himself in his famous ‘friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears’ speech. So, you see Mr. Chenowith, the blade always has been a fake.”

  “Impossible,” Chenowith said as he angrily stood and went immediately to the viewing stand and tore the covering off the blade and its ornate sheath.

  “You know, I never met the person responsible for actually getting the forgery out of the Vatican archives, I only dealt with his go-between. It wasn’t until I met this mousy little computer whiz in America that works with some very disturbing and not very friendly people, that he told me who really stole the item in question.”

  The man turned and stared at the smiling, bearded man in front of him. He was about to protest in what his opinion was the most ridiculous statement he had ever heard, when the double doors to his office opened and several men in suits entered.

  “Your name isn’t Charles Chenowith, but Gaspésie Marzetti, formerly a lowly clerk in the Vatican archives.”

  The four plainclothes men from Scotland Yard took the stunned auctioneer by the arm as the bearded man took the blade from its stand and then slammed it tip first into the viewing holder. He snapped the blade off in a clean and vicious snap and then tossed the man formerly known as Chenowith the handle who bobbled it, nearly dropping the broken blade’s handle.

  “It wasn’t even that impressive a fake. I felt very insulted when I examined it twenty years ago.”

  As three of the officers led the thief out of his office, a fourth stopped and faced the bearded man.

  “Her Majesties Government thanks you for your assistance in this tasteless matter. Lord Durnsford also sends you his regards. What MI-6 had to do with you I’ll never know. But there you have it.”

  “Let’s just say I owed a debt and it is now paid in full, shall we? Just ask Lord Durnsford to please forward the results to his friend in America, that part of my debt is hereby settled. And to also thank Doctor Morales for his assistance in tracking this rather unsavory thief.”

  The man from Scotland Yard smiled and dipped his head.

  “As you wish, Mr. Constantine, or should I say, Colonel Farbeaux?” The inspector smiled again and walked out of the office.

  Henri smiled and then saw the sheath still on the display shelf. He reached out and took it and felt the rubies that encrusted it and his smile grew. He pocketed the very much real jewels and gold of the forged knife sheath that was used to make the fake look real to the naked eye. The sheath and jewels were on loan from Christies Auction House, but that fact seemed to slip the officers minds in their haste to make the arrest.

  Henri Farbeaux walked out three hundred thousand dollars richer than when he had walked in. If Henri was anything, he was an opportunist.

  * * *

  Colonel Henri Farbeaux prided himself on his ability to vanish whenever the need called for it. Having just stolen a very valuable item from the Christies collection was one of those times. For Henri, hiding meant staying in some very disreputable establishments, which made him for the most part feel right at home.

  Shamus O’Brien’s was about as disreputable as taverns come. For the colonel it not only afforded a certain comfort in hiding, but also a hidden bedroom on the third floor. O’Brien, a wanted man from his days supplying weapons to the now peaceful Irish Republican Army, had assisted Henri numerous times in the past in escaping the London authorities after transactions of a less than legal origin.

  It was O’Brien who came to Henri’s table with a brown paper bag. He slid into the booth beside the world’s greatest antiquities thief and smiled. Without a word Henri slid over a tightly wrapped piece of white jewelers’ paper and O’Brien placed the paper bag over it.

  “I think you’ll find this covers my current bill,” Henri said.

  “I’m sure it does old friend. You have never failed to amaze your friends and influence your enemies.” O’Brien was a heavyset man who had lost all political desires for his once violent world. He reached under the paper bag and pulled the four small jewels away and then pocketed them.

  “Don’t you want to appraise them.”

  “Colonel, I have known many thieves in my life. I being one of them. You have never undervalued any payment to me. You are by far the most honorable thief I have ever dealt with. And that includes me.” O’Brien lifted a bottle and poured Henri a drink and then himself. “I’m curious Henri.”

  “Oh, oh, when an Irishman gets curious, people of the world get nervous,” Henri said with a sm
ile as he sipped his freshened drink.

  “It’s your eyes Henri. In stealing from idiots and top of the line thieves like Christies, you used to take immense pride. Now your eyes tell this old Irishman that you don’t enjoy it. Hell Darlin,’ I don’t think it was ever about the money or the artifacts or the bank accounts you have spread all over the world. It was because you could take from people you have always considered undeserving. If they owned it, you took it, even though I doubt you ever really desired it. Now, the light and thrill has gone from you, my boyo. It’s a woman, is it not, laddie?”

  “I miss the old Shamus, never asked questions, never pondered the honesty of others.”

  O’Brien swallowed the shot of whiskey in one gulp and then burped. Henri shook his head in mock distaste. “I’m far too old to care anymore, Henri old man. “If it is a woman, she’s stepping on your game. You just don’t have the desire anymore. The old Henri is gone.” Shamus poured himself another whiskey. “I believe I’ll miss the old Henri,” he drank and then stood up as he slid the paper bag over to Farbeaux.

  “There was once a dream of a woman, quite ordinary but magnificent. But I woke up from that dream, Shamus. She haunts another’s waking and sleeping hours now.” Henri smiled and then finished his drink.

  “Well Colonel, I wish you luck in all that you do, Laddie.” He leaned closer to Henri. “I suggest you use that new shaving kit in the bag and cut that beard off quickly.”

  Henri got a confused look on his face.

  “That’s what I mean Henri old boy, you’re losing your touch for the game. You think that beard is a disguise, but she tracked you down anyway.” Shamus laughed. It was a deep reverberating sound inside the small pub. He stepped back and waved at a small figure at the bar. “Maybe you haven’t woken completely from that dream old friend.”

  Henri looked up just as the woman hopped from the stool and approached.

  “Hello Henri.”

  Colonel Henri Farbeaux stared in shock at seeing the newly married Sarah McIntire Collins.

  * * *

  Sarah was sitting at the small round table that overlooked an alley through a sliver of a window. Her eyes moved from the window to the bathroom door where Henri was shaving. She heard the water shut off and the door opened. Usually she would have been terrified Henri would pull an old Farbeaux stunt by exiting the bathroom without a shirt, or worse, any clothing at all, but this time he was completely dressed and well-shaved.

  “Not interested.” Henri tossed a white towel into a chair.

  “Henri, we need your help with this,” Sarah said as she stood and faced Farbeaux.

  “My days of getting shot at and assisting those that would rather have me deep in the ground are over my little Sarah.” Henri poured two glasses of white wine. “Sorry, this is all I have.”

  “Kind of sacrilegious, wine in an Irish Pub isn’t it?” Sarah said taking the offered glass.

  “What can I say, I’m a rogue as you’ve said many times before. Now, I have a chartered plane to catch,” he said as he drank the glass of wine.

  Sarah placed the glass on the table and approached Henri. “Colonel, this is important. We think Matchstick may still be alive and lost out there. You’re the best tracker, outside of Jack and Carl, and the best investigator of historical mystery’s this side of Charlie Ellenshaw.”

  Farbeaux walked over to his suitcase and placed cufflinks in his expensive shirt sleeves. He shook his head. “I must admit to never having stolen a dead body before, and that is what happened you know. Your small alien was stolen by thieves. So, tell me little Sarah, what besides some unreliable DNA test says he’s alive. What kind of expertise do you think I have that could possibly assist you?”

  “Henri, I’m maybe the only person in the world that does have a higher opinion of you. Only because for some reason you have shown me a side of you that few have ever seen. If others have seen what I have, I think that low appraisal of your career might be different. Why only me Henri?”

  Farbeaux stopped fiddling with his cufflinks and fixed Sarah with a sad look. “If you have to ask Sarah, you’re not as perceptive as I have given you credit for all of these years.”

  Sarah swallowed hard and then picked up the glass of wine and drained it as Henri had done before. She knew why Niles had suggested Jack send her to London. For having just been married Sarah was feeling she had been used because the Frenchman always had a soft spot for her. She understood, but she felt like a jerk for playing along while knowing Henri saw things differently. She was hurting him, and Jack and even Niles may or may not care. Even for the sake of Matchstick, it was a step too far and it was just now that Sarah realized it. She sat hard into the chair.

  “I understand this ill-advised wedding has cost you your military rank and your career?” Henri asked as he shrugged into his suit jacket.

  Sarah didn’t answer, she just stared at the small tabletop.

  “I’ll admit my little Sarah, when I heard Jack was going to ask this of you, my heart sank. It has not resurfaced. I may be a lot of things, but a man that interferes with another’s marriage is not one of them.” Henri closed and latched his suitcase. “So, on that pitiful note, I bid you adieu.”

  “Henri, Director Compton said to give you this in hopes we can persuade you.” She held out the large, manila envelope.

  Farbeaux took a deep breath and then reluctantly accepted it. He broke the seal and peered inside. His brows rose.

  “The money is from Director Compton’s private family account. The complete pardon letter is from the President,” Sarah said as she bypassed her glass and chugged wine straight from the bottle. She swallowed and then watched as Henri read the Presidential pardon. When finished Farbeaux tossed the envelope full of cash back to Sarah who fumbled it and then caught it. However, he did pocket the pardon from the president. Then Henri did something Sarah had never expected him to do. He reached down and pulled her up from the chair and kissed her deeply. Sarah pushed back but then her lips met his more willingly. The Frenchman slowly released Sarah and she sat back down hard into the chair.

  “That is the only payment I have ever desired from you Sarah. Tell Director Compton this one is on me.”

  Sarah was stunned as she watched Henri lift his suitcase and turn for the door.

  “Well, I suppose you have a tracker and thief back on the payroll. What you do with him going forward is up to you, Mrs. Collins.”

  Sarah smiled and followed Henri out of the hidden room.

  * * *

  Mystery Deep, Exploratory Well # 3,

  sixty-eight miles off the coast of Louisiana

  As the large Sikorsky sat down on the helipad on the uppermost platform of the immense rig, Briggs was amazed to see men and women in varying uniforms and outfits. Some wore oilfield clothing complete with hardhats while others wore white, blue, or yellow laboratory coats. As the landing team secured the wheels of the giant helicopter, a large man in tan work clothing slid the crew door open and gestured for the congressman to follow him. Of the mysterious Mr. Sokol, he had already left the helicopter pad and was nowhere to be seen. The escort reached for the congressman’s briefcase, but Briggs held it tight and glared at the hard-hatted man.

  As Briggs was led to a steel staircase, he was surprised to see men working at drilling. The high derrick above their heads was for far more than window dressing. It looked as if this was a working drill platform. The congressman dealt with a lot of oil company contracts and had inspected many platform’s in his time as a congressman. He knew a working structure when he saw it. So, if the Mystery Deep platform was some form of ruse, it was an expensive one. The man led Briggs to a large square shaft five levels above the helipad. He pushed a button and two sliding doors opened. When they stepped in Briggs had to force his ear drums to ‘pop’ as what he now knew was an elevator, closed its doors and then became hermetically sealed. They started down. As they rode downward the congressman’s ears adjusted and he became more comfortable
. Then his eyes widened when he realized they had entered the elevator on the extreme bottom level of the platform. He felt they were down at least ten floors beneath the sea when the elevator stopped.

  “I have been in Louisiana politics for many years son, and know just about every drilling outfit in the Gulf, but why is it I have never heard of this operation before?”

  “Sir, I only work here. I’m sure your host will answer any questions you may have.” The man waited a moment and then the double doors slid open. He gestured for Briggs to step out.

  The congressman did not like the smirk on his escorts face. “You’re not coming?” he asked, holding tightly to his briefcase.

  “I am not cleared for the subsurface levels, sir. However, you will be met.”

  Briggs hesitantly stepped out. The doors closed and he heard the pneumatic wine as the elevator rose. He looked around and was astonished by the scene before him. The area in which he stood reminded him of an exceptionally large reception area. Only it was void of any administrative greeters or any welcoming accoutrements. The floor was polished steel and that reflected the wavy light from outside. He could see the Gulf of Mexico mere inches from the hardened glass of the rig. He stepped up and peered through the eight-inch-thick glass. He saw fish and divers as they welded bracing for the ongoing platform construction.

  When the hand touched his back, he jumped and turned. He was looking at a young beautiful woman dressed in a regular women’s business suit with pants and blazer. The dark-haired lady even wore a tie. She held out her hand to the congressman.

  “Congressman Briggs, I would like to welcome you aboard the Mystery Deep exploratory platform.” She waited for Briggs to accept the welcoming gesture, which he hesitantly did but not before admiring the beauty before him appreciatively with his roaming eyes. The woman, Russian or Ukrainian by her slight accent, finally managed to pull her manicured fingers from Briggs sweaty grip.