chance that they would lead back to him. The jewelry and the gold could be broken apart and sold for the gems and metal with little risk. He expected to net two million pounds from them, enough to pay off his debts and fund his ultimate plan.
But the golden hand and the manuscript he would keep. Although Orr’s accomplices hadn’t known it, the document was the most valuable item they had taken from the vault. In fact, it was arguably the single most valuable object on the face of the earth. The owner must not have realized what it contained, or he would never have tried to auction it.
Orr did know what it contained. He had checked it himself while Russo and Manzini had been fawning over the gold and the jewels. To the layman, the most important line, heading a section at the end of the document, looked like a string of random Greek letters, but it confirmed the document’s importance. ?????????????Y??Y??Y?? Y?????????????????Y???Y??Y??Y????.
The manuscript was a medieval codex transcribed from a scroll written two hundred years before the birth of Christ. It contained an ancient treatise by antiquity’s greatest scientist and engineer, the man who kept the Romans at bay for two years through his ingenuity alone, a Greek native of Syracuse named Archimedes.
The codex was written without spaces or lowercase letters, making it tedious to translate, so the manuscript’s complete contents were unknown. But that one line convinced Orr that the manuscript at his feet held the secret to the location of a treasure worth untold billions.
Orr climbed into the raft and, for the second time that night, pressed the button of a detonator. The explosive charges blasted open two breaches in the boat’s hull. He rowed away but kept close to confirm that the boat was gone before he made his way to land. As Orr watched the boat sink beneath the placid sea, the translation of Archimedes’ text flashed in front of his eyes as clearly as if it were written on the water’s surface.
He who controls this map controls the riches of Midas.
WEDNESDAY
ONE
Present Day
“E xcuse me,” Carol Benedict said as she raced to the Starbucks counter. “You’ve got my drink.”
The man who was holding her latte already had the lid off, ready to put sugar into her pristine cup of coffee. After her daily six-mile run, no one-but no one-got between her and her caffeine.
The man, a young guy wearing a Redskins cap and a dopey expression, looked down at the coffee and back at her.
“You sure?”
She smiled at him. “Did you order a tall double-shot latte?”
He shook his head and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry, seven a.m. is early for me,” he said. He put the lid back and handed it to her.
“No problem,” Carol said, and opened the door to a blast of heat.
By the end of her ten-minute walk back to her apartment, Carol was drenched with sweat. Washington was known for its summer humidity, but Carol had never experienced it until now, her first year taking graduate-level summer classes at Georgetown. She was astounded that it could be so muggy this early in the morning in the middle of June, but her moisture-wicking jogging top and shorts did an admirable job of keeping her from being miserable.
Carol wasn’t a breakfast person, one of her strategies for staying thin. When she entered her one-bedroom apartment, she cranked up the AC, turned on the news, and drained the last of her latte in between her stretching exercises. In the shower, she turned the water as cold as it would go. The cooling spray made her shiver with goose bumps and even get a little light-headed.
She picked a tank top and shorts and put her hair in a ponytail, but she’d have to put a sweater in her bag for class. The classrooms at school were always overly air-conditioned.
A knock came at her door just as she was putting on her shoes. She stood up too fast at the surprising sound, and the headrush nearly made her keel over. She steadied herself against the bureau. The feeling didn’t go away, but it subsided enough for her to walk.
Who could be at her door at 7:30 in the morning?
She peered through the peephole and saw a white man in a suit, stocky frame, not much taller than she was.
“What is it?” she asked without opening the door.
“Ms. Benedict, I’m Detective Wilson with the Arlington Police Department. I need to speak with you.”
“Can you please show me your identification?” Living alone, Carol had learned to be cautious.
“Of course.” He held up an open wallet displaying a badge and an ID with the Arlington PD logo. It looked all right to her, so she swung the door open. She suddenly felt unreasonably fatigued, so she leaned against the doorjamb, her head swimming. If she was getting sick, she’d have to power through it. Missing class could hurt her GPA.
“What’s this about, Detective?” She really had no idea why the police would be here. She hadn’t gotten so much as a parking ticket in her entire life.
Wilson, who had a thatchy unibrow, stared at her with an unreadable expression. “It’s about your sister, Stacy.”
A shot of adrenaline cleared Carol’s head.
“Stacy? Oh, my God! Has something happened?” They had talked just last night, and Stacy seemed fine.
“There’s a hostage situation at her hotel in Seattle. I need to take you down to the station, where we can coordinate with the Seattle police.”
“Is she hurt? Is she okay?”
“She’s unharmed for now, but you’ll need to come with me. I’ll explain the situation on the way.”
“Sure. Sure. Let me get my purse.” She snatched up her keys and her phone, threw them into her bag, and locked the door behind her. Her heart was thudding at the thought of her sister being held at gunpoint.
As she went down the stairs, she stumbled and Wilson caught her.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look pale.”
“I just feel so tired all of a sudden.” Her vision was getting blurrier by the minute.
Wilson held her arm the rest of the way to the parking lot, and she was glad he did, because her knees buckled twice.
Instead of an unmarked car, Wilson steered her to a white panel van. Another man jumped out of the passenger seat and slid the rear door open. Carol’s stomach lurched when she saw that he was wearing a Redskins cap.
It was the man who had taken her latte at Starbucks. The dopey expression had been replaced by the dead-eyed stare of a cobra assessing its prey.
She sucked in a breath to scream, but Wilson’s hand went over her mouth.
“I see you remember my partner,” he said into her ear.
She tried to struggle, but her arms and legs felt like over-cooked spaghetti, and her mind was getting cloudier by the second.
Wilson shoved her into the van, and the door slid closed behind her. He snapped cuffs onto her wrists and ankles as the other man started the van and drove off. She tried to scream again, but it came out as a weak mewl. Her tongue lolled in her mouth as if it were coated in syrup.
