Black Scorpion (31 page)

“So that task ended up falling on his son Solomon. More Sunday school stuff.”

“Not according to what I was able to decipher in the early parts of Josephus's writings summarizing the expedition. ‘He gave of gold,'” Scarlett quoted. “That's from
Chronicles
. And it implies God didn't just provide detailed plans for the sanctuary he wanted built, He also provided
the gold
that made up at least some of that sanctuary's contents.”

“Origins of this treasure of the Gods…”

“Josephus's writings suggest that David gave only the plans to the temple to Solomon, but hid the actual treasure until the temple was complete and ready to accept the three objects in question and everything else it was built to safeguard.”

“But the temple was destroyed and all its contents looted. By Nebuchadnezzar, I think.”

“No,” Scarlett corrected. “Nebuchadnezzar sacked and looted the
second
Temple of Solomon. The original temple, built by Solomon with plans passed from David, was destroyed centuries earlier by the Egyptian pharaoh Shishaq, also known as Sheshonk the First, who ‘took away the treasures of the house of the Lord.' Quoting
Chronicles
again, as opposed to Josephus.”

“Keep going,” Michael urged, after another surge of turbulence had subsided.

“Speaking historically, it wasn't long after the Egyptians sacked the temple that the Assyrians sacked the Egyptians—in nine hundred eleven BC, to be specific.” Scarlett returned her gaze to Michael's shirt, again picturing the medallion beneath it. “Remember the markings on the relic, what I told you the first time you showed it to me?”

“You said the language was Phrygian,” Michael recalled. “And that the initials stood for King Mita, who ruled Phrygia, what's now Turkey, in the 8th century BC.”

“Mita accumulated vast stores of gold and became the wealthiest and most powerful ruler of his time. He also struck a truce with Sargon of Assyria, accepting great riches as a token of Sargon's desire to avoid war. So what if…”

“Part of those riches was this treasure of the Gods plundered by the Egyptians,” Michael completed.

“King Mita takes the gold and melts it down so he can forge different treasures of his own making, treasures forged from gold provided, according to Josephus's writings, by God Himself.”

Michael traced the outline of his medallion beneath his shirt, feeling its warmth against his chest.

“And there's something else you need to hear.”

 

SEVENTY-ONE

T
HE
C
ITATION

“Alexander the Great,” Scarlett continued. “His travels took him to Phrygia, Gordian specifically, in search of the famed Knot which he ultimately severed. According to Josephus's writings compiled from the reports of that order of loyalists, though, he had come there in search of something else entirely.”

“The treasure plundered from the temple of Solomon?”

“No, Michael, because that treasure no longer existed. Mita supposedly melted it down, remember? And Alexander came to Phrygia in search of whatever items Mita had forged from it. Came away empty and died not too long afterward. You realize what all this means, don't you? It's proof that Caesar really did possess your relic, proof that Alexander the Great was after it, too, and at least a suggestion of where it actually comes from. That was as far as I got in the manuscript before the massacre,” Scarlett told him, not bothering to elaborate further. “But what if the man in black came looking for what I found? What if he's after the treasure of the Gods? Why, though, why kill all those people for a
manuscript
?… Michael?

He heard her but didn't respond, his mind elsewhere.

*   *   *

It had been the night before another massacre at his own home when his father slipped into his room and took a seat at his bedside while Michael laid in bed reading a book.

“Hello, Papa.”

“It's time to show you something special, Michele,” Vito Nunziato said, opening his hand to reveal a gold medallion. Even weathered with age, it was the most beautiful thing the boy had ever seen. “I found this medallion one day off Isla de Levanzo when I was little older than you. It is the treasure of kings, Michele. There are men in Sicily, scum really, who steal and murder for money and power. But they will never be kings.”

With that, Vito pressed the medallion into his son's hand, Michael taking it as if he never wanted to let it go.

“What are those words, Papa?”

“
Somnia, aude, vince.
Latin. It means, ‘Dream, Dare, Win.' Words to live by. Someday the medallion will be yours and will inspire you to become a king, not another mafia pig … or farmer. No matter what happens, when that day comes, you must never part with it.”

With that, his father had hugged Michael for one of the few times the boy would ever remember.

“Be a king, Michele,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Be a king.”

*   *   *

“What are you thinking about, Michael?” he heard Scarlett ask him, but he wasn't ready to return to the present yet.

Had his father somehow sensed what was coming? he wondered, as another wave of turbulence shook the Citation. Could his choosing the very night before the massacre to show his son his cherished medallion been nothing more than coincidence?

Michael remembered his father's hug, the gesture unusual not just for its rarity, but also for something else. He remembered Vito Nunziato trembling through the embrace. As if he sensed, even knew, what was in the offing, just as he knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it, because it was fated just as was Michael's own destiny.

The medallion had not helped Vito Nunziato become anything more than the farmer he was when he died, so poor in the end that he nearly sold his cherished relic to a broker to save the farm he'd built for his family. So why had he been chosen to find it in the first place?

Maybe he was meant to find it to give to me.

If his father had not shown the relic to him that fateful night in the farmhouse, if Michael had not lifted the relic from Vito Nunziato's drawer the next morning, his family's killers would've found it and who knows how different his life would have been.

“My father,” Michael answered finally. “I was thinking about my father.”

“Your life changed entirely, you became a multimillionaire the moment that relic became yours,” Scarlett told him, eyes boring into his. “Because you've been chosen, Michael, chosen by forces we can't even come close to comprehending. I know this all sounds crazy, but it's not, not according to the legacy of your relic. It's invaluable, priceless. And now we've got actual proof of its origins. And there's something else that separates the treasure of the Gods from other artifacts of lore.”

“What's that?”

“Unlike those that rise exclusively from Judeo-Christian teachings, what could very well be the treasure of the Gods is referenced both in Islam and Chinese. The prophet Mohammed writes in the Koran that one day ‘the river Euphrates dries up to unveil a mountain of gold.' And the Chinese have a legend about something called the Jade Treasure. During an ancient time when seven Chinese kingdoms battled for supremacy, the king of one received a piece of jade that was different from all others. According to the legend, it shined in the dark and could heat an entire room when it was cold or cool it when it was hot. ‘You must always guard it,' the stranger who bequeathed the jade to the king advised, ‘because this is a magnificent priceless treasure.' Sound familiar?”

“Talk to me about the dig site,” Michael said, still tracing the shape of his medallion and needing to change the subject, at least for the moment. “About what happened to that manuscript.”

Scarlett shrugged, shifting uneasily in the confines of her seat belt. “I don't know. It could have been destroyed, along with everything else.”

“Not if it's what drew those killers there. If they came for it, it's a safe assumption they left with it. The Romanian authorities reported finding absolutely nothing, as if the camp had never existed at all. The scene had been sanitized.”

Scarlett shivered. “I can't get it out of my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see the gunmen, the bodies, all the blood. They were my friends, Michael, my
friends
! And there's something else. In the village, where I went after, more gunmen came looking for me. They wore masks that looked like skulls, led by a man dressed all in black wearing a veil instead. He called himself—”

“Black Scorpion,” Michael finished for her.

 

SEVENTY-TWO

L
AS
V
EGAS,
N
EVADA

“Interesting choice for a meeting,” Naomi Burns said, approaching FBI special agent Del Slocumb in the lobby of the Mob Museum, one of Vegas's more recent tourist attractions.

“I thought it to be especially fitting,” Slocumb returned, smiling tightly. He looked around them. “Familiar territory for you, given your association with Michael Tiranno.”

“Some courts would consider that grounds for a harassment suit, Agent, given that your accusations have no foundation in fact.”

“They do now, Ms. Burns.”

Located in the former and very first federal building in Las Vegas, the building was listed on both the Nevada and National Registers of Historic Places. It contained the very courtroom where one of fourteen national hearings to expose organized crime to America took place in the years 1950 and 1951. The museum's builders were able to maintain the building's original neo-classical architectural style, period perfect for the age it sought to replicate while providing an authentic view of the Mob's impact on Las Vegas history and the imprint left on America. The Mob Museum, also known as the National Museum of Organized Crime and Law Enforcement, prided itself on bringing true stories to life in a bold, contemporary style via engaging exhibits and multisensory experiences with high-tech theater presentations, interactive displays, themed environments, and authentic, iconic artifacts.

“Let's talk as we walk,” Slocumb resumed.

The lobby lighting was warm and ambient, the bulk of it inside the main display area beyond trained toward the wall-mounted pictures and exhibits staged inside glass cases with the spray of bulbs focused out instead of in. Naomi walked slightly behind Slocumb, letting the agent dictate the pace and at least their initial destination.

That destination turned out to be an exhibit room marked
MOB BUSTERS
. Slocumb veered toward it from memory, not needing to read the signs. The interior featured both wall-mounted and floor displays of photographs and artifacts highlighting the war on organized crime undertaken by the likes of J. Edgar Hoover, Estes Kefauver, and Eliot Ness.

“A man can dream, I suppose,” Naomi commented, as she surveyed the scenery.

“So can a woman, Counselor. Of not going down when I nail her boss, anyway.”

“I appreciate the concern, Agent.”

“Then you'll appreciate this even more: We're not here right now and the conversation we're having never took place.”

Slocumb spoke from beneath a mural of Estes Kefauver holding one of his many hearings into organized crime, making it seem as if the agent was actually standing even with the dais on which the Kefauver Committee sat. A dull patch of light seemed to shade Slocumb's face in even more shadows than usual, shadows that dug themselves into the furrowed lines marking both his cheeks.

“Okay,” Naomi said suspiciously.

“I assume I don't have to review the RICO statutes for you, that once I nail your boss it'll be easy to make a case for you as being connected to a criminal enterprise. This meeting is your one chance to use your get-out-of-jail-for-free card. Cooperate with me and you'll have a life and career after I put Michael Tiranno away.”

“Michael Tiranno is
my
career, Agent.”

Slocumb shook his head, making a face like he'd swallowed something bitter. “You know what I hate? When innocent people go down with the likes of your boss. They all sound exactly like you at first. Loyal to a fault and convinced we'll never be able to make our case. By the time they realize they've fucked up, the deal's off the table and their get-out-of-jail-for-free card has expired. So we're not here today and I never made this offer to you.” Slocumb paused briefly. “But here's what I'm putting on the table: Turn state's evidence, come clean with everything you know about Michael Tiranno's past and illicit dealings, and you walk away from this free and still a member of the bar with a future.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I can't tell you about something that doesn't exist. And you seem to forget that we're talking about a man whose heroism resulted in having a street named after him. Or maybe you don't care he saved the city of Las Vegas from terrorists.”

“It takes one to know one, Ms. Burns.”

“So now Michael Tiranno is a terrorist, on top of everything else you allege?”

“Ever since your client arrived in this city, sand storms have been replaced by shit storms. I don't believe that's a coincidence any more than I believe your client is traveling right now on ordinary business. Michael Tiranno is a cancer that's infected this city. And like all cancers, sometimes the diagnosis comes too late, after the infestation has become so pervasive that there's no treatment.”

“So you're the cure, is that it?”

“Where's your boss, Counselor?”

“En route home now.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

“The question was inevitable. I thought I could save us both some time.”

“Like twenty years federal time, maybe. I figure that's what you're looking at just for being Michael Tiranno's CEO.”