The Traitor's Gold, page 2
Present Day
Joe Mason laid punch after punch on the frayed leather that hung before him. He’d returned to his old gym for the morning, as much for the sweaty, noisy, aggressive atmosphere as anything else. These days, Mason usually worked out at Sally’s house – the place where his entire team was currently living until they worked out something better for themselves. But today, Mason felt like going back to basics.
He’d needed to clear his head, and for him this was the best way to do it. Wearing gloves, striking leather, sweating profusely on the threadbare blue mats – that was the way he worked his issues out. At least for the next few hours.
Mason ducked and weaved and punched. There were a lot of issues to work out. Yes, the team dynamic helped. The way they hunted down or transported treasures all around the world, the way they offered protection to paying organisations and corporations who wanted their relics, their prizes, protected as they conveyed them from place to place. Mason enjoyed the new life; the business that went under the name Quest Investigations was hectic and just getting busier. Sally was having to turn jobs away.
Mason pulled away from the bag and looked to his right. His teammate Roxy Banks stood there, hitting a bag with as much gusto as he. Mason had brought her along as a kind of treat, promising her some good, old-fashioned sweat and toil if she felt up to it. Roxy was a raven-haired, six-foot-two American, and what people termed a loose cannon. This was because of extensive inner issues of her own she was barely keeping from ruining her life. Mason remembered that, the first time he’d met her, he’d had to pull her out from between rum-soaked sheets. It helped her sleep, she’d said.
Mason got a look at himself in a mirror. He was rakish, kind of wiry, not too thin but not too bulky. Mason was often underestimated, with his sandy blond hair, blue eyes and a face that didn’t show the hell he’d been through during his life. He was clean-looking and amiable and liked to fit in.
Sometimes, Mason wished the issues that had once almost ruined his life stood out more on his body, on his mien, but that wasn’t to be. There was barely a scratch on him. All the trials and tribulations existed in his head.
Every damn day.
Roxy saw him looking at himself and stopped work, grinning. ‘Looking at it won’t change it, Joe,’ she said. ‘Like you said to me – you gotta put in the work.’
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘No matter how hard I try, it never changes. No definition. No obvious muscle. I guess I’m just me.’
Mason was strong, but it was an underlying strength. Nothing showed on the surface. He watched Roxy now, a woman who struggled silently with her own demons and always spoke her mind.
‘You ready to call it a morning?’
‘Are you kidding? I’ve been hankering for a caramel macchiato and blueberry muffin for the last hour,’ she said.
‘Unless you wanna go one on one for a few minutes?’ He grinned.
Roxy could never pass over the chance to get a few good-natured hits in on Mason. Their relationship was professional in the field and in the office, but there was still that sense of fun and rivalry and good, old-fashioned mischief between them they never overlooked. Roxy stepped up to him now.
‘Get in the ring, Babyface.’
Mason slipped through the ropes and did a few practice jabs as he waited for Roxy. Soon, the American was in his face.
‘You’re going on your back,’ she said.
‘Not my kind of position,’ he replied.
‘Yeah, you just wish it was.’
She jabbed him in the ribs for good measure and then backed away. Mason tapped his gloves together. They circled each other warily, and then Roxy came in fast, double-jabbed at his head and followed it up with a cross to his ribs. Mason covered up safely, searching for an opening. When Roxy came in again, he threw a hook to the side of her head, the momentum pushing her sideways. As she staggered, he stepped in quickly, jabbing and crossing, until she backed her way into a corner. Once there, she covered up, but then realised her error and started attacking, trying to fight her way out.
Mason let her throw punches, ducking and weaving. He wanted her to wear herself out, but Roxy Banks was far too wily for that. She knew the game, had been trained to fight and fight hard all her life. She slipped around him with some fancy footwork and threw a jab at the side of his head.
Mason feigned hurt. She smiled and stepped in. He threw a cross to her midriff that doubled her over. She cursed him. As one, they backed away from each other, stepping lightly from foot to foot, eyes narrowed and still searching for a gap, an opening. They were fully concentrated, didn’t see or hear the men and women working out, the old timers with their tired but watchful eyes offering suggestions. It all came down to the fight and the focus and the very next move.
Which was made by Mason.
He stepped in, threw a feint, stepped around and clouted Roxy over the head. She grimaced and punished his ribcage. They came together, resting on each other, panting and sweating, face to face.
‘You had enough?’ she asked.
‘Never give in,’ he puffed a little. ‘Never surrender.’
‘I’ll buy you a blueberry muffin.’
‘That’ll do.’ He pushed her away, turned his back, and stepped out of the ring. Roxy followed, jumping down to the mats. Mason showed her where the showers were, grabbed his towel from his battered locker and spent two minutes showering before towelling off and then dressing in jeans and a T-shirt. It was a lovely, warm July day outside and he was looking forward to spending a little time walking in the sunshine.
He met Roxy back at the lockers.
‘You ready?’ he asked, noting her damp, dark locks and fresh, reddish face.
‘You’re buying,’ she said.
‘Why the hell am I buying?’
‘Because it’s your treat. You told me. You said, “Hey Rox, come out with me today. I have a treat for you.” Remember?’
Mason grumbled. The truth was, he’d wanted a little company and thought Roxy would enjoy the workout more than the others. Sally was currently too interested in searching through her father’s old house and sorting reams of old files and papers and ornaments and paintings and…well, everything an older man might accumulate. It was a tough job, and there was a lot to go through, and every moment she was there reminded her of his death not so long ago. Quaid was engrossed in one of his favourite activities, taking his time buying sentimental old stuff that might include cookbooks and car manuals. He was also trying to ignore several recent calls from Anya, one of his old flames who’d already proven very useful to Mason and his crew. Anya was a lovely woman who gave off a kind of older Lara Croft vibe, and Mason did not know why Quaid would want to ghost her. But then Quaid was an odd bird, always living in the past. And then there was Luke Hassell, the New Yorker who was always brooding, always going over certain events in his tragic life that had shaped him – he thought – for the worse. Hassell’s issues were ones that were not easily overcome, not with years’ worth of well-meaning therapy.
‘I’ll buy,’ he said to keep the peace and preceded her onto the street.
It was only when Mason and Roxy were fully ensconced in their booth, syrupy coffee for Roxy, proper black and piping hot for Mason, plates with huge blueberry muffins in front of them, that Mason thought to check his phone. Unlike many these days, his phone was not an attachment to his arm, and he didn’t enjoy carrying it around with him. He reached down to the gym bag between his legs and spent a while fishing for it.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I have three missed calls from the house.’
Roxy looked up, black eyes flashing. ‘You’re kidding? Can’t we spend just a little time alone together?’
If it had been anyone else, Mason might have wondered if there was a deeper meaning there. But not with Roxy Banks. If Roxy wanted you to know something, she’d give it to you directly, right between the eyes. So there was nothing deeper here, just Roxy speaking her mind and wanting to spend a little time away from the house.
‘You think I should call them back? I mean, we’ll be home in an hour. What can be so urgent?’
‘Could be a new job.’ Roxy shrugged. ‘Could be Sally, all excited about a new relic and some research she’s doing. Or maybe Anya’s come across from Italy and married Quaid.’
Mason choked back his laughter. ‘Can you imagine that? The way they argue.’
‘Did you used to argue with your wife?’
It was a blunt, typically unsentimental question, and it caught Mason off-guard. His ex-wife, Hannah, had always been good to him. They never argued, not even when Mason was beset by his demons and couldn’t confide in her. In the end, she’d realised she couldn’t help him no matter how hard she tried and the two had drifted, respectfully, apart.
Mason bit into his muffin and chewed slowly as he formed an answer. ‘Never did and still don’t,’ he said and added, ‘We haven’t spoken in a while.’
‘Is there a reason for that?’
‘No, just life. Work. The things we do.’
Roxy finally appeared to notice it wasn’t Mason’s most comfortable subject and pointed at his phone. ‘Might be best calling them back.’
Mason had been feeling the same way. He reached out for the phone but, at that moment, it startled him by ringing. He checked the caller display.
‘Sally,’ he said and answered it. ‘Mason here.’
‘Joe. Joe! Thank God I finally got hold of you. Don’t you check your phone?’
‘What’s so urgent?’
‘Oh, so you do check your phone? We’re going to have to come up with some protocol for answering. For the team.’
Mason was tempted to say, You’re the boss. He was tempted to say a few things, but managed to hold his tongue.
‘Is there a problem?’ Roxy asked loudly, her voice ringing out in the coffee shop.
‘I’d say. Quaid’s gone.’
Mason frowned and gripped the phone tighter. ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’
‘He got a call. From Ireland. Something terrible. Then Quaid got all desperate and…well, he just went?’
‘To Ireland?’ Roxy’s voice rose a few octaves, making a few people in the shop glance over at their table.
‘What happened?’ Mason asked.
‘Like I said, he got a call. We’re also headed to Ireland. Well, to the airport and then Ireland.’
Mason frowned even harder. He shook his head to clear the wool. ‘What, wait, you mean you’re all headed to Ireland now? What the hell for?’
And now that he knew she was on the move, Mason could detect a rushed quality about Sally, as if she was hurrying around.
‘You know Quaid has a lot of contacts across the globe? Good contacts. Well, someone he’s really close to has been kidnapped. Quaid’s fraught with worry.’
Mason shot to his feet, draining the coffee. ‘You’re with Hassell?’
‘I am.’
‘Do we know much about this person?’ Mason asked, phone to his ear as he strode out of the coffee shop.
‘Only that it’s a woman, an ex-flame of Quaid’s, and that she’s a treasure hunter. She hunts for important relics all over the globe.’
‘So, no note? No ransom demand? No phone call? How do we know she’s been kidnapped?’
‘Quaid is sure of it. Let me explain…’
Mason stood in the street, getting his bearings, and then started walking briskly towards their car. He was acutely aware of Roxy close by, clinging to his side like a limpet.
‘And he’s gone all the way to Ireland, based on what?’ he interrupted.
‘He got a call from her, all breathless, saying men were in her house and searching for something. After that, nothing. She’s not answering her phone or emails. Quaid has more information.’
Mason didn’t want to voice the obvious – that she might be dead. He wasn’t the type to tempt fate. Instead, he opened the car door and leapt inside, key in hand, and started the engine. Soon, he was cutting through the traffic as best he could.
‘We’re on our way,’ he said. Quaid, part of their little family, was in trouble. They would not let him down.
‘We’re already at the airport. We’ll meet you here.’
Mason nodded and ended the call. Roxy, in the passenger seat, gave him a look.
‘Put your damn foot down,’ she said.
Chapter 2
Mason and Roxy met Sally and Hassell at the airport and boarded the plane. During the flight, Mason read up on Dublin from the in-flight brochure: ‘Located on the east coast of Ireland, Dublin is the rich gateway to the stunning landscapes and allures of the Emerald Isle. In Dublin, music and pubs infuse its lively and diverse culture, with folk, rock and pop artists playing inside and on street corners. With a long history, a deep culture and a modern outlook, the tourist or locals can stroll from museums and galleries to up-to-date boutiques and malls in just a few hundred yards, or take longer trips to nearby mountains and seaside towns. With its friendly people, its colourful streets and districts and its unique entertainment, Dublin adds up to one exceptional, memorable experience.’
But Mason wasn’t here to sightsee; he was here to help his friend. When they landed, Mason checked his phone.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘We’re at least an hour behind him. What the hell is going on?’ Roxy said.
Mason’s phone rang. They were just outside the airport, waiting in line for a taxi.
‘Quaid here.’ He spoke in clipped tones and then reeled off the address of a coffeehouse in central Dublin. ‘Get here as fast as you can.’
Mason eyed the long queue, thought fuck that, and stepped out of line, ordering an Uber instead. The wait time was seven minutes. He stood for a moment, but then a light rain started to fall, rapidly coating the pavements and the road so that they looked slick and black, and he and Roxy stepped back, sheltering under an overhang and watching the now miserable taxi line shuffle its way forward. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and Mason was aware that he carried no luggage, not even an overnight bag. They had hopped straight on the plane from the gym, and still held on to their gym bags, useless though they now were.
The Uber took them to the correct address and soon Mason, Sally, Hassell and Roxy were climbing out into a light shower, staring through the darkly tinted windows of a ritzy-looking coffee shop. Mason made his way to the door and pushed his way inside. Roxy and the others followed. A hand was raised in greeting. Together, they made their way to the back of the shop, where, at a round table, their friend sat.
‘We couldn’t have made the trip together?’ Roxy grumped, taking a seat.
‘That was my fault,’ Quaid said. ‘When we couldn’t get hold of you at the gym, I panicked. Grabbed the first flight I could get. I’ve managed a quick recce, seen nothing, and then thought it would be best to wait for you.’
Quaid was fifty-one, an ex-British army officer, a superb cook, a man who took his time to get things right but, due to his extensive connections, a man who could make anything happen, anywhere. He was rooted in the past, found it hard to trust modern technology, and had a daughter somewhere whom he never spoke of. Quaid had sparkling eyes and grey sideburns on lustrous black hair, a fact that had often spurred Roxy into asking if he dyed it. The best answer she ever received was a huff, the worst a raised middle finger.
‘Your friend?’ Mason didn’t say much more as the server came over and took their order.
‘Yes. Luciane.’
Roxy coughed. ‘Can I ask, how many lady friends do you have ensconced around the world?’
Quaid’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, more than a few.’
‘Are they all as mad as Anya?’ Hassell asked. Hassell had stayed with Quaid and Anya for a week in Italy.
Quaid shrugged. ‘I do tend to attract a certain type.’
‘So give us the full story.’ Mason sat back in his chair, conscious that Quaid and the others looked fretful, impatient and uncomfortable.
‘Luciane Harlow lives here in Dublin.’ Quaid had decided to give them the full picture, which Mason was pleased about. ‘She’s, like I said, an old friend. I first met her during my army days when I came across her a fair bit. We met, we talked, we helped each other out with information. Back then, she was a copper.’
‘And now?’ Sally asked.
Mason watched the brunette carefully, noting the perpetual blue tips to the edges of her hair were still lighter these days. Sally was what might be called a wealthy rebel. Born into privilege, she had shunned it, leaving her father to go her own way and, occasionally, live on the street. When her father was murdered during their search of the Vatican, during which they’d vied with a madman called Marduk to get hold of the Vatican Book of Secrets, Sally had only recently returned home to give him a second chance. Now she had inherited the family fortune and was trying to put it to good use by forming Quest Investigations and searching for relics all around the world, something her father used to do. Sally didn’t yet know whether she was honouring his memory or doing her own thing, but she was sure she was exactly where she wanted to be.
Quaid leaned forward, getting Mason’s attention. ‘Now?’ he repeated. ‘She’s an expert in certain countries’ histories.’
Mason waited as Quaid took a deep breath.
‘Luciane is a brilliant historian. A methodical researcher. A finder of secrets. She turned to this job after getting injured in the Garda and deciding to leave. The years have found her knee-deep in research, leading to some quite amazing finds.’
‘Have you spoken recently?’ Sally asked; a shrewd question. The answer might reveal what Luciane was currently working on. ‘I mean, apart from the rushed call.’
‘Yes,’ Quaid replied. ‘That’s what worries me even more. About a week ago, she told me she had a big secret, a new idea. I didn’t push, but she was irrepressible, unable to keep it to herself. She told me she was working on a dusty old legend, the legend of some ancient Chinese casino that vanished into the Gobi Desert. The first of its kind.’
