The Antarctic Forgery Read online

  It had the consequence of alienating him from many of the people whom he considered peers. After the events in Pueblo, and the Viking ‘debacle’ as some in academia called it, he’d found it difficult to even get his research into peer review. Most journals refused to respond to his queries, and those that did were highly critical of his findings. The most common refrain seemed to be a variation on “This isn’t how we have always perceived history,” followed by virtually plugging their ears and humming to themselves to avoid allowing any new thought to enter the landscape.

  Which, Kotler had to admit, did bring into question the purpose and point of peer review. If it was only there to perpetuate established perspectives, was it really beneficial? It was a point he’d argued for years with little success and a great deal of vitriolic rebuttal from academics and researchers, and it had done little to help his case and get him into publications.

  Now, however, his work was featured prominently in popular publications outside of academic circles, as well as on television and even on the talk show circuit. While in California, he’d already done three prominent daytime news shows, each with an international audience, and each completely smitten with his work. He’d even done one of the late-night shows, sharing a sofa with Tom Cruise, just off of filming the latest Jack Reacher film.

  It baffled Kotler that Cruise was playing a character described as six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty pounds, with a 50-inch chest. But the films were as fun as the books, so the incongruity was forgivable. He opted not to bring it up during the interview.

  Despite his growing popularity with the public, Kotler was sometimes relegated into the same bin as those experts featured on programs such as Ancient Aliens. He worried, at first, about any stigma that might cling to him from that, but it passed, particularly once he’d found himself back in the good graces of at least some of his peers. Many who had shunned him before had suddenly come to respect him, inquiring as to his next television appearance, and asking if there might be space for them on any of the projects with which Kotler was associated.

  Popularity has its perks, Kotler thought.

  Of course, it wasn't just his rise in pop culture. He was gaining more respect from the scientific community as he led the way to the discovery of new aspects of ancient culture. His most recent work, assisting Dr. John Graham in uncovering the secrets of a lost Mayan temple, had helped bring him back into the academic fold a bit. It didn't hurt that the story was incredibly high profile, thanks in part to the city being discovered by a young boy named Henry Eagan, who had found it by using Google Earth, of all things. It was also likely that saving Dr. Graham's life had some goodwill associated with it.

  It was a strange world out there, and Kotler had the privilege of helping to uncover it. Academia and science were starting to thaw a bit. He was regaining some respect and credibility where he felt it mattered most.

  And then there was his work with Historic Crimes.

  The newest division of the FBI had gotten its start, in part, because of the events that took place in Pueblo. Not the Viking discovery per se, but rather the terrorist action that had taken place at the historic site. Those events were off the record and confidential, of course. Kotler couldn’t reveal the presence of a dirty bomb on US soil, nor the involvement of a dethroned US billionaire in supporting a terrorist cell, nor the near-miss nuclear detonation that nearly took out NORAD. Those details were still sealed as part of the FBI’s investigation.

  Though those would be fantastic stories for his readers.

  Maybe one day he’d be able to write about them, to unveil the true and sensational stories he’d been witness to. It was the FBI’s call, really. For the moment he’d settle for sharing the historical details and discoveries resulting from these cases, which were sensational enough on their own.

  Kotler was engrossed in writing about a few of these details when someone placed an envelope on the table next to him. He looked up to see a man move quickly around the corner, out of sight. He didn't get a good look at the man and didn't immediately recognize him. Perhaps one of the hotel staff, in a hurry?

  Kotler picked up the envelope.

  Sealed.

  He glanced around and spotted an unused butter knife among the utensils he'd used for breakfast. He slid this into the top of the envelope and slit it along its crease, then opened the envelope and took out the single page, unfolding it.

  Dan,

  You’re wasting time. Again. I’m starting to think you’re not looking closely enough. Maybe you don’t want to find me? I could be hidden in plain sight.

  Kisses,

  GM

  Kotler looked up quickly, glancing around at every face nearby. He stood from the table and sprinted to the spot where the man had turned the corner and disappeared. There was no sign of him, and Kotler went back to his table. There were very few people in the lobby or in the restaurant at that time of morning. The breakfast crowd had thinned as the morning wound on, many of them leaving to attend the convention or to tour San Francisco. It was one of the reasons Kotler liked this spot, where he could have some quiet and private time while still being connected to a bit of human activity all around him.

  He was in plain view of a large window that looked out upon a sloped San Francisco street. A cable car chimed and went by as he watched. No one outside seemed to be paying him any attention.

  “Is everything alright, Dr. Kotler?” the waitress asked.

  Startled, Kotler looked up at her, then recovered himself. “Yes, everything’s fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “Can you please charge this to my room?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Kotler nodded, and took out his wallet, removing a twenty and leaving it as a tip. He gathered his iPad, shoving it into his small shoulder bag, and quickly moved away toward the elevators.

  He stopped just before pushing the button.

  Looking around again, ensuring no one was watching, he ducked into the stairwell and sprinted down to the basement level, which opened to the hotel's parking garage. He waited there for a moment, then took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor—one floor above his own. He then took the stairs down and glanced out of the stairwell door to see if he could spot anyone in the hall. It seemed clear.

  These were paranoid measures, he knew. Better to be paranoid, though, than to find himself once again bound and stuffed into an SUV on his way to some hidden holding cell.

  That had become something of a thing for him. He wasn’t thrilled about it.

  He quickly made his way to his room, inserted the key card, and then cautiously pushed the door open and peered inside, making sure no one was waiting for him. That tended to happen as well.

  It was an elaborate path, but the letter had rattled him. Not the content, though he knew the meaning behind all of it. The initials—it was the initials that set him on edge.

  GM.

  Gail McCarthy—a woman who had bested Kotler on multiple occasions, usually ending with him being held captive and her flying away in a private jet. Kotler's partner at the FBI, Agent Roland Denzel, was leading the efforts to track Gail and her vast smuggling network. He would want to hear any new information.

  This would qualify. But for the moment, Kotler wasn’t ready to involve him. He needed to think. There was something to this note, something beyond the obvious, and Kotler wanted to figure it out before calling in the Feds.

  Kotler locked the door and put the bolt in place. For extra measure, he picked up one of the wooden chairs from the small, round table near the window. He wedged the chair under the handle of the room's only door.

  He sat now at the small desk, with the curtains drawn, and turned on the lamp to get a better look at the note.

  Such a strange thing, to get a handwritten note.

  He’d gotten messages from Gail before, usually cryptic emails that couldn’t be traced. This was the first handwritten note, and there was something about it that bugged Kotler.

  He woul
d have to call Denzel, he knew. But he also knew there was something here that he was supposed to notice. Some hint that Gail was dropping.

  I could be hidden in plain sight.

  Kotler looked around, and not spotting what he needed he got up and cleared and unlocked the door before cautiously stepping out into the hallway. He saw what he wanted, two doors down, and quickly rushed to a room service tray left on the floor. He snatched a glass that contained a bit of water and a lemon wedge. He took this back to his room.

  Locking the door behind him once again, he dumped the glass into the sink, then picked up the lemon wedge. He grabbed a small towel and a hair dryer from a small shelf above the bathroom counter and took these back to the desk.

  Under the light of the lamp, Kotler held the lemon wedge over the paper. He squeezed a bit of juice from it onto the note, and then dabbed this with a corner of the towel, to spread it a bit. He turned the desk lamp upside down and held the paper over it. The bulb was LED and threw off only an insignificant amount of heat, and so Kotler used the hair dryer to apply heat to the paper.

  It took a few seconds, but as the lemon juice dried and reacted with a substance on the paper, turning brown, and a new message appeared written between each line.

  Ferry Bldg. Passages. 10AM. First cup on me.

  Kotler sat back, staring at the note. Gail McCarthy was quite possibly one of the smartest people he’d ever met. She had resources that could keep her out of reach from even the FBI. She could be anywhere in the world within hours, with no one aware of her comings or goings. And she’d just used one of the oldest tricks in the book to send him a secret message. The equivalent of passing a note in class.

  It was precisely the sort of thing she'd do, he realized. Another game. Another way to get him intrigued and involved.

  And he was going to fall for it. Of course, he was going to fall for it.

  He examined the note again, looking for anything he might have overlooked. Ferry Building and Passages were easy references. The Ferry Building was a local landmark that drew lots of tourist traffic. Passages was an independent bookstore in the building, which Kotler had visited on more than one occasion.

  Gail wanted to meet him at a San Francisco bookstore for a cup of coffee. Any other time that might sound like a pleasant date between two old friends, upon finding themselves in the same city.

  He knew … knew … that he had to call Denzel, to let him know about this. It was a new lead on one of the most high-profile smuggling operations on the planet. It was a case they’d been working practically since Kotler and Denzel had met. This was a lead, and Kotler was obligated to report it.

  He absolutely should not go to this meeting, much less go alone. He absolutely must not.

  He picked up his phone and arranged for an Uber. He could be at the Ferry Building in twenty minutes.

  Chapter 2

  The Ferry Building, located in San Francisco's famous Embarcadero, was a working terminal for ferries traveling the San Francisco Bay. Every day, and on any given day, thousands of people moved through the structure, on their way to or from San Francisco proper, commuting for business or pleasure. In many ways, the Ferry Building was emblematic of the American ideal—a melting pot of not merely various human cultures but of the different passions and pursuits of humanity.

  The building itself was superbly recognizable, with a 75-meter clock tower rising from its roof. It was visible for miles and was a popular tourist destination in and of itself. From the pier running along the bay, one could see both the Oakland Bay Bridge and its more popular sister the Golden Gate Bridge, if the weather permitted. Also visible was "the Rock"—the famed and notorious Alcatraz Prison, resting on an island in the middle of the bay like an encrusted jewel rising from the turbulent waters.

  Kotler had studied some of the local history, of course, and was fascinated by the blend of “modern old world” that San Francisco represented. It was a city of anachronisms, rooted in the past but providing a breeding ground for technological advancement and cultural evolution alike. It was home to several technological innovators, many of whom had offices within walking distances of where Kotler now found himself.

  He had entered the Ferry Building cautiously, though he knew he needn't have bothered. Gail McCarthy didn't want him dead. If she had, she could have had him eliminated on any number of occasions, including only half an hour earlier, as he'd sat oblivious in the hotel lobby. So, he was safe from an assassination attempt, he was sure. It was far more likely that she would have him abducted and tortured. She'd done it before. It was kind of their thing.

  Again, Kotler was sure that wasn’t her plan. There were clues. She had taken the time to craft a puzzle for him, as an invitation to this meeting. She had arranged for the two of them to connect in one of the most public places in the city. It wouldn’t be impossible for her to cause him harm here, but it would certainly complicate matters.

  He had come to the conclusion that Gail was waving a temporary flag of truce. Whatever she needed from him, she wanted him to know he was safe.

  For the moment.

  At 10 AM on a Friday, the Ferry Building was already a lively and active place. People hurried in and out of the building in a steady flow. Some were rushing to catch the next ferry out. Some were just arriving. Others were merely browsing the shops and restaurants, shopping for groceries or buying specialty products from some of the vendors. Tourists and locals alike shared the space. It was the perfect cover.

  Kotler was looking for signs of anyone watching him as he walked, but either they were too good to be spotted, or Gail had ordered them to stand down. The former seemed far more likely, Kotler knew. It was what made Gail and her network of smugglers so dangerous. Her network was populated with a significant number of former military operatives, exes from Special Forces to Navy Seals, all recruited in an elaborate, decades-long program designed by Gail's grandfather and his business partner, Richard Van Burren. Now that both men were dead and buried, Gail had inherited the network and all the power that came with it.

  As Kotler made his way to Passages, the popular independent bookstore nestled into the back of the Ferry Building, he glanced into the windows of the coffee shop that resided next door. He could smell the coffee and espresso, and the shop itself was awash in the sounds of beans grinding and customer chatter. He saw no sign of Gail within, and rounded the corner, making his way into Passages.

  The small bookshop had been one of the first places Kotler had visited when he had arrived in San Francisco. He’d sat with a cup of coffee and a newly purchased paperback and had watched the bay from one of the tables within the large seating area. It was a rare moment of complete peace and solitude, and it was the way Kotler wanted to remember the place. He worried that memory would be overwritten, and very soon, by something more sinister.

  Upon entering Passages, it took only seconds to spot Gail. The shop was rather small, and there was really no place for anyone to hide. For her part, she was making no effort to do so anyway. She was standing next to a display of books by an author who would arrive for a book signing later in the day. She was reading through one copy but was not so engrossed that she didn't look up to see him as he entered. She smiled, and for an instant, Kotler remembered her the way he'd first known her. Not as the head of one of the most massive smuggling operations in the world, but as someone he had cared about. Someone who had ultimately betrayed him.

  “Hello Dan,” she said, smiling.

  “Gail,” he replied.

  “It’s been several months,” she said.

  He nodded but said nothing.

  “Come,” she said. “Let’s get a cup of coffee and have a little chat.

  They sat at one of the tables just outside of Passages, a breezeway with large windows facing the bay. They had each gotten hot beverages from the coffee shop, which had been an awkward and mildly stressful moment for Kotler. Standing in line with a woman who had repeatedly had him kidnapped and tortured, answ
ering mundane questions about what size coffee he wanted, whether he wanted it to go, whether he wanted to try the newest blended drink or the blonde espresso—it was a bit surreal.

  Activity buzzed all around them as they sat watching the bay, with people entering and exiting the glass doors to the docks beyond, and still more gathering in clusters to chat and laugh and enjoy a cup of coffee or a meal from one of the restaurants. Kotler sipped an Americano and waited.

  "I was afraid you'd given up on me," Gail said over the paper rim of her cup. She had taken the lid off and was taking slow and luxurious sips of a non-fat latte.

  Kotler took a breath, and then shook his head, a half smile on his lips. “I have, Gail. Whatever mystery you were trying to entice me into, I’ve given up on it.”

  “I knew that Mayan city would be a distraction,” she said with a mock frown. “I need you to get back to work, though. I need you to find me.”

  Kotler held out a hand, palm up, “You have been found, madam.”

  She smiled. “Oh Dan, I have missed you. But no, I need you to solve the puzzle of those three objects I gave you. And when you do, it will be wonderful.”

  “I’m done with it,” Kotler said, sipping his Americano. “Whatever game you’re playing, I’m out.”

  She laughed, and it was light and airy and, Kotler thought, a hint sinister. Gail wasn't the type of woman who would accept no for an answer, he knew. It had been an epically stupid idea to come here without alerting Denzel. A point that Kotler was confident that Denzel would reiterate, once he found out.

  "You're never out, love," Gail said sweetly. "You've been in since the start, and there is no way out. You'll solve the puzzle."

  “Or?” Kotler asked, now feeling an icy tendril move through him.

  She shrugged. "Consequences," she said, her tone was matter-of-fact and even a bit girlish.