Washington D.C.
With painstaking care, Eric Trent inspected every inch of the Spear of Destiny under a large magnifying glass, comparing it side-by-side with the replica, looking for some tiny detail that would unlock the code in Patton’s diary. The craftsman who had made the copy had diligently reproduced even insignificant details, the tiny crosses and doves on the flanges that were almost invisible from a distance, the crinkles in the gold band with its Latin inscription.
There were differences to be sure. The real Spear looked like an actual weapon of war, with deep gouges in the black iron. The tip was blunted, probably the result of a killing thrust through some barbarian’s studded armor, although, to Trent’s admittedly untrained eye, the defects looked more recent. Yet aside from the damage and, of course, the tell-tale markings that identified one spear as a copy, there were no substantive differences between the two.
“‘The Spear will point the way,’” he muttered. So far, it had not pointed to anything. They had risked exposure with the failed kidnapping attempt at the Library of Congress and the more successful, though unfortunately highly visible robbery at the hotel, and what did they have to show for it?
Lavelle was pressuring him for results. The rest of the plan was proceeding like clockwork, but its ultimate success or failure depended on Trent keeping his promise to crack the code. He had been so certain that the answer would become immediately apparent once he held the real Spear in his hand. Lavelle’s hired guns had more or less accomplished the task set for them, but thus far, the hastily arranged trip to the nation’s capital had not borne the expected fruit.
He had been working under the assumption that Patton had made some sort of modification to the Spear when it was in his possession following the capture of Berlin, an engraving perhaps that would illuminate the meaning of the number code. When he had first discovered the craftsman’s mark on the replica, he had assumed that Patton’s alterations had not been reproduced, but if there was something there, he had yet to see it.
Refusing to admit defeat, Trent laid aside his magnifying glass and turned the authentic Spear over in order to remove the decorative gold band. As he carefully peeled it apart, something fell out and landed with a metallic clank on the tabletop. That had definitely not happened when he had disassembled the replica. He laid the Spear aside and stared at the object that had fallen from the Spear, but before he could fully process the significance of it, his phone began to vibrate with an incoming call. He did not recognize the number, which probably meant that it belonged to one of the burner phones his team was using.
“Hello?”
“Watchdog, here.”
Watchdog, Trent knew, was the man assigned to shadow the four CIA people, who at last report, had been loitering at the airport, to all appearances, drowning their sorrows in drinks at a pub on the concourse. “Go ahead.”
“They’re bugging out. Just boarded a flight to Houston.”
“Houston?” Houston was a major hub, so there was no reason to believe it was their final destination. Trent knew that the rest of their group had gone on to El Paso, where they had nearly thrown a monkey wrench in the works by approaching Guillermo Esperanza in Juarez, and subsequently eluded Lavelle’s attempt to disappear them. The obvious explanation for the flight to Houston was that the CIA people were trying to regroup, but Trent could not dismiss the possibility that they had somehow cracked the code. “Follow them. I want to know where they’re going.”
“Already bought my ticket. I’ll let you know where they’re heading as soon as we land.”
Trent ended the call and pondered his next course of action. If the CIA people had cracked the code, then the obvious move was to shadow them to the destination. He disliked the idea of allowing them to get close, especially when he didn’t know exactly where they were going, but until he could solve the cipher in the diary, he was just spinning his wheels here.
Satisfied that things were finally moving, even if by a more circuitous route than he would have liked, Trent returned his attention to the object that had fallen from beneath the gold band.
It was a small disc of metal, glinting the same hue as the band. A coin.
He studied the image on the face, the likeness of a woman—a goddess, he decided—with a torch in one hand and a tree branch in the other. Behind her, radiating lines simulated a sunrise, or perhaps divine glory. It was an ancient likeness, yet the coin itself was only a century old. He knew this because stamped in the lower right were four digits: 1910.
It was an American twenty-dollar gold piece, known more commonly as a ‘double-eagle.’
A triumphant grin spread across Trent’s face. The coin, by itself, offered no insights to help him crack the code, but its very presence, concealed here within a relic that was at least twelve hundred years old, confirmed everything the Russian had told Lavelle. Patton had placed the coin there, surreptitiously marking his ownership, albeit a very temporary one, of the Spear of Destiny. Yet, the coin itself held greater significance. The date stamp, while not constituting definitive proof, was consistent with the story Samsonov had revealed. The coin was almost certainly part of a cache given to Mexican revolutionaries sometime before the year 1916, when Patton would have learned about the prize he called ‘the Devil’s Gift.’
The coin meant the story was true. The Devil’s Gift was real, and it was everything they hoped it was.
He gathered up the pieces of the Spear, along with the coin, and stowed them in a duffel bag. He would have plenty of time to resume the search for the code key once he was in the air, en route to Texas, but he no longer felt the oppressiveness of the deadline looming overhead. One way or another, the Devil’s Gift would soon be in his hands, and Destiny would become reality.