over. “Alexander wanted to be remembered. He wanted his accomplishments to be heralded throughout the ages. So he took Greek scribes along with him wherever he went. The scribe these writings are attributed to, Gorgidas, wasn’t very famous as Greek writers went. Much of his writing was considered trivial and catalogued day-to-day goings-on in camp and on the march. He was almost a glorified accountant. But for some reason Alexander took Gorgidas with him when he went on a secret journey to the Citadel of Hades, and Gorgidas recorded the trip.”
“Citadel of Hades,” Bolan said, adopting a relaxed pose. “I never went to college but doesn’t that mean Citadel of Hell?”
Rhynman shook her head. “Close, but not quite. Hades is the Underworld, but in Greek mythology it’s a dark and gloomy place rather than the Christian Hell. Gorgidas speaks of ‘a house of weeping columns with walls of glittering stone’ in his writings.”
Bolan took the obvious leap of logic. “So it’s a cave.”
“Yes.” Nancy Rhynman favored Bolan with a smile. “In the metaphor of the day a Citadel of Hades would imply a subterranean fortress. Weeping columns could mean stalagmites and stalactites, and walls of glittering stone most likely would refer to quartz formations that happen to be rampant in our target area. Many cultures throughout the ages have taken natural-occurring cave complexes and dug citadels and fortresses within them. Those of you who have fought in Afghanistan know the entire region is riddled with caverns. We have no idea how old this citadel might be, but it was most likely built or inherited by the Persian Achaemenid Empire, and when Alexander conquered them it appears he received access to it. Think of it, a hidden citadel, and secret refuge, a—”
“A fortress of solitude?” Blackpool suggested. “Has he got one at the North Pole, too, then?”
Rhynman smiled but her eyes went cold. “‘Fortress of solitude’ might not be a bad metaphor. If the Citadel is there it’s way off the beaten path. Nothing in the way of agriculture or civilization was anywhere close. Resources in the Pamir Mountains are scarce. It might well be a fortress of solitude, Mr. Blackpool. A place where people were sent into exile or went to hide during wars of succession.” Rhynman leaned slightly forward, fixed Blackpool in place with her eyes and raised one eyebrow in challenge. “Or it might also be a place to store unimaginable wealth.”
Waqa leaned forward. “You’re talking like treasure and shit.”
“Yes, Mr. Waqa,” Rhynman confirmed. “Treasure and shit. Wherever Alexander went he demanded tribute, and the Persian Empire of Darius was the richest in the world. Much of the vast wealth that Alexander took was never accounted for. Undoubtedly a great deal was stolen by his successors after his death and the breakup of his empire. But there is enough accounting in the archaeological record to suggest that huge amounts of it were hidden and only Alexander and a few of his closest confederates knew its whereabouts.
“Alexander died suddenly without settling his affairs. The fact is there is the possibility of gold, silver, gems and jewels being stored in this location by the ton. Not to mention a priceless archaeological trove of writings, sculptures, tools, weapons and fabrics—with luck all perfectly preserved in the subterranean environment. The Tajik government will most likely try to claim most of it as natural heritage.” Nancy Rhynman’s smile became predatory. “But our employer pretty much has the ability to buy Tajikistan lock, stock and barrel.”
This was met by harsh, renewed laughter.
Rhynman waited for it to die down. “And even if there’s nothing there but bare rock, just finding the Citadel will be the greatest archaeological discovery of this century. You’ll all be famous. All the news agencies will pay to interview you. We’re talking TV, radio, Internet and printed press. All of you will be heroes in your native countries. There will be movie rights, book rights, you name it, and Mr. Eckhart is willing to extend to you free financial advisement to make the most of all opportunities that you may accrue from this endeavor.”
There was silence around the table.
Eckhart filled it. “And if all we find is scorpions and dirt, I’m still paying a thousand dollars a day.” The billionaire smiled. “So, who’s in?”
4
The reactions to Alexander the Great’s lost Citadel in Tajikistan had ranged from rude noises and boredom to expressions of pity and disbelief. On the other hand every man in the room, no matter what country he was from, had read about Phillip Eckhart in magazines and seen him on television. He was a billionaire and he was paying a thousand dollars a day…plus bonuses. Every man was in.
The meeting adjourned until noon the next day and the ex-soldiers went off to seek amusement. Blair, Blackpool and Waqa spontaneously wandered off into the London night to look for adventure. Yagi accosted one of the hotel staff and by the way the concierge was blushing and stammering it was pretty clear he was inquiring where a man with a thousand pounds in his pocket went to get laid. Gilad was leaning in and listening intently. Zoltan plunked himself down beside Rhynman and began chatting her up. Yuli wandered off by himself, riffing through his wad of pound notes and undoubtedly calculating some personal endeavor of his own.
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