The Third Gate Read Free Page B

that—like you, I don’t know exactly howlong I’m going to be away, and there was some CTS business that couldn’t wait for my return.”
    “Not a problem.” Logan peered out at the lights of London, spread out like a vast yellow blanket beneath them. “Is this our destination?”
    Rush shook his head. Then he smiled. “You know, I found it kind of funny, the way you boarded the plane without question. I thought you’d at least do a double take.”
    “In my profession you tend to travel a lot. I always carry a passport.”
    “Yes, I read that in an article about you. That’s why I didn’t ask you to bring one.”
    “In the last six months I’ve been to at least as many foreign countries: Sri Lanka, Ireland, Monaco, Peru, Atlantic City.”
    “Atlantic City isn’t a foreign country,” Rush said with a laugh.
    “Felt like one to me.”
    They landed and taxied to a private hangar, where the CTS staffer deplaned with the laptops and the folders to catch a commercial flight back to New York. Rush and Logan ate a light dinner while the jet refueled. When they were once again in the air, Rush took a seat beside Logan, a black leather briefcase in one hand.
    “I’m going to show you a picture,” he said. “I think it will explain the need for secrecy.” Unsnapping the case, he opened it slightly. Rummaging inside, he pulled out a copy of Fortune and briefly showed it to Logan.
    On the cover was a headshot of a man in his mid-fifties. His thick, prematurely snow-white hair was parted down the middle: a strangely anachronistic look that reminded Logan of a schoolboy from a Victorian-era English public school, Eton or Harrow or Rugby. He was thin, a look accentuated by the heavy backlighting of the photograph. The soft, almost feminine contours of his face were sharply offset by unusually weathered skin, as if by exposure to sun or wind; and though the man was not smiling, there was a faint amused glint in his blue eyes as he stared at the camera, as if at some private joke he was disinclined to share with the world.
    Logan recognized the face—and, as Rush had promised, much of the mystery suddenly became understandable. The face belonged to H. Porter Stone, without doubt the most famous—and by far the richest—treasure hunter in the world. Though “treasure hunter” was probably unfair, Logan decided: Stone had been trained as an archaeologist and had taught the subject at UCLA before his discovery of two ships from the Spanish Plate Fleet, sunk in 1648 in international waters. Those vessels—stuffed with silver, gold, and gemstones, on their way back to Spain from the colonies—instantly made Stone not only extremely wealthy but notorious. That notoriety only increased with his subsequent discoveries: an Incan mausoleum and treasure trove hidden in a mountain col twenty miles from Machu Picchu; after that, an immense cache of carved soapstone birds, animals, and human figures beneath a hill complex in the primeval ruins of Great Zimbabwe. Others had followed in remarkably rapid succession. What ancient civilization , a banner on the magazine cover asked, will he pillage next?
    “That’s where we’re going?” Logan asked incredulously. “A treasure hunt? An archaeological dig?”
    Rush nodded. “A little of both, actually. Stone’s latest project.”
    “What is it?”
    “You won’t be in the dark for long.” And Rush opened the case again. As Logan glanced over, he saw the doctor slip the magazine beneath a thin stack of papers. It was only the briefest of glimpses, but Logan noticed the papers were covered with what he thought were hieroglyphs.
    Rush closed the case. “I can tell you this is his biggest expedition yet. And the most secret. In addition to the usual need to operate below the radar, there are certain … unusual logistical issues, as well.”
    Logan nodded. He wasn’t surprised: Stone’s expeditions had become increasingly high profile. They tended to attract a lot of