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And a replica could teach as well as the original. Better, even, because it could be made broadly available to curious minds, while it too had been created by intentional hands. Made by Middle Eastern artisans—who were well paid for their art—with the same technique as the original. It had just one more degree of separation from the past.
Past adjacent. But the spirit was true.
Not actual history, but historie.
So the Gardners made their replicas, and until now, it had been a product line she’d supported. If consumers could be content with replicas, they’d leave looted artifacts alone.
Now it made her physically ill to see the packed store and customers exiting with full shopping bags.
She had questions for Dennis and Mason Gardner about the grant and why they’d chosen her. She presumed the supply line for new artifacts had run low. Had Rafiq and/or Harun asked their best customer to find an archaeologist to locate sites and dig for them? Set up a grant with specific parameters that would put an archaeologist with the knowledge and skills in the right place at the wrong time?
She thought of Fahd, who’d spent nearly a decade monitoring sites in Syria to protect the legacy of his friend. He’d chosen to die before giving up site information.
With that thought, everything clicked into place.
She’d been set up from the start.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chris insisted on driving Rand’s car. It was either that or he’d have his hands free to pummel Albrecht, and that wasn’t a good idea. They were taking the traitor to the Raptor compound in Fairfax, where he could be detained and questioned while a team of company techs scoured the internet for every drop of information on the man and what he revealed during interrogation.
“I’m being illegally detained after you beat the shit out of me,” Albrecht said from the back seat.
“Nah, that’s not how this went down. See, Brekkie, your face hurt my hand.” Chris released the steering wheel and wiggled the fingers on his right hand, making exaggerated sounds of pain. “Besides, seeing as how you’re working for a group of terrorists, I’m not too worried. We’re going to wrap you and Rafiq up with a nice, big, bright red Christmas ribbon.”
Rand sat in the passenger seat, Albrecht’s phone in his not-damaged hands. He tapped one screen after another, making sounds like he was watching a fireworks display. “You’ve got some incriminating shit here, Brekkie. It’s a shame you never learned to clear your chat history.”
“Crying shame,” Chris said. From the corner of his eye, he saw the cell phone screen flash. “Who’s that from?”
“Looks like it’s a message from his ‘girlfriend’ wondering why he hasn’t checked in.”
“So the girlfriend in Pennsylvania, was she a lie or a honey trap?”
Albrecht grunted.
Fine. They’d be inside the compound soon and the real questioning could begin.
Freya and Ian met them at the gate, and they were quickly waved through. Ian and another operative—a former Green Beret named Nate—led them and their prisoner into the compound. Albrecht was locked in an interrogation room with a two-way mirror.
“Have you been in communication with Diana yet?” Chris asked as soon as Albrecht was locked behind a soundproof door.
Freya nodded. “She’s safe. She used the laptop to draft an email in the online email account she knew we were monitoring. She didn’t send it. It’s in the drafts folder.”
That was basic tradecraft. Create an online email account and use it to post drafts that anyone who logged in could see. No sending required, meaning NSA couldn’t flag it for keywords.
They followed Ian down a maze of corridors to a small conference room with several laptops and tablets placed around the table. They were joined by one of the company’s tech wizards, who proceeded to clone Albrecht’s phone onto a tablet, which he left for them to browse through while he took the original to his office to mine for every scrap of data it could reveal.
As soon as he was given a log-in, Chris signed in to a computer and opened the browser and typed in the domain for Diana’s online address.
He logged in and saw a “1” next to the draft messages folder. He opened the folder. The subject line was Chris.
He opened the message.
Leaving you like that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’m so sorry. Please be okay. Please don’t hate me. Please understand.
His heart squeezed. He hadn’t expected the raw emotion the words would bring. She was worried about him.
Afraid for him. Concerned he’d be angry.
