Free A Treasure Deep by Alton Gansky Page B

his
brain, he couldn’t expel it. Many thoughts bounced around in his
mind like ping-pong balls in a cement mixer.
    It had begun. What was originally an effort
to save a man’s life had become a project more important than
anything he’d ever done, and probably more than anything he would
do. As he lay back on the motel bed, he took a deep breath and let
it out slowly, hoping to calm his thoughts.
    This is more than a project, he reminded
himself. He’d built buildings above and below ground. He had
traveled to every industrialized country in the world and many
third-world lands. He’d spoken to heads-of-state and military
leaders; the wealthy were impressed by him and sought his counsel.
But all of that was dross to the gold for which he now hunted. In a
few hours, he would return to the spot that very well might change
the world. It would be dark by then, but that didn’t matter. This
was an around-the-clock operation. Things had to be done quickly,
accurately, and without mistake. They would push on at the best
speed possible but not so fast as to make mistakes.
    Controversy lay around every corner, but that
couldn’t be avoided. For now it was a secret, but soon it would be
world news. This is no mere project, Perry reminded himself. This
was a mission for God, and he planned on treating it as such. The
best research had been done, the best equipment requisitioned, and
the best workers brought to bear. Each key man had in the past
proven himself to be trustworthy and loyal. Each worker on the site
had signed a detailed nondisclosure agreement—not that it was
needed for his regulars. Perry would trust his life, and had in the
past, to these men, Jack and Gleason in particular.
    Again, Perry took a deep breath and released
it. His mind wound backward, becoming a mental time machine that
took him back to Seattle, back to the night when a young gunman
attempted to kill Professor Jamison Henri . . .
    The police arrived in the dark alley as Perry
administered CPR to Henri. Perry prayed with each compression and
with each breath he blew into the elderly man’s lungs. CPR was hard
work. Perry was soaked from the inside with sweat and from the
outside by the chilling Washington rain.
    Paramedics relieved him of his efforts, doing
the work with more practiced hands. Perry watched them load Dr.
Henri into the back of a wide, modular ambulance. The ambulance
might as well have been a tomb.
    The police were full of questions, and Perry
obliged them for nearly forty-five minutes before they let him go
with a pat on the back and the words, “It’s a shame more citizens
aren’t like you.”
    “A lot of good it did,” Perry muttered to
himself. He then asked to what hospital the ambulance had gone. He
thought about leaving it alone. He’d done all that he could do, and
it was late. The next day was packed from early morning until late
in the evening. He needed the rest. The victim was in the best
hands possible for now, if he was alive. Going home was the wisest
thing to do.
    Perry pulled the car from the curb, made a
U-turn, and drove to the hospital. Beside him was the leather
satchel that had mattered so much to the old man. He’d picked it up
from the damp ground when the paramedics had arrived. At first he
was just moving it out of the way, but then noticed that he held it
tightly to his side. The police made no inquiries about it, and
Perry offered no explanations. One thing of which he was certain
was that whatever was in the case was more important to Henri than
his own life.
    With the case resting on the front passenger
seat, Perry drove into a night that seemed far darker than it had a
few minutes before.
    They had taken Henri to the closest hospital,
St. John’s Regional. The drive through the near-empty early morning
streets took only fifteen minutes. A quarter of an hour after he’d
left the crime scene, Perry was standing in the waiting area of the
hospital’s busy emergency room. Surrounding him were