Assyrian Gold: A William Church Novel

By Joseph W. Michels

ASSYRIAN GOLD is the fourth action-thriller novel to feature WILLIAM CHURCH, the freelance recovery specialist previously based in San Francisco. At the urging of his principal client, a New York insurance company, he takes up temporary residence in London. There, he is contacted by a representative of an undisclosed Middle Eastern country anxious to have Church recover a horde of six hundred pieces of priceless ancient Neo-Assyrian gold jewelry looted by militants from an important archaeological site located in a region of the country outside effective government control.

Church is offered a two million dollar fee for the successful recovery of the jewelry before it can be melted down into gold bullion or before it disappears into the shadowy antiquities market of Europe. Capitalizing on leads developed through a clever use of the internets deep web, Church sets out to intercept the militants before they can dispose of the collection.

Aided by a small team of Ex-Israeli military intelligence operatives, Church engages in a race against time that takes him from the Middle East to Cyprus and finally to eastern Europe, with deadly exchanges of gunfire all along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491797082

Joseph W. Michels

JOSEPH W. MICHELS came to fiction writing after a long career as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist. KAGNEW STATION: DATELINE 1956 is a sequel to the ALAN HARPER TRILOGY. The author became acquainted with Kagnew Station in 1974 while directing a large archaeological project in the region. The project’s headquarters was two blocks from the entrance to Kagnew Station and the project’s staff made extensive use of the base’s facilities.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

San Francisco

It was a Friday in late April—two days before official opening day on the bay—when I got the call. Jack Barker and I were getting our 36 foot sloop Eagle ready for the grand event, and looking forward to hosting a small group of friends. I put down the rag I’d been using to clean the teak bright work on the forward deck, wiped my hands, then pulled my cell phone out from the left front pocket of my Levi’s.

Church here, I said a bit louder than usual owing to the otherwise welcome music of snapping sail lines and the flapping of loose canvas due to the nearly constant breeze coming off the bay.

It’s Guy Sanderson, Church. You got a minute?

Sure, what’s on your mind? I asked as I walked back towards the cockpit.

It may take a little more than a minute, actually, said Guy.

Okay, give me a moment…I need to drop down into the cabin and get out of the wind.

You on the boat? asked Guy.

Yeah, both Jack and I are…we’re getting her ready for the parade of boats…okay, we can talk now, I added as I settled comfortably onto the plush leather upholstery of the port side banquette, as far from the open companionway as I could manage.

You know that our insurance company has an affiliate based in London…you’ve done some work for them in the past, I recall.

Sure, what about them? I asked as I scrunched up against the teak sail locker partition, kicked off my deck shoes, then swung my legs onto the banquette, positioning a cushion at my back.

Well, I’m getting pressure from both my firm and our affiliate to get you to consider basing yourself in London rather than San Francisco…they feel it would cut transportation and per diem costs since so much of what we ask you to do tends to involve recovery operations that take you to Europe.

I didn’t reply at first—just shook my head in disbelief, then said, Guy, I know that most of my work comes from your company or its affiliate, but really, do your superiors actually think I’m some sort of subsidiary that can be relocated for fiscal reasons?

"I know it sounds crass, Church, but think about it…what are you now…thirty-seven? Maybe it’s time to put Church Recoveries on a more solid footing. You’ve been running the business out of a hotel bar, with a part-time personal assistant who’s real job is manning the concierge desk of your condo building. And where do I find you during business hours on a Friday but doing scut work on an old sailing sloop."

Hell, give me a break…Jack Barker is here also, and he’s an FBI Special Agent!

Okay, that last comment was out of line, but you get my drift: you’re getting a bit long in the tooth to be running what could be a very profitable business in between your runs at Crissy Field, workouts at Boris’ Howard Street gym or dinners at the city’s latest restaurants…not to mention the other demands of what can only be described as a fast-paced social life!

What you’ve just alluded to, Guy, is what we in California call a well-balanced life style. I don’t think you’d find your moralizing would get much traction even among the denizens of New York City, or London for that matter. You’ll have to do better.

Okay, I’m grasping at straws, admitted Guy, but think about it. And keep in mind we’d supply a relocation budget.

Nice try, Guy, but you and I both know it wouldn’t take much to relocate me since it would only involve the minimal furnishings of a small one-bedroom condo, a bit of clothing, and the contents of a small carry-on bag—most importantly my laptop, cell phone and my M9 Beretta.

You’re forgetting your convertible, countered Guy.

No, I’d sell it; chances are I’d manage without a car…certainly a convertible like mine given the weather.

So you’ll think about it?

I laughed, Yeah, I’ll think about it but don’t hold your breath, I said just before ending the call.

Jack stepped down into the cabin just as I was in the process of getting back into my deck shoes, What was that all about? he asked.

It was Guy Sanderson calling…trying to persuade me to relocate to London, I replied, shaking my head.

I take it you were not too receptive, said Jack as he pulled a beer from the galley refrigerator.

Would you be? I countered rhetorically.

Jack shrugged, It would depend on what kind of a deal he was willing to make.

You can’t be serious, I said. Hell, you’ve turned down at least two opportunities to move up the chain of command knowing both would require a move to the head office in Washington D.C.

True, but the downside of having to rub up against more bureaucracy than I’d care to handle outweighed the benefits of a promotion, said Jack.

What are you saying…that I should actually think about it?

I’m saying you should probably do a real cost-benefit analysis…maybe put a different slant on the thing.

Like what? I asked, skeptically.

Jack shrugged, Like maybe proposing a trial period…let them make their case while you’re on the ground checking things out.

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Jack’s suggestion of assessing the cost-benefits of such a move tumbled around inside my head all the rest of the day. By late evening, after I’d returned to my condo, I felt I couldn’t put it off any longer—I needed to think it through. With a grim sense of determination I poured myself a snifter of cognac, settled onto the couch and stared out at the stream of traffic making its way across the Oakland Bay Bridge. The benefits of shifting my operation to London were, in my mind, fairly straightforward: I’d probably be more likely to give priority to building the business—both because there’d be no other compelling reason for my being there, and because of the active encouragement of the companies Guy represented whose idea it was in the first place. A second benefit was the likelihood of less transatlantic air travel, assuming Guy was right in arguing that most of my jobs eventually involved some European component.

As I sipped the cognac I tried to weigh the importance I was willing to give to these points. It was easy to dismiss the reduced travel advantage since I had no problem with frequent transatlantic hops; I invariably flew business class and often, in fact, actually enjoyed the experience. Dismissing the argument that a relocation would be good for business was far more difficult to justify. It seemed to hinge on how I viewed where I was in life. Was Guy Sanderson right, that I’d reached an age when I should be thinking about building something permanent, or was I still young enough to reasonably ignore such concerns? Perhaps because of the cognac and the lateness of the hour no easy answer presented itself. With a yawn, I got up from the couch, placed the empty snifter on the kitchen counter and headed for bed.

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It was in the shower the following morning when it first struck me—how Jack Barker’s offhand comment about giving myself a trial period might prove to be a solution to the problem. I hurriedly finished up, wrapped a bath tower around my waist and headed for the bedroom where I’d put my cell phone.

It was Saturday and even though I knew the claims department would be closed I figured Sanderson would most likely be at his desk. But I made the call to his cell phone in any case, just to make sure I’d catch him.

Good morning, Church, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon, but fill me in…where do we stand?

Good morning to you, Guy, replied Church. You’ve got to thank Jack Barker for the quick turnaround…he’s the one who suggested how I should handle it.

Okay, my compliments to Jack…so what does he suggest?

That I agree to relocate to London but initially only for a limited trial period…let’s say, for about three to six months…which will give us both a chance to see whether it really makes sense.

Sanderson didn’t say anything, but I could hear him breathing; I suspected he was imagining how the proposal would play with his superiors. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, Yeah, I think we can live with that…any idea how soon you could make the move?

I’ll get Chelsea on it right away; knowing her, she’ll have me setting my watch by Big Ben before the week is out…that soon enough for you?

Christ, I love that young lady! Yeah, that’ll be soon enough…and it’ll give me something to soften the news that you’ll be taking us up on our proposal but only on a trial basis.

Always glad to lend a hand in your time of need, Guy, I said mischievously.

Go to hell, Church…and have Chelsea text me your departure date.

Will do, I replied then hung up.

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After getting dressed and having breakfast I put a call through to the concierge desk of my condo building, hoping Chelsea was on duty. The skinny guy whose arms are covered with tattoos answered the phone. Jason, is Chelsea there?

Yeah…hey Chelsea, your other boss is on the line! I could hear him shout before carelessly letting the receiver drop onto the countertop, causing a sharp, noisy thump as the sound reached my ear.

Sorry about that, Church, she said, Jason’s always a bit testy when it comes to you…I think he’s got a crush on me, she whispered.

Well, then he should be much relieved when he learns of your next assignment, I said.

And what’s that? Chelsea asked.

Come on up to the apartment and I’ll lay it out for you, I replied.

The knock came only minutes later, and soon Chelsea was sitting crosslegged on my couch, pad and pen in hand.

I’ve been asked by Guy to relocate the business to London, and I’ve agreed—but only on a trial basis, I explained as I paced the carpeted area in front of where she was sitting.

I know you’re wondering why, I added, seeing the questioning look on her face, but I probably couldn’t make any of the reasons sound convincing…hell, even I’m not convinced! Let’s just say, it’s a favor to Guy who’s on the hook for it.

Chelsea nodded, How do you want me to handle it?

We’re talking about a period of between three and six months…that’s all. I’ll need you to rent me an apartment within walking distance of a building where I can secure temporary office space and the part-time services of a personal assistant.

You have any preferences regarding location? asked Chelsea, jotting down some notes.

I shrugged, Somewhere away from those parts of the city where tourists tend to congregate…other than that, you’ve got free range.

Are you going to be taking your furnishings or do you want me to rent a furnished place? asked Chelsea.

That brings up another subject which we might as well talk about now…what would you think of the prospect of your moving into this apartment and having free use of the convertible while I’m gone?

Are you kidding, Church?

You would be doing me a big favor, Chelsea, but I’ll understand it if you feel accepting my offer might harm your reputation—people thinking you’re a kept woman or something like that.

Not to worry, Church, I’m cool with it…and thanks. And I’m sure my roommate will thank you as well since she’ll have more latitude when it comes to entertaining her boyfriend. So, when do you want this relocation to go into effect?

I told Guy you were handling it, and I bragged you’d probably have me on a plane by the end of the week.

Okay…I see I’ve got my work cut out for me, she said as she stood up. I’ll get right on it.

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Jack and I met for breakfast at a trendy diner near China Bay where we planned to fortify ourselves for the day’s coming sailing events by ordering bacon and eggs, hash browns, lots of coffee and tall glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. I told him what I had done.

Understand, I’m not second-guessing the planned move, said Jack, his hands up in a gesture of denial, but, Christ! don’t you think you’re letting your well-known tendency for making instant decisions get the better of you?

Probably, I replied with a laugh, but I figure it’s a good time to make the transition: I’m between assignments, I can count on the weather in London being tolerable, with prospects of even better conditions over the coming weeks, and who knows, maybe Sanderson will feel obligated to throw extra business my way as a reward.

What about our boat? asked Jack once the server had taken our order and hurried away to get our coffee.

Nothing changes, I replied. I’ll keep making my share of payments and split the costs of any repairs just as if I’d never left. Until I get back it’s yours to use and enjoy.

So you’re serious about this being simply a trial run? asked Jack.

Absolutely! I said with conviction just as our server returned with our coffee.

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I had to admit, Chelsea had somehow pulled it off as I found myself at SFO the following Friday lining up to board a non-stop transatlantic flight to Heathrow. Being in business class, I was among the first to board and settled comfortably in an aisle seat with plenty of time to reflect on what lay before me. I’d been to London on many occasions, but always for only brief periods and largely in and about the West End and the Old City. What Chelsea had arranged would take me into a whole other part of the city—the London Docklands, where the affiliate of Sanderson’s firm had its offices. I had to smile to myself as I thought back on Boris’s reaction. That old ex-Russian Jew—a skilled special forces operative—who had made a career of relocation, having left Russia for Israel, then a stint in Central America, followed by a move to San Francisco where I met him after he’d opened a martial arts gym. When told of my move, he said to me, Church, I’m going to miss you like I would a son, but Sanderson’s instincts are sound—it’s a good move…even if it turns out you don’t come back.

But it was my phone conversation with the head of the FBI’s Office of International Operations that was the most reassuring from an operational standpoint. He and I had struck up a covert working relationship during my recovery of a kidnapped boy down in central America a few years back and I wanted to get his thinking on the matter. Hell, he said, from my perspective it’s a win-win situation: you’ll be out of the country so there’s less likelihood you’ll be underfoot during the agency’s domestic operations, and you’ll be better positioned to share your expertise with the men I supervise who are posted abroad and who are woefully understaffed. Does that mean I’ve got your endorsement? I’d asked.

Yeah, you’ve got it, Church…and I’ll shoot off a note to both the British authorities and Interpol letting them know to extend you every courtesy…are we finished here?

I thanked him and let him know I wouldn’t abuse the privilege. He’d let out a skeptical laugh and said I was a goddamn liar.

As I replayed that conversation in my mind the flight attendant announced our imminent departure then came around to collect empty drink glasses. I refocused my attention on the action in the cabin and glanced casually at my seat partner—an attractive woman—perhaps a little older than myself—who was dressed stylishly in formal business attire and engrossed in some report visible on her iPad. I leaned back and closed my eyes, weighing the pros and cons of striking up a conversation as the plane began its ascent.

CHAPTER TWO

The Docklands, London

The thought came to me as I walked to the office that if all I had to go on was the weather I’d have imagined I was still in San Francisco. It was the end of May and the sky held just a few clouds, with temperature in the mid-fifties, and just a touch of moisture off the nearby River Thames to mimic the bay effect down near the Embarcadero—close to where I live. It also dawned on me that the condo Chelsea had leased here in the London Docklands just three weeks ago could easily be mistaken as a clone of the one I own south of Market: a minimalist contemporary one-bedroom unit on an upper floor, featuring full-length windows that offered an enviable view—this time of Canary Wharf and the nearby River Thames.

I glanced towards the river as I approached Westferry Circle, my attention drawn to the docking of the ferry at Canary Wharf Pier—and to the rush of commuters disembarking, intent on making their way to offices located in the high-rise buildings clustered nearby. I figured most commuters heading to the Docklands from central London probably used the Jubilee Line of the Underground, but a special few—for whom I reserved my heartfelt approval—were those now disembarking who had instead chosen to start their day on the water…something I knew I’d most likely have done if Chelsea hadn’t been so diligent about honoring my instructions to choose an apartment no more than a few minutes walk from my temporary office.

The commuters off the ferry began to catch up about halfway along West India Avenue, and I found myself surrounded by a hurried wave of jostling humanity that, surprisingly, seemed capable of skillfully leaving me unmolested—politely acknowledging my right to continue at a more leisurely pace. I liked that about my new neighbors.

I edged by Canary Wharf’s Cabot Square then took the steps down to the waters of Middle Dock. I was halfway along the lane bordering the dock’s dark gray waters when my cell phone rang.

Yes, Julia?

William, I thought you should know there’s a solicitor on his way to the office. I tried to persuade him to make an appointment but he said the matter was too urgent and wished to come right away…providing you would be available to see him.

Who does he represent?

He won’t say…he keeps insisting his client does not wish to be identified.

When do you expect him?

He’s coming by Underground from the West End so I don’t think he’ll be here for at least another three-quarters of an hour.

He say what the matter was?

No, just that it was urgent.

Okay, I’ll be there…it gives me time to stop off at Starbucks. Can I bring you anything?

I’m fine, William…see you shortly.

Rounding the east end of the Middle Dock water basin, I headed directly for the building with the distinctive Starbucks sign now visible a short distance away. The immediate area featured a number of popular European-style coffee shops but at least for now I found myself favoring the iconic American brand—a matter of habit perhaps, or maybe as a modest assertion of national identity. In any case, I went inside and ordered a small coffee and a butter croissant.

Despite the press of customers coming and going, I was able to secure a temporarily unoccupied table near the window facing the street. As I sipped my coffee and took a bite of the croissant I began to reflect on Julia’s phone call. The approach chosen by the solicitor seemed somewhat irregular, especially since I knew I hadn’t been in town long enough to become visible to private clients of the sort I sometimes dealt with back in San Francisco, where confidentiality and discretion played a key role. On the contrary, the few inquiries I’d received since arriving in London were from account executives who generally weren’t shy about identifying themselves or the name of their insurance company, and certainly weren’t reluctant to let Julia and me know the nature of the problem.

What the hell, I thought, looking at my watch, I’d probably learn soon enough what it was that concerned the mysterious solicitor. After a last sip of coffee I got up from the table and walked over to the trash bin, dropped off my cup and other paper refuse then stepped outside.

The temporary office space Chelsea had secured was located at the far end of Jubilee Park. Despite having traversed the length of the park for only a few weeks, I’d already made something of a habit of taking the scenic path at the center of the park rather than one of the bordering streets. The gurgling waters and ornamental plantings seemed to put me in a contemplative mood—one I often thought