by Rob Jones
Blanco took the wheel and burned away from the driver, deliberately driving in the wrong direction until he was out of sight and then turning and heading west once again. As they cruised west, Quinn said, “Did any of that just happen?”
“Sure did,” Jodie said. “Life moves pretty fast, right?”
Her words melted into a long, soft silence as Blanco drove the car safely to Piraeus. When they pulled up at the terminal, Amy spoke first. “What time does the ferry go, Quinn?”
The goth had been busy on her computer for most of the drive and she replied instantly. “Next one is at midday tomorrow.”
“We have to be careful,” Hunter said. “Papademos will be putting out an all ports warning as we speak and when the taxi driver identifies us he’ll locate us not too far from the ferry terminal.”
“So when are we boarding the ferry?” Jodie asked.
“Now, while it’s dark,” Blanco said.
Quinn looked confused. “But how do we get on board?”
Blanco put a fatherly arm around her shoulder, his mind full of memories of how he boarded Raul Vazquez’s yacht for the Atlantis mission. “Ever climb up an anchor chain?”
She turned sharply and frowned at him. “What?”
“Because I have, and it can actually be very liberating.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The former KGB colonel lit his Ziganov cigarette and clipped shut his old Soviet lighter. Blowing the smoke out slowly through his nose, he felt the tension slowly flood out of him like poison drained from a snakebite. They had lost Gallo’s lion statue to the hands of Hunter and Fox and the rest of the meddling HARPA team, but all was not lost.
“Vasya, let me see the images you took back in the palazzo,” Neverov said.
Lugovoy tossed the colonel the compact camera he had used to photograph it after the Gallo raid. “They’re on this.”
Gubenko knocked back a shot of vodka. “You want to see the pretty pictures of the little statue, boss?”
Medinsky gave him a bitter look. “It’s an ágalma, ignoramus.”
Gubenko leapt to his feet and drew his knife. “You want to call me that again?”
The other man squared up to him and drew his own combat knife, a hideously savage weapon with a high carbon steel serrated blade. Its black epoxy coating reflected the room’s light in a quick dull flash as he waved it in Gubenko’s face. “If you think I’m scared of you, you’re crazy. But then, you are crazy!”
Gubenko’s lip curled. “I’ll gut you like a pig, zasranets!”
Medinsky bristled at the insult. “If you think I’m such a shitass why not come over here and teach me a lesson I’ll never forget?”
“Enough!” Neverov yelled, smacking the knife from Medinsky’s hand and then pushing Gubenko roughly back down into his chair. He stuffed the photos of the statue inside his tactical vest and sighed wearily. “Enough of this bullshit! We have a job to do and we must stay focussed.”
“I am focussed!” Gubenko snarled.
“Focussed? You were disarmed by a common thief, and a woman at that!”
The other Wolves laughed as Gubenko slunk back over to his vodka, mumbling under his breath. Neverov’s mind had already moved on. Like the others, he had to retain focus.
Focus and determination. He took another shot of vodka straight from the bottle and a second, much deeper drag on the Ziganov. The look of betrayal and horror on Professor Samaras’s face still haunted him even after all these years.
Old man Grudinin had gunned him down in the cave inside Mount Sinai over thirty years ago but if he thought about it hard enough, it all came flooding back. The crack of the nine mil round leaving the Tokarev’s barrel. The way it split the cave’s grim silence as it ripped through the damp air toward the Greek scholar. The rancid sulphur smell of the gun smoke. The noise Samaras made when he saw the blood blooming on his dusty shirt.
The way he felt when he knew he was a party to murder.
Professor Samaras was the first man he had seen killed, but he was not the last. It pained him to think how after Sinai, he had moved on from witness to killer. If he could seek redemption for his crimes, he knew he would. His beloved parents, Mikhail and Daria back in their plain, sad khrushchyovka apartment in Omsk would have been disgusted if they had ever discovered what he had become – the monster the KGB had turned him into – Colonel Vladimir Mikhailovich Neverov, decorated hero and common murderer.
Redemption.
But from where could he seek it? He was steeped in the old Communist Party and conformed to all its doctrines. He had learnt lots from old Grudinin, chiefly that there was certainly no God in this world. What a ridiculous idea! he thought. No, God was for men like Samaras. If Neverov sought redemption, then he must do it for himself. More Ziganov smoke burned down into his lungs, leaving its sickly trail of tar on everything it touched.
Lugovoy snapped his phone shut and sniffed. “That was Sergei, my contact in the FSB.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that after Rome, the HARPA travelled to Greece and came under attack in Athens.”
“Greece?”
“He tracked their transponder.”
Neverov’s eyes swivelled to his old comrade. “But they came under attack? Who?”
A shrug. “He does not know, but whoever they are, they killed their Greek contact Venizelos and then exchanged fire with the HARPA team at the Acropolis. Special Agent Fox and the rest of the team were taken into custody by the Greek authorities afterwards. That is all he has.”
Neverov thought carefully about what he had just heard. “Who else is on the trail of our little relic, Vasya?”
“I don’t know, but they were well armed.”
The ex-KGB colonel gave a resigned nod, whoever was involved in these things was always well armed. “Did Sergei manage to get the tracking device onto the HARPA team as I ordered?”
“He did. It’s inside the geek’s computer. He put it there during the skirmish at the Acropolis.”
“And where are they now?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Lugovoy said, aware that his words had silenced Gubenko and Medinsky’s conversation and got the interest of even the Spetsnaz men. “But they are on board a ferry in Piraeus.”
Neverov stubbed out his cigarette, and took one final vodka. “Where and when does this ferry go?”
“The island of Patmos, midday tomorrow.”
Neverov grinned. “Transfer the money to Sergei and send my thanks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But where are they going on the island?” Medinsky asked.
“It has to be the Cave of the Apocalypse,” Neverov muttered.
Lugovoy said, “Should I call the authorities and have them arrest the HARPA team in Piraeus?”
“No, not at all. Let them go. We will fly to the island and get there before them. Make all necessary preparations, Vasya. I want fresh weapons and ammunition.”
“I’ll ask Sergei when I pay him.”
“Good work,” said Neverov. “It looks like we are back in the game.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Blue Star ferry crossing had been a welcome break for the team. Seven hours of gentle sailing across the Aegean Sea with the sun slowly setting at its stern, the nineteen thousand ton passenger ship had made good time and given the HARPA members time to patch themselves up and get some sleep. Now, as it weaved its way around the south coast of Ikaria, Amy, Hunter and the others were gathered at an outside bar on the starboard deck.
“I still can’t believe what happened to Kostas,” Amy said, taking the top off a cold beer. “I’ve worked with him for years and to see him murdered like that…”
As her words trailed away, Blanco stepped up to the plate. “He was a great guy who worked hard to get relic smugglers behind bars. He made a real difference to the world and I’m sure as hell going to miss him, too.”
He and Amy chinked glasses. No one else on the team h
ad met Venizelos before, but it was easy to see how much he had meant to Amy and Blanco. As the ship rolled slightly in a gentle swell, Hunter sipped some beer and set it down on a coaster. “We’ll be in Patmos in less than two hours, and I don’t know about the rest of the team but my theology could do with a brush up. Ben?”
Lewis finished some beer and smiled. “But where to start?”
“At the beginning?” Quinn said.
“It was a rhetorical question,” he said, broadening his toothy smile even further. “And the answer is with some basic facts. First, let’s talk some more about the Book of Revelation. If John really did write an extra chapter and hide it from the world, you need to know more about this whole subject.”
“Should I take notes?’ Hunter asked.
Jodie said, “How about shutting your yap and listening?”
“I can do that.”
Lewis sipped his beer. “First, the oldest copy of the bible’s New Testament is what we call the Codex Vaticanus. It’s safely locked up in the Vatican and composed of nearly eight hundred pages of vellum. It’s been dated with special palaeographic techniques to the fourth century.”
“Old,” Jodie said.
“Yes, very old,” said Lewis.
Finally unable to hide her interest, Quinn set her laptop down on the chair and turned to face Lewis. “What was your PhD thesis on again?”
“Concepts of Death in the Book of Revelation.”
“So, right now you’re feeling kinda smug and important.”
“Pretty much, yeah. And before you ask, the Codex Vaticanus might be old, but it’s not complete. There are several books not included in the original version of the codex – mostly from the gospels – but also, and importantly for us, the Book of Revelation.”
“So if they’re not in the codex, they could be in the cave with the final statue,” Jodie said. “Which is sort of our current theory, right?”
Lewis sighed. “Maybe. Look, we believe there are over three hundred separate manuscripts of Revelation, all in Greek, and most of them turn up in other uncial codices.”
Jodie frowned and lowered the beer bottle from her lips. “Huh?”
“It’s a type of script common to Europe in the early dark ages,” Lewis said. “Don’t worry about it. The point is these manuscripts have mostly made it into the other codices and from this we have formed our knowledge of the Book of Revelation. But just imagine if when John had his vision of the ascended Jesus Christ, he was told other things about the end of the world. Imagine if he was told other things which he wrote down onto a manuscript which never made it to any of these codices.”
Quinn shuddered. “Getting chills over here.”
“All of this over a pile of vellum scrolls,” said Jodie.
“Not just any old pile of vellum scrolls,” Lewis said. He sipped more beer, clearly enjoying his moment in the spotlight. “Like I just said – the Book of Revelation is clear about the end of the world and the picture it paints ain’t pretty, but what if there’s more? What if Jesus told John something else in his vision?”
Quinn arched an eyebrow. “Like maybe stop taking psychotropic drugs before walking in the hills?”
“You’re so cynical, Quinn,” Lewis said.
“Am I?” she said. “I read that the entire Bible story was nothing more than the result of some crazy mushroom-taking fertility cult. Imagine the entire West being built on that. Give me a break.”
Lewis sighed and shook his head. “You’re talking about a theory ascribing the taking of the amanita muscaria mushroom to the development of ancient Sumerian cults, from which some claim the Christian Bible descends. It’s just another theory. I’m talking about the Book of Revelation, and for the purposes of what we’re talking about, its provenance is irrelevant.”
“You’re full of fancy big words tonight,” Jodie said.
Amy and Hunter exchanged an amused glance as Lewis blew out a deep breath and started again. “So, as I was saying, the final book in the New Testament, the Book of Revelation is of central importance to Christian eschatology.”
“Eschatology?” Jodie asked.
“It’s the part of theology that deals with the end of the world, and the judgement of the soul in the afterlife.”
“Ah,” Blanco said. “The scary stuff.”
“One of the central ideas that John was trying to discuss in the Book of Revelation was the afterlife, especially in Revelation 20 and I think he genuinely believed what he was writing about. Remember, he lived in the first century AD back when the existence of God simply wasn’t challenged. He wouldn’t have fooled around on the subject.”
Jodie lit a cigarette and kicked back on the soft chair. “Maybe we should take a leaf out of his book, so to speak.”
“Why, afraid?” Quinn said.
“Bite me, dorkette.”
“Ouch,” Quinn said. “The kitten has claws.”
“I ain’t no kitten, dude.”
“As fascinating as it is, watching you two trade barbs,” Hunter said. “Perhaps our time would be better spent if we got back to the briefing? I might be a bloody amazing archaeologist but I know next to nothing about Biblical scholarship.”
“But you’re too modest,” Quinn said.
Amy cracked a smile. “He has much to be modest about. Right, Maximilian?”
“Anything you say, Amadea.”
Lewis and Blanco laughed and shared a high five.
“I knew he knew about that,” Lewis said, taking another sip of his beer. “Knew it.”
Hunter held in his laugh and broke away from the banter at the table to look over at the sun as it set down on the sea. Behind him, he heard Amy’s voice grow more serious.
“Changing subject for a second, anyone think there’s a link between Neverov and the men who killed Kostas?” she asked.
Lewis shrugged. “We have no evidence to suggest there’s any connection, but I think we’re all making that assumption in our hearts.”
Blanco gave a solemn nod. “That’s what I was thinking, and if so then I think we all know what that means – we’re up against much more than we thought.”
The chatter at the table fell silent.
“It means this time it’s personal,” Amy said. “After what they did to Kostas Venizelos, we have a big score to settle.”
“Before we all get carried away,” said Jodie, “let’s not forget what Amy just said – there’s zero evidence linking the Wolf Pack to the men who attacked us in Athens. Not an ounce.”
“She’s right,” Lewis said. “Maybe the tattooed men are pulling Neverov’s strings, maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe they’re not connected at all. We can’t let our fears cloud our judgement. This is just too important.”
Hunter nodded. “It certainly is as far as archaeological discoveries are concerned. Not to mention the threat to world peace and stability if they get their hands on whatever John of Patmos was trying to hid in the lost scroll.”
Amy sighed. “I see the ferry terminal. C’mon everyone – let’s get back to the hotel and get some food.”
“Good idea.” Blanco groaned as he heaved himself up out of his chair. “I’ve had enough hell raising for one day.”
“You and me both, brother,” Lewis said. “We don’t know when we’ll get another chance to get some decent food, and it’s on Jim, right?”
*
At the hotel, they organized rooms and met downstairs in the restaurant. After they ordered drinks, they picked up their menus and took in the wide range of excellent meals on offer. Blanco and Quinn chose the marinated seabass with avocado and bottarga, while Lewis went with a beef fillet with beetroot leaves and cream cheese. Amy selected the roasted carré of pork with celeriac and quince and a fig-walnut sauce.
“Blue blood food,” Quinn said.
Amy ignored her. “What are you having, Jodie?”
“Nothing on here,” she said. “Is there a burger place anywhere close?”
“I hear t
hat,” Hunter said.
Amy sighed and closed her menu. “You can’t be serious.”
Hunter also closed his menu. “You think I’m the kind of person who eats smoked aubergine salad with pine honey and quail eggs?”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to try something slightly more elevated from your usual diet.”
Blanco laughed. “You’re casting pearls before swine, boss.”
“This is what I call frou-frou food,” Hunter said. “All hat and no cattle.”
“Yeah,” Jodie said. “All sizzle and no steak.”
“Exactly,” said Hunter. “All fur coat and no knickers.”
Jodie stifled a laugh. “That’s what I think, too.”
The Londoner caught the young thief’s eye. “You want to go and find a burger together?”
Jodie hesitated, and the table quietened. Everyone on the team knew how long it took for her to open up to strangers, so when she tossed her menu down and pushed her chair back, they all hid their surprise well.
“Let’s do it,” she said. “If the Apocalypse is imminent, what the hell, right?”
Hunter gave Amy a shrug. “See you frou-frou guys later.”
He got up from his chair and walked out of the hotel. Jodie was behind him, and now she turned and winked at the team. “Don’t wait up, kids.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The sun was bright and hot before breakfast. Inside the whitewashed Skala Hotel, the team were nursing some sore heads thanks to a few too many ouzos the night before. Everyone except Hunter and Jodie. They hadn’t returned from the burger bar until well after midnight, causing much drunken speculation about what had happened.
Up in her room, a shower had never felt so good to Amy Fox. She stood beneath the large chrome shower rose and let the hot water run over her. It splashed on her forehead, rushed through her hair and massaged her neck and shoulders. Blowing out a deep breath, she felt the stress of Athens flowing out of her and disappearing down the drain with the used water.