Kowalski turned back to the view. The sun had dropped lower, further igniting those crystalline cinder cones. “It does look like it’s on fire.”
Elena stood up and joined him at the window. “Maybe that’s why the Greeks thought Hephaestus was still working here. They believed this place was where he crafted weapons for Ares, the god of war. Deep beneath the island, Hephaestus would hammer and stoke his fires. The Greeks believed the periodic explosions of smoke and ash from the island’s volcanos were due to the mighty blacksmith clearing out his chimneys. But really all the volcanic activity here is just the African tectonic plate jamming itself northward into the Eurasian plate.”
“Not quite as romantic,” Kowalski said.
“No, it’s not,” she admitted.
As they watched, the sun finally sank away and winked out.
Kowalski shared a worried look with her. “Sun’s down,” he said. “You know what that means.”
She nodded and hurried back to her desk.
He followed her, clanking his chains. “I don’t think any last-minute cramming is going to help.”
After they had boarded the yacht, their captor—the cold-eyed woman named Nehir—had marched them up to this lounge, where several of her crew dumped boxes of books. She had then locked them both in here, with a simple instruction: Impress me by sundown or he’ll suffer.
It was clearly a test.
And I’m the whipping boy.
Though they weren’t exactly planning to whip him.
While being put into chains, he had noted a crate being opened. The hulking brute, Kadir, removed a brazier, a tripod, and a heavy sheaf of branding irons. As he did so, the giant never took his dead eyes off Kowalski.
Even now, as Kowalski reached Elena’s desk, his left thigh throbbed from the red-hot poker burned into him this morning. The bastards, at least, had done him the courtesy of bandaging the wound. Not out of kindness, he figured, but more out of a concern that their whipping boy might die prematurely of blood poisoning. They certainly didn’t bother to set his broken nose, only taped it. Nor did they address the giant bruise across his lower back after almost breaking his spine.
I mean, how much can a few goddamn ibuprofens cost?
The double doors to the lounge swung open behind Elena. She turned with a slight flinch. Armed guards could be seen posted out in the hall, along with the shadowy mountainous threat of Kadir, who stood with his thick arms crossed.
Nehir swept into the room, all in black, even the scarf over her hair. She was accompanied by two men with stubby assault rifles in their hands. They were taking no chances with Kowalski.
Nehir’s dark eyes took in the room, lingering on the sprawl of books and papers on the desk. “I see you’ve been busy.”
Elena turned back to Kowalski, her eyes bright with fear as she looked up at him. They both knew what came next.
Test time.
9:06 P.M.
I’m not ready.
Elena looked aghast at the piles of books. She knew they must have come from the subterranean library back in Turkey. The collection had been brought to her without any preamble or explanation. There were works by Greek, Roman, and Persian scholars. Hundreds of books. She barely had time to sort them, let alone digest them.
In the crates, she found Plato’s Timaeus and Critias, which dealt with his theories on Atlantis. Then there was Aeschylus’s Agamemnon, which offered another view of the Trojan War. Then Medea by Euripides, the tragic story of a witch who fell in love with the mythic warrior Jason. Elena barely had time to skim through the two fat books of Histories by Herodotus.
And that was just the Greeks.
Still, she knew what was expected of her without being told.
Nehir voiced it with her first question, as she waved out to sea. “Do you know why we’re here?”
Elena licked her lips and stood, feeling better without this woman looming over her. “That’s Vulcano, home to the mythic foundry of the god Hephaestus.”
A nod.
Elena stared down at the three works she had decided were the most important. The first two were obvious. Nehir had given her photocopies of the two books found aboard the ancient dhow. Elena added another: a two-thousand-page treatise by the Greek historian Strabo, titled Geographica.
She reached down and placed a palm on the copy of the captain’s journal. “Hunayn’s account stops shortly after it starts, but where it left off, he admits to reaching what he calls the Forge of Hephaestus.” She looked over to Nehir. “Which must be this island.”
“As our Mūsā had also devised.”
“And I must be here to help you pick up the trail that vanished into history, to find out where Hunayn went next.”
“Precisely.” She waved across the stacked books and scribbled notepads. “So, what have you determined?”
Joe scoffed loudly. “Really? You expect her to solve a mystery in five hours that you all couldn’t figure out after five centuries.”
“Eleven centuries, actually.” Nehir seemed unfazed by his outburst and kept her focus on Elena. “But I do expect Dr. Cargill to have figured out why the traitorous Hunayn chose to come here. Why did he seek out the Forge of Hephaestus?”
Elena did her best to answer. She shifted her hand over to the thick volume of Strabo’s Geographica. “According to what the captain wrote, he put great faith in Strabo. The historian not only admired Homer for his poetry, but he also believed—like Hunayn—that the Iliad and the Odyssey were based on real events. Strabo vehemently advocated his position and sought proof, which he gathered and put into this book. Knowing this, the captain picked apart Strabo’s work, looking for clues on where to go next.”
“And what specifically drew Hunayn to these shores?”
Elena moved her palm again, this time coming to rest on the Arabic copy of Homer’s Odyssey. “Hunayn marked up his volume of Homer’s epic. Underlining sections and making notes. But he seemed especially intrigued by the creations of Hephaestus.” She turned to pages she had dog-eared. She translated one of those sections aloud. “‘On either side there stood gold and silver mastiffs which Hephaestus, with his consummate skill, had fashioned expressly to keep watch over the palace of King Alcinous; so they were immortal and could never grow old.’”
“Immortal dogs?” Joe asked.
“Made of precious metals,” Elena added. “Gold and silver. Homer is describing metal dogs that could move on their own. Plainly it was a topic that caught Hunayn’s imagination and interest. Especially as he and his three brothers—the Banū Mūsā —had written multiple books about crafting mechanical tools.”
Nehir nodded. “Like The Book of Ingenious Devices.”
“Exactly. So, of course, Hunayn’s attention focused on what Hephaestus had crafted. In the margin of that section I just read, Hunayn also copied passages from Homer’s Iliad, where it states that Hephaestus’s forge had little wheeled tripods that ran about on their own, doing his bidding, while the god was also served by ‘golden handmaids who bustled about their master like living women.’ Again, Homer is describing automatons, including mechanical women who did whatever he asked.”
“Gotta admit it,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t mind a couple of those.”
Elena ignored him. “It’s clear that Hunayn was obsessed with this subject. He made a few more notes in the margins about other references to such wonders. Bronze horses that could pull chariots. A metal-winged eagle that Zeus sent to torture Prometheus for stealing fire. And if Hunayn believed, like Strabo, that Homer’s stories were true—then why not these creations of Hephaestus?”
“So, you’re thinking he went looking for them,” Joe said.
She nodded. “While I don’t know where he went to look, I do know who he was searching for.”
Nehir frowned with disbelief. “Truly?”
Elena flipped to another marked section of the captain’s copy of the Odyssey. “Shortly after Odysseus left the Underworld, he ended up in a strange los
t kingdom, one that is ‘the farthermost of men, and no other mortals are conversant with them.’ These people—the Phaeacians—were also mysteriously advanced technologically. Their ships are described as fast as ‘falcons, swiftest of birds’ and capable of sailing by themselves. You plug in a course, and the ship takes you there. In fact, it’s how Odysseus finally makes it back home, aboard a Phaeacian ship.”
Nehir dismissed this account with a wave. “I see now. You believe it is these Phaeacians who the traitor Hunayn was trying to find. Why?”
“Remember those gold and silver dogs that Hephaestus created. The Odyssey states the god gave them to a king—King Alcinous. He was the ruler of the Phaeacians.”
Nehir’s brows furrowed.
“Here was a god who gave gifts to an unknown people. Maybe supplied them with a whole lot more. It had to intrigue Hunayn. He and his brothers were always scavenging for knowledge lost by other kingdoms. Hunayn’s whole voyage started because he was tasked with finding more about the people who he names in his journal as the ‘Great Enemy of Homer’s time,’ a people who wiped out three kingdoms in one fell swoop. Who could possibly have the strength and technology to accomplish that?”
Nehir met her gaze. “The Phaeacians.”
“Considering Hunayn’s mind-set and obsession, I see him coming to that conclusion.” Elena faced her adversary. “Hunayn left here looking for the Phaeacians. And if I’m right, I think it might give us some guidance on where to go next.”
As Nehir remained quiet, Elena sank back to her seat and bit her lip, hoping it had been enough. Finally, the woman turned and barked at the door, summoning Kadir.
Oh, no . . .
The giant barged into the room, ducking his head to enter. As he marched inside, Elena cast an apologetic look at Joe.
I’m sorry.
Kadir crossed to the desk, carrying a large cloth-bound bundle under one arm. She imagined it was some new device to torture Joe, to punish her for failing this test. Instead the giant swung the object up, and with surprising gentleness, placed it on top of her notes, then stepped back.
“That is your next challenge,” Nehir said and waved for Elena to open it.
She stood up and unfolded the bundle. She gasped as she recognized the age-tarnished bronze box from the frozen dhow. Her hands trembled over its surface—not at the fear of its low-level radiation, but at the treasure inside.
She stared over at Nehir. “What do you want me—?”
The woman turned away, motioned Kadir to follow, and said, “By noon tomorrow, I expect new insight into the map of the Banū Mūsā.” She cast a look back at Elena—then Joe. “Or else Kadir will be teaching you both a much harder lesson.”
Elena stepped after the woman. “I can’t possibly do that. You know parts are missing.” She pictured the astrolabe tumbling out of its cradle in the map.
Nehir ignored her and left with the other men.
Elena returned to her desk and stared down at the centuries-old artifact.
Joe joined her. “Pick up your pencils, kids,” he said. “Time for part two of the test.”
Elena reached down and lifted the lid, revealing the map. Again, its gold and precious jewels reflected the light, gleaming with a fiery magnificence. She gasped again and almost dropped the lid back down.
How could this be?
Inside the box, nestled in that golden glow, shone a brilliant silvery sphere, inscribed with constellations and symbols and encircled by the arms of decorated compasses.
It was the missing astrolabe—the Daedalus Key returned again to its cradle.
Joe groaned. “This can’t be good.”
19
June 24, 10:08 A.M. CEST
Cagliari, Sardinia
This had better be worth it.
Gray strode up the steep street in the heart of Cagliari’s old town, the seaside capital of the island of Sardinia. Ahead, the narrow avenue passed under a huge stone arch, flanked by Doric pillars and topped by an entablature of a crown and shield with the title REGIO ARSENALE beneath it. This corner of the old city, known as the Arsenal, once housed the city’s military barracks and prison.
But no longer.
Outside the arched gate, a long black banner hung with the silver words MUSEO ARCHEOLOGICO NAZIONALE DI CAGLIARI emblazoned on it. The former military square beyond the archway now served as Cagliari’s museum district.
Monsignor Roe led Gray under the stone arch, talking nonstop, sharing Sardinia’s history. It seemed the Mediterranean’s second-largest island had a rich military history. Gray barely heard any of it, knowing the priest was nervous, anxious after all that had happened.
He wasn’t the only one.
Seichan trailed a few steps to the side. Her gaze swept every inch of the sunbaked plaza as they entered it.
Piazza Arsenale already bustled with locals going about their morning, along with clutches of excited tourists gathered around guides holding up flags or umbrellas, likely groups from the three massive cruise ships docked at the city’s port. Overhead, seagulls screamed and swooped, while underfoot, clutches of pigeons danced about people’s legs.
At least the crowds and noise offered some cover.
Yesterday, after the attack on Castel Gandolfo, Gray had wanted somewhere to get out of sight, both to regroup and to hide the fact they had survived the bombardment. Monsignor Roe had recommended coming here, sailing two hundred miles to the island of Sardinia. They had traveled sixteen hours aboard a fishing trawler, captained by an old family friend of the priest, coming to port after two in the morning.
The others were still ensconced at a small seaside hotel. Gray had left Maria and Mac, both bleary-eyed and still shell-shocked, nursing mugs of coffee. Father Bailey had returned to his study of the treasured Da Vinci map. All of them were guarded over by Major Bossard.
Without knowing whom to trust or which agencies had been leaking intel to the enemy, Gray had needed his group to stay lost. He had even removed the batteries from his encrypted satellite phone. Instead, he had bought two burner phones this morning from a kiosk outside the cruise terminal by their hotel; he’d left one phone with Maria and carried the other in his pocket. It was the best he could manage.
For now, they had to remain ghosts.
As he and the others reached the steps leading up to the museum, Gray finally stopped their guide. “Monsignor Roe, why did you want to come here?”
And Gray didn’t just mean this museum. The priest clearly had some reason to suggest traveling to Sardinia. Gray hadn’t pressed the matter. The island was as good as anywhere to vanish from the world. Plus, the monsignor was obviously exhausted and haunted after seeing his home—where he’d been born—destroyed. He had also lost an untold number of friends and colleagues. Even his life’s work—the Holy Scrinium—was likely beyond salvaging.
So, Gray had given the old man some latitude, but now he wanted answers, sensing some intent behind the priest’s recommendation to come here.
Roe shaded his eyes, staring at the museum entrance, then nodded. “Si. I have a friend here, someone I’ve known for decades and trust with my life. If you would know your enemy, he will help.”
“What do you mean by know your enemy? How could anyone here know about who attacked us yesterday?”
“No, you misunderstand. He will not help us with that. Though I’ve given that question much thought while we sailed here. I had a hard time sleeping aboard the boat, with all its rocking and jostling.”
Gray imagined it wasn’t the trawler’s lack of stability that had kept the old priest awake.
“After all that thinking, I may have some insight,” Roe admitted, looking a little sheepish. “Maybe not insight. Hunch might be the better word.”
Seichan sidled next to them but kept her eyes on the square. “I’ll take even a hunch if it’ll help us find those monsters.”
Roe patted her arm, as if she were the one who needed consoling. “Last night, I went over and over again in
my head what you told me. About Dr. MacNab’s story in Greenland. About the horrors he saw. It struck me as strange that the enemy would so readily leave that place without the astrolabe, what they called the Daedalus Key. All that effort, only to recover part of the map device.”
“As I understand it, things went south quickly,” Gray said. “The assault team lost most of its men.”
“You may be right, but you mentioned that they spoke Arabic, and that they seemed to know far more about all of this.”
“What are you getting at?” Seichan asked.
“Do you remember the pictures I showed you of the only surviving spherical astrolabe? It was also made in Arabia. Signed by its maker, a man named Mūsā. It looks very much like what Dr. MacNab recovered from that ship. It made me wonder last night if what is sitting in the Oxford museum was someone’s attempt to replicate the Daedalus Key. If you remember, the schematics that Da Vinci used to craft his version of the map were missing the plans for the astrolabe. That page had been torn away.”
Gray considered the implication. “You’re thinking someone still has that missing page—at least part of it—and tried to replicate it.”
“And maybe they succeeded, maybe they created their own Daedalus Key.”
If the monsignor was correct, then the enemy could already have both pieces to the puzzle: the original Banū Mūsā map and a replicated astrolabe.
Roe shrugged. “But like I said, it’s a hunch. Or maybe just the fevered imagination of a tired priest. Either way, that surviving astrolabe in Oxford had the Arabic date of 885 inscribed on it, which is 1480 in the Gregorian calendar. If someone had been trying to re-create the Daedalus Key, they must have been attempting to do so for centuries. If I’m right, then someone has preserved that knowledge all this time, perhaps a secret society. Maybe our unknown enemy is part of that same group. Like you said, they certainly do seem to know more about all of this than anyone else.”
The Last Odyssey: A Thriller Page 17