I had better be right.
Gray closed his eyes, plagued by doubts.
His body was pressed deeper into his seat cushion as the Poseidon climbed steeply over the sea, leaving the chaos of Palma behind them. It had taken far longer to escape the island of Majorca than he had hoped.
Commander Pullman had helped coordinate the capture of the submarine, a Russian Lada-class boat. All but two of the crew had either died or shot themselves before being captured. The remaining pair were being interrogated, but Gray imagined the two were low-level drudges or hired mercenaries, who likely knew nothing significant, especially about their bosses.
By the time Gray and the others could slip away from the damaged cruise ship and meet up with the Poseidon, the sun had been near to setting. He stared out the window as the plane banked and headed toward where the sun sat on the horizon. He had not even told Commander Pullman where they were going, only to head west toward the Strait of Gibraltar.
Gray hadn’t even shared his destination with Director Crowe—or with those traveling with him. Seichan sat next to him, Kowalski and Maria behind, and Bailey and Mac ahead. Gray trusted this team, but he had kept his theories to himself. He feared discussing it on the ground amid the tumult of Palma.
Finally, the plane leveled off at cruising altitude.
Bailey twisted around and glared back at Gray. “Now can we talk about where we’re headed?”
Gray undid his seat belt. “Follow me.”
The group quickly clambered out of their seats. They sidled past the port-side row of monitoring stations. The crew seated there ignored their group and stayed focused on the various glowing screens.
Gray led his team toward the back of the jet, to where a galley offered more space to gather. He carried his e-tablet and the section of the gold coast that he’d pried out of the remains of the Da Vinci map. He placed both on the small counter and faced the others.
“First, let’s make sure I’m not crazy,” he said.
Kowalski lifted his hand, clearly ready with a wisecrack. Gray frowned at him, and Kowalski promptly lowered his arm.
“Tell us what you’re thinking,” Mac said.
Maria nodded.
Seichan merely folded her arms, as if already accepting his conclusions.
Gray turned to Kowalski. “You told us before, when the map was activated, that you didn’t see where the fiery line ended. Whether Elena did or not, she must’ve had some inkling of the pattern forming. I believe she was looking for corroboration in those geology texts.”
“Corroboration of what?” Bailey asked.
Gray raised a palm, asking to be allowed to finish. “Remember, Elena commented how the flaming route on the gold map looked like a representation of tectonic plates clashing together.”
Maria frowned. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
Gray picked up his e-tablet and opened an image he had stored there. It showed a map of the Mediterranean, broken up and divided into the five tectonic plates that underlay the entire region.
The others leaned in closer to study the image.
“What does this look like to you?” Gray asked.
He only got frowns and shakes of heads.
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Really?
He sighed, wondering if he wasn’t insane after all, seeing patterns that weren’t there. Director Crowe had recruited Gray for his ability to see what others couldn’t. But what if he’d lost his edge? Rather than noting what was real, was he now chasing phantoms?
Seichan reached to him and squeezed his forearm. Her gaze firmed on him, letting him see her confidence in him. “Show us,” she urged.
He reached over and swiped a finger across the tablet’s screen to transform the same image—now the winding path of lines between the tectonic plates became dashed, indicating a circuitous route through the geological labyrinth.
He held it higher.
Surely they see it now.
Maria was the first to recognize the pattern. She covered her mouth with a gasp. Then Bailey’s eyes widened. Seichan smiled and shrugged, not surprised. Even Mac nodded.
Only Kowalski furrowed his brow. “I don’t get it.”
Maria tried to explain and pointed to the coast of Turkey. “The dotted line—where the Anatolian plate runs up against the Eurasian plate to the north—starts at Troy.”
Bailey continued, “From there, it zigzags through the islands of the Aegean Sea, before sweeping south under Greece.”
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Mac pointed to the Ionian Sea. “And didn’t that tiny silver boat spin along that same path to the coast of Italy? Then under the boot and past Sicily to those little volcanic islands?”
“To Vulcano,” Kowalski said with a nod. “I remember the flaming river swooping from there to southern Sardinia. Then down to Africa and along its coast. The route looked a lot like what’s on your screen.”
Gray nodded. “The path of Odysseus’s ship appears to be following the boundaries between tectonic plates. At least the route revealed by the map. And maybe even what Homer tried to record in a poetic fashion.”
“But how is that possible?” Bailey asked. “How could these ancients know anything about plate tectonics?”
Gray shrugged. “I can only guess. Those same ancients mapped all the volcanic activity of the region, recorded all the major earthquakes in their texts. Perhaps they were able to get some inkling of the pattern of those underlying seismic forces.”
Maria offered another possibility he hadn’t even considered. “We know the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Egyptians were far more advanced in astronomy and navigational mapping. They kept records of significant places. The Giza pyramids. The other Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Even geographical landmarks, like Mount Vesuvius. Maybe by tracking the movements of these major sites over millennia they got some idea of the ground shifting beneath their feet.”
Gray knew that was pretty much how modern geologists mapped the movement of tectonic plates: using interferometry to track the changing distances between radio telescopes or GPS to gather positional data of landmarks on the earth and record their movements.
Mac suggested another option, drawing upon his earth sciences background as a climatologist. “Or maybe there were minute magnetic anomalies along these convergent plate boundaries that were detected and mapped?”
Gray nodded.
Could some combination of these be the answer?
Kowalski asked the more important question. “How does this help us know where to go?”
Gray held his tablet higher and showed where the line between the African plate and Eurasian plate continued to the west, cutting through the tip of northern Morocco. He switched over to a topographic map of Morocco with the convergent boundary drawn on it to better make his point.
“Hunayn obviously couldn’t take his ship overland through Morocco to continue along this path, so he took his dhow around, passing through the Strait of Gibraltar. From there I believe he turned south to the place where this tectonic line reemerges on the far side of the Moroccan coast.”
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Bailey squinted, but slowly nodded. “According to what you and Monsignor Roe discussed, you thought
Hunayn was searching for the home of the mysterious Phaeacians.”
Gray nodded. “A place described as far away, at the end of the world.”
“In other words, beyond the Strait of Gibraltar,” Bailey added.
Maria frowned. “But how can we be sure Hunayn ended up going south, looking for the continuation of the African-Eurasian boundary?”
“First, the derivation of the name Phaeacian. It comes from the Greek root Phaios, which means ‘gray.’”
“How appropriate,” Kowalski mumbled.
Gray ignored him. “The name Phaeacians means ‘the Gray People.’ Some scholars think this referred to a dark-skinned tribe.”
“As in Africans,” Mac said.
“And then there’s this,” Gray said.
He set down his tablet and picked up the golden piece of the map. It depicted the chunk of Africa south of the Strait of Gibraltar. He held it up and tilted it to better highlight the three-dimensional topography sculpted into its golden surface. He ran a finger along a row of ridges that cut across Morocco, a near mirror to what was shown on the topo map on his screen.
“These represent the Atlas Mountains,” he said. “Created by the African plate diving down and pushing up the edge of the Eurasian plate. The centermost gold ridge, closest to this subduction boundary, is the High Atlas Mountains, below it the Anti-Atlas Mountains. Between them lies a deep valley. If you look closely, you can see a river draining out of those highlands and emptying into the sea. That’s the Sous River basin.”
He passed the section of the gold map around so the others could get a better look.
When Bailey got his turn, Gray asked, “What do you see upriver, buried among the High Atlas Mountains near the coast?”
Bailey pushed his nose closer. “I see a little ruby. Is that what you mean?”
“On the map, what do rubies represent?” Gray asked.
Kowalski answered, “Volcanos.”
Gray straightened. “I looked it up. There are no volcanos in the mountains where that ruby is sitting.”
Maria clutched Kowalski’s arm.
“Hunayn marked that spot for a reason,” Gray said. “While it might not be a volcano, if you wanted to represent the fiery underworld, a ruby would serve nicely for that, too.”
Bailey pursed his lips, clearly bothered by something, which he finally voiced aloud. “But I thought the Phaeacians lived on an island.”
“No, that’s a common misconception,” Gray explained. “Nowhere in the Odyssey does Homer say they live on an island, only that they live close to the sea.”
“Which would fit a city situated near the coast,” Maria said.
Voices and footsteps drew their attention out of the galley. Commander Pullman approached with the plane’s tactical coordinator. Pullman eyed their group with a deep frown. Clearly he did not like being in the dark and wanted answers, too.
“We’re about to pass over the Strait of Gibraltar,” the commander said. “I need to know where we’re going next.”
Gray had already picked a spot, a town near the mouth of the Sous River, the gateway into the maze of mountain waterways.
“Agadir,” Gray said. “It’s a seaside resort three hundred miles south of Casablanca on the Moroccan coast. We need you to drop us off there. Then stick close by.”
Pullman looked like he wanted to ask why, but Gray silenced him with a hard stare. The commander huffed, turned on a heel, and headed off with his tactical coordinator. Pullman groused to his second-in-command. “Feels like we’re being hijacked.”
Gray turned away. He knew it was risky using this large plane as a transport vehicle versus some private jet, but the Poseidon was equipped with the latest sonar, radar, and tracking equipment. Gray wanted those sophisticated eyes in the air, looking down from above, helping his team below hunt for the lost underground city, for the mythic Tartarus.
“So, we’re heading somewhere south of Casablanca,” Maria said.
Kowalski grinned. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns—” Then he stopped and turned to Maria with a serious frown. “Wait. This Agadir place has gin joints, too, right?”
29
June 26, 10:22 A.M. WEST
Agadir, Morocco
Yes, Agadir had gin joints.
As the rental SUV bumped over a pothole, Maria shaded her eyes against the glare of the midmorning sun. She was still nursing a slight hangover. Her head pounded; her stomach lurched with every sway. Slouched in the front seat, she clutched a thermos of coffee. She suspected a fair amount of her fuzziness was less from the combination of gin cocktails than from the lack of sleep.
By the time the jet had reached Agadir, the plane had to circle as Gray coordinated with Painter in the States to get permission to land at a royal Moroccan air base outside the city. They had finally touched down on a remote strip at midnight. The area had been cordoned off. The story: just an American jet refueling on a base friendly to U.S. interests. Any other information about the new arrivals was kept on a need-to-know basis.
Still, Gray had shuttled their group quickly off the base and over to a nondescript hotel near the ocean. Unfortunately, there had been a bar next door. Both tired and amped, she and Joe had gone over for a nightcap. But one drink became three. Then they retired to their own bedroom for a proper reunion, only falling asleep after three in the morning.
She glanced over to the driver’s seat. Joe clutched the wheel with one hand, his other elbow resting on the sill of the open window. He had a stogie clenched between his back molars. He leaned and puffed a stream of smoke toward the window, only to have it blow right back into the SUV. Still, the breeze gusting off the ocean helped clear her head more than the coffee.
Joe looked none the worse, refreshed even, better than would be expected for a guy who’d had only four hours of gin-soaked sleep. Not that they hadn’t catnapped on the plane. Still, she felt something had changed in him. They had slept naked, no sheets as it was too hot. Joe nestled against her, enveloping her smaller frame with his bulk, but it felt less possessive than it had a few days prior, more relaxed. She wondered if, over the past months, he had innately sensed the doubts growing inside her. It was as if the more she pulled away, the harder he had tried to hold her, which in turn only aggravated her more. It was a vicious cycle that had threatened their future together.
But that wheel had finally broken.
She knew it—and somehow so did Joe. She remembered where this trip had started. She had hoped that by taking Joe to see the young gorilla Baako, it would rekindle something between them, reopen those cracks in the man’s hard demeanor, revealing his more tender side. But she realized Joe hadn’t changed. There was always a steadfast well of empathy and compassion inside him, as much a core to him as his bones. It was Maria who had changed, letting her doubts come between them, forcing Joe to cling tighter to her.
She reached over and squeezed his thigh, silently thanking him.
He winced, almost biting off the end of his cigar.
“Sorry.” She had forgotten about his healing burn.
She pulled her hand away, but he let go of the wheel, grabbed her hand, and returned her palm to his leg. He patted it and returned his grip to the wheel.
She smiled and settled deeper into her seat, feeling much better, more grounded. Even her headache had passed. She turned to watch the scenery. Rolling white dunes and achingly blue water stretched on one side, and on the other, tracts of green farmlands climbed up in tiers toward the towering peaks of the High Atlas Mountains. They cut a jagged line across the northern sky, crashing into the Atlantic to the west and climbing higher to the east, where several of the tallest peaks—a few over thirteen thousand feet—still glinted with winter’s snow.
Closer at hand, the resort city of Agadir grew in size ahead, a lush oasis hugging a long, wide crescent of sandy coast. The resort’s colorful promenade—crowded with restaurants and more bars—faced the sea. Palm trees swayed throughout the town, as if beckon
ing them to rest their weary bones.
She had not expected it to be this green. She had always pictured Morocco as a country of red rocks and desert, but the Sous River valley was a fertile Eden, surrounded and protected to the north and south by the two ranges thrust upward by the clash of tectonic forces below.
From the third row of the SUV, Father Bailey commented on the history of these peaks and their ties to the Greeks. “The local Berbers called these ranges the Idraren Draren, or ‘Mountains of Mountains,’ but the ancient Greeks’ name for the place stuck. They believed it was here that the huge-shouldered god Atlas was punished by Zeus to hold up the skies at the edge of the world.”
Mac sat next to the priest. “And this is the edge of the world?”
“For the ancient Greeks, yes. Anything past the Strait of Gibraltar was no-man’s-land.”
And where they believed the entrance to Tartarus was hidden.
Maria stared up at the sharp line of ridges rising ahead. She read the deeper geologic past in the strata of purple, red, and white, the layers of sedimentary rock from prehistoric oceans. She noted the streaks of black basalt from ancient, long-dead volcanos.
Somewhere in that labyrinth of rivers, cliffs, and waterfalls was their goal.
But where?
Luckily, they had more to help them than just a shard of gold map with a ruby affixed to it.
Gray’s voice whispered behind her from the middle row, communicating to Commander Pullman, who already had his plane in the air, his crew aiding their search from above via the Poseidon’s radar and tracking equipment. Gray had also enlisted Director Crowe to commandeer a satellite pass of the area, using ground-penetrating scans to try to detect hidden pockets that might point to an underground city.
As Gray hung up, Seichan asked the question on all their minds. “Anything?”
Gray huffed, “Unfortunately, too much. It seems these saw-toothed mountains have not seen a dentist in millennia. The peaks ahead are riddled with cavities. There are caves and tunnels throughout these ranges.”
“Then sounds like we’re doing it the hard way,” Joe said, guiding them through the town’s outskirts, crossing alongside a golf course. “On foot.”
The Last Odyssey: A Thriller Page 26