The Spear of Atlantis (Wilde/Chase 14)

by Andy McDermott

  Ana vaulted him, outstretched fingers rigid as iron bars as she stabbed them into the eyes of Eddie’s attacker. The man shrieked and tried to jump back, but she had already gripped his arm to propel him into another Moroccan coming at her with a knife. The blade sank into his side. The second goon realised what he had done and yanked it out, blood spurting.

  The Brazilian was already attacking again, kicking the wounded man in the stomach. He slammed against the knifeman, getting a matching stab wound to his other side as both of them fell down the stairs into the men coming up from below, starting a chain reaction of falling thugs.

  Eddie raised himself from the floor. Ana was regaining her balance after her flying kick – oblivious of another man behind her. ‘Look out!’

  She turned – but too late.

  The Moroccan swung a cosh, a heavy lump of leather-wrapped metal. The home-made weapon was crude – but effective. It struck Ana’s head with a flat thud, instantly felling her.

  The man looked for her companion—

  Eddie found him first.

  The goons upstairs had taken full advantage of the restaurant’s menu, slices of lamb sizzling on a hot iron skillet. The Yorkshireman grabbed its wooden handle and swung it at the man’s face. The dull impact of thick metal on bone was backed by a hiss as the skillet’s grooves seared into the Moroccan’s flesh. He screamed, flailing back with raw red lines branded into one cheek.

  Eddie finished him off with a punch, then threw the skillet down the stairs into the mass of thugs. A loud clonk of impact was followed by an agonised howl.

  A door led to the small balcony. Eddie picked Ana up and kicked it open, emerging into sunlight. The Medina spread out below, a hotchpotch of multicoloured buildings jammed together at random. He looked over the edge. The closest rooftop was across an alley downhill from the restaurant, a good fifteen feet lower. He might make it if he was on his own. But he had to get Ana to safety – she was his only link to Nina. He doubted he could make the jump without injury while carrying her, and there was nothing to cushion her landing if he threw her across.

  He needed another way down. The balcony of the floor below was off to one side, a canopy providing shade . . .

  Someone shouted behind him. His pursuers had finally made it to the top of the stairs. Out of time—

  ‘Sorry,’ he told Ana – as he tossed her over the edge.

  She landed on the canopy. The canvas caught her, only to rip loose, pitching the limp woman on to a table below.

  Eddie jumped down, then scrambled to check on her. She was still unconscious, a new cut on her arm, but as far as he could tell had suffered no serious harm.

  He hauled her over his shoulder. He was now on the wrong side of the building to reach the nearby rooftop, and the drop to the steeply sloping street was still too far to risk. He glanced back into the restaurant. Most of the thugs had charged upstairs. Could he get down to the ground floor?

  No – another couple of men were rushing upstairs. If they blocked him, even for a few seconds, the others would return and swarm him. He could still reach the windows, but they were barred.

  Although one was damaged.

  Still lugging Ana, he charged back inside and ran for the broken window. The men reached the top of the stairs and charged at him, but he was already past them. He made a flying leap through the opening, twisting in mid-air to hit the bars with his back – and ripping the ironwork from the outer wall.

  Three of the corners tore loose, one at the bottom just barely holding. But the metal buckled under the weight, the whole grille swinging downwards.

  Eddie grabbed a bar with his free hand as he and Ana went with it—

  It jerked to a stop. He lost his grip, falling . . .

  And landing on a pile of garbage bags in the alley behind the restaurant.

  Rubbish exploded around them. Eddie gasped, rolling his strained shoulder, then stood and hauled Ana back up.

  Noises above. He was already running, risking a glance back. Musad leaned out of the window, spotting the fugitives.

  He whipped up the Taurus—

  Eddie weaved, bullets smacking against the walls behind him. He darted around the alley’s end – just as another round exploded against the corner, brick fragments stinging his head.

  A woman screamed, alarmed voices rising as people reacted to the gunshots. The gendarmerie would soon be called, if they hadn’t been already. He couldn’t let them catch him; even if they believed he was rescuing the unconscious Ana from their attackers, once she woke she could simply tell them he had been trying to harm her, then walk away while he dealt with the fallout.

  And there were other people he still had to evade. Another voice called out: Musad, rallying what was left of his forces.

  Eddie hurried downhill. His knowledge of the Medina’s twists and turns was sketchy, having always relied on Karim to guide him. All he could do was get clear of the restaurant. Ana still over his shoulder, he headed down the narrow street as quickly as he could. Passers-by gawped at him and his cargo as he passed.

  Extensions protruding from the upper floors of buildings on each side almost met overhead, forming a tunnel. He ducked into the half-light beneath, seeing an intersection ahead. Left or right? Left looked a more direct route down the hill. He took it, rounding the corner.

  More shouts from behind. Musad’s men had seen him. Ana was slowing him, badly. They would be on him in twenty seconds, less. He had to delay them . . .

  The new street was stepped roughly every fifteen feet, enterprising locals setting up small stalls selling food and bric-a-brac on the relatively level sections. One even had a flock of chickens strutting around it, pecking at spilled grains – the birds were not caged, but Eddie imagined they were available to purchase in the same way as anything else. Opposite, a sullen man with a cigarette drooping from his mouth had stacks of knock-off toys balanced precariously on a folding table.

  Eddie ran between them – then swiped the piled boxes with Ana’s feet—

  Musad’s men charged around the corner after him – as an avalanche of Super Bat and Changing Robot and Marvellous Lady Bird figures cascaded into the flock.

  The chickens flapped madly into the air to flee the trademark-violating bombardment. The running men hurriedly halted, hands shielding their faces as wings and claws lashed at them.

  That had bought Eddie a few seconds. He ducked into a side alley. The walls were close enough to touch without even fully lifting his arms. He passed an even narrower passage, continuing for several metres before turning into a second and pounding down steep steps. Right at the bottom, under an archway, around another corner—

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Dead end.

  He carried on nevertheless, hoping there was a wall or fence he could climb. But the tiny square was completely surrounded by run-down houses.

  No way out. He turned to face his pursuers.

  Four men. Five, Musad appearing behind them. The Dhajani still had the gun—

  The others ran at Eddie, blocking their leader’s line of fire. Small mercies, but he still had four guys to fight, and an unconscious woman over his shoulder.

  But if his training had taught him one thing, it was how to turn a liability into an advantage.

  The first thug came at him – only to take one of Ana’s feet to his jaw as the Yorkshireman spun, centrifugal force whipping her legs upwards. He lurched back, colliding with the man following him. Both went down in a pile.

  The next man hurriedly sidestepped to avoid them before readying an attack of his own—

  Ana hit him in the face – not with her fist, but her entire body as the Yorkshireman flung her at him. He fell, the Brazilian landing on top of him.

  Eddie stared at the last Moroccan in challenge: think you can do better? The man hesitated . . .

  Whatever action he had been about to take was instantly forgotten as a police siren blared somewhere not far downhill. The man decided that staying out of prison o
vercame loyalty to his current employer. He turned and ran past Musad, the others scrambling up and following.

  Musad shouted Arabic insults after them, then faced Eddie and raised the gun. ‘This time, I have plenty of—’

  Eddie broke and ran before he finished speaking. It took the scar-faced man a moment to react, speech hogging his brain’s mental bandwidth, but then the Taurus snapped around and fired.

  The Englishman hurled himself into the deepest of the square’s doorways, slamming hard against thick wood as the bullet shattered on stone just behind him.

  He rattled the door handle, but it was locked. Musad advanced past the fallen Ana to sight his target. Eddie shoulder-barged the barrier, trying to break it open. No luck.

  Musad smiled cruelly and took final aim—

  The door opened.

  The startled Yorkshireman fell backwards as the round that would have hit his head cracked above him and struck the rear wall. The stooped old man who had opened the door flinched back in shock.

  Musad brought the gun down – as Eddie flung a heavy cast-iron doorstop at him. It struck his chest, sending him staggering back in pain.

  Eddie jumped up. The elderly man had a cane. ‘Sorry,’ said the Yorkshireman as he snatched it away and snapped it over his thigh. He rushed back outside, the broken stick raised like a lance.

  Clutching his ribs, Musad straightened – to see his opponent charging at him—

  The cane’s ragged point stabbed into his neck.

  The gun fell from Musad’s fingers. The Yorkshireman ran to snatch it up, and turned – to find that his opponent was running, hand pressed hard to his bloodied throat. He briefly considered pursuing him to get answers, but the siren was getting closer. Shoving the gun into his jacket, he collected Ana once more.

  ‘Do you know Karim Taysir?’ he asked the bewildered old man. The name produced a nod; Eddie wondered why he found that remotely surprising. ‘He’ll get you a new cane!’

  Ana dangling over his shoulder, he hurried back into the maze of the Medina.

  13

  Seville

  The walk along the riverside under the midday sun had been hot. Nina was hugely relieved to reach the Parque de María Luisa, where she could find shade beneath the trees lining its broad avenues. As a redhead, she normally took precautions against sunburn, but on this occasion she was woefully under-equipped, without even sleeves to protect her arms.

  The half-mile-long park was busy, tourists taking a break from the crush on the parade routes to gaze at the imposing architecture of the Plaza de España. Nina let a family on bicycles ride past as she headed through the gardens. The Museo Arqueológico was at the southern end, a handsome symmetrical art deco building that she knew from prior visits was home to many fascinating historical treasures.

  The one she was interested in was not on general view, though. She hoped it was already under higher security; if not, she would have to convince the museum’s head to up his game.

  She climbed the steps to the main entrance, pausing at a vending machine to regard her reflection in its glass front. She did not, she had to admit, cut an especially impressive figure. While her shoes had dried out, they had been left stained and salt-crusted by their immersion in seawater, and after a night sleeping rough and a long bus ride, her hair was a mess. Her appearance was normally low on her list of priorities, but Emilio Merlo was a man who paid great attention to what she considered superficialities – and he was the one who would decide what to do with the second spear marker.

  Her high heels were still in the bag. She changed into them, using the elastic band that had held Ana’s money as an impromptu scrunchie to tie her hair into a ponytail. She immediately felt more purposeful; it was how she always wore her hair in the field. Another look at her reflection. She still felt like a mess, but at least now she was a businesslike mess.

  She went along a terrace into the museum proper, stilettos clacking on the polished floor. The sound drew the attention of two uniformed security guards, both men unsubtly checking her out as she approached. Neither rushed to apprehend her, so obviously the cops hadn’t circulated her picture – though why would they? Nobody knew she was in Seville . . . she hoped. Still, the museum staff may well have been warned about events aboard the Atlantia.

  Best to find out straight away. ‘Buenas tardes,’ she began, hoping her Spanish wasn’t too awful. ‘Mi nombre es Nina Wilde. Estoy aquí para ver al Dr Merlo?’

  Her name produced a response from both men – fortunately one of recognition rather than alarm. She was, after all, the world’s most famous non-fictional archaeologist. ‘Dr Wilde, hello,’ said one of them. ‘I tell Dr Merlo you are here.’

  ‘I don’t have an appointment,’ Nina added. ‘But please tell him it’s urgent.’

  The guard made a call. Several tense minutes later, the museum’s director arrived. Emilio Merlo was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested but also rather short man in his mid fifties; Nina imagined he spent a lot of time in the gym to compensate for his below-average stature. His hair was also raised in a pompadour to give him that little bit of extra height, and she suspected he had wedges in his shoes.

  His attitude towards her was also overcompensatory. In their previous meetings, he had made it very clear that whatever her achievements, inside the museum he was the big man – professionally, if not physically. This time would be no different. ‘Dr Wilde,’ he said. ‘I did not know you were coming. You are lucky I am able to see you, I am very busy.’

  ‘Hello to you too, Emilio,’ Nina replied, forcing a smile and extending her hand. He shook it a little too firmly. ‘It’s very important – it’s about the marcador de lanza that was aboard the Atlantia.’

  He gave her a look that was suspicious but not openly hostile. ‘Yes, I know. Terrible, shocking! And I was also told you were involved.’

  She was briefly fearful, before realising that if he had called the cops, they would have arrived already. ‘Well, obviously I wasn’t, or I’d be sitting in a cell somewhere rather than here, wouldn’t I?’ she countered. He seemed to accept her logic. ‘What else were you told?’

  ‘A professional raid, they said. And they took only the marcador. Very strange. Although I should be relieved that they did not steal any more of our treasures.’

  ‘I think I know why they were only interested in the marker. You remember my theory about—’

  Merlo raised his hands dismissively. ‘Please!’ he scoffed. ‘Not your antimatter idea? It is pure science fiction, total nonsense!’

  ‘I didn’t really believe it myself,’ she said. ‘It was just one possible explanation to fit what the Atlanteans said about the spearheads, in line with what I discovered about the Midas Cave in Nepal. But I think whoever stole the marker does believe it. They want to find the spearheads . . . and to do that, they need the markers. Both of them. They’ve got one already, which is why I’m here – to make sure they don’t get the other.’

  ‘They will not,’ the Spaniard said firmly. ‘I have already brought in more security.’ He nodded towards the two guards. ‘And there is another man at the door to the laboratory.’

  ‘The guys who stole the other marker had guns,’ Nina pointed out. The museum guards were armed with nothing more dangerous than truncheons.

  ‘We are in a city, not out at sea. If there is any trouble, the police will be here in two minutes. You are worrying about nothing.’

  ‘I’d like to see for myself,’ she said. Sensing he was about to resist the proposal, she went on: ‘Just for my own peace of mind. I’m sure you’ve taken every possible precaution, Emilio. If I’m happy, then I can stop bothering you.’

  Merlo seemed considerably more enthused about that. ‘Very well.’

  He led her back past the main entrance and along another open-sided terrace to a hall containing an elevator. ‘We have made much progress with the new Tartessian relics,’ he said proudly, as the lift descended. ‘Many interesting discoveries, all found here i
n Spain.’

  ‘I’d love to see them,’ Nina said truthfully as they emerged in the basement. Part of the lower level was dedicated to the Iberian peninsula’s prehistory, but the majority was closed to the public, home to labs where the museum’s archaeologists could examine and restore their discoveries. ‘But I still want to check out the marker first.’

  Merlo brought her to a door where, as promised, a security guard was stationed. Nina was less than impressed; the overweight man sitting on a chair did not suggest Fort Knoxian impenetrability. But at least it was something. Her host opened the door, beckoning for her to follow him.

  She had visited the museum’s labs before, so knew the layout. Partitions separated several work areas, though all were deserted. She wondered why, then remembered it was Holy Week – a public holiday. Merlo himself was probably there only to deal with the fallout from the marker’s theft. He led her to the far end. ‘Here, Dr Wilde,’ he said. ‘I will prove the marcador is safe.’

  He unlocked one of numerous metal drawers. The object within was wrapped in soft dark cloth. Unlike the marker from the Atlantia, which was a flat disc, this bore a protrusion that made the shrouded shape almost conical.

  The Spaniard reverently peeled away the cloth. Gold glinted beneath, a distinctive reddish tint to the precious metal. ‘Here it is.’

  Nina gazed at the historic treasure. She had only ever seen it in photographs before – it had been uncovered at the Tartessian site after her last visit. In pictures it had been unprepossessing, its golden gleam muted by dirt and most of the inscriptions obscured beneath hard-packed earth.

  Now, though, it was restored to full magnificence. Like its stolen counterpart, it was riddled with small circular holes, Atlantean text snaking around them. She recognised the more common words immediately, and was sure she could translate most if not all of the rest, given time. But now her attention moved to the top of the golden arm extending from one edge to above the centre. A hoop about an inch across was fixed to its top, sitting parallel to the disc’s plane. Its purpose was unknown, though theories included a mount for a lens or eyepiece that when looked through would give meaning to the pattern of holes.