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by Ruth Hartzler

  Abigail opened one eye. “Anything at all.”

  Riley filled out the form for her and dropped it in the box. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your room. I’ll collect you at exactly six. Set the alarm.”

  “Um, err,” was all Abigail could manage.

  Riley showed Abigail to her room, and unlocked the door for her. “Again, don’t answer the door to anyone except me at precisely 6 tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure.” She walked into the room.

  “And Abigail, lock the door behind me.”

  “Sure,” she said again. She shut the door and latched the chain.

  Abigail threw herself on the bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

  She awoke sometime in the night with a start. She jumped out of bed and turned on the light. The door was still locked. All of a sudden, Abigail didn’t feel tired at all. She hurried to the adjoining bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. The shock itself was enough to jolt her awake. Her hair was sticking in all directions and was frizzy. It looked as though a goat had chewed on the ends. Deep semi circles of shadows sat under her eyes, both of which were somewhat bloodshot.

  She took a long hot shower and looked in the mirror once more. There was an improvement, but now her face was beet red. Abigail shrugged. Her face was the least of her concerns. She climbed back into the bed and pulled the heavy blanket over herself. She did her best to fall asleep, but this time sleep eluded her. Now she was wide awake.

  Abigail gave up. She sat up and reached for the book Jason had sent Professor Briggs. What was so significant about this book?

  The scholarship was well out of date. Jason wasn’t a lexicographer, but he didn’t need to be, to know that. And it wasn’t a nice rare volume either. Abigail couldn’t figure out why Jason would send it to Professor Briggs. She flipped the pages and then held the book upside down and shook it in case there was a message inside. There was not.

  Yet there had to be some significance. Abigail stared at the book once more. She knew Jason—he wasn’t in the habit of sending gifts to people.

  She shook her head. No, this book had to hold a clue somehow.

  Abigail was about to give up in disgust. She turned the book upside down one more time and shook it. Nothing fell out. “Just as I expected,” Abigail said aloud, but then she noticed writing in red ink inside the book.

  She read the writing and gasped.

  20

  OXFORDSHIRE

  The Temple of Artemis is under the Acropolis North under what I believe is the site of Croesus’s palace complex.

  Abigail was elated. That information, along with the photos, would pinpoint the location of the tunnel. She knew that the sectors ByzFort and Field 49 were believed to be the site of the Lydian palace complex, and that the palace under the Acropolis North was a different palace complex, but this did not matter to her. The clue was that the Temple of Artemis was under the Acropolis North.

  And now Abigail knew why nobody had discovered the tunnel entrance. She had been looking at drone footage of the site only the other week. Visible were several exposed sections of the tunnel that connected the Acropolis North with the dry stream-bed that once ran between ByzFort and Field 49.

  Abigail couldn’t wait to tell Riley, but it was just after 3 a.m. She was sure she would not be able to sleep, but lay back on the bed and shut her eyes, willing sleep to come. She awoke with a start when her alarm sounded, five minutes before six. Abigail climbed out of bed, more slowly this time, rubbing her eyes. She didn’t feel refreshed at all—rather, she felt as though she needed another good night’s sleep.

  Riley knocked on her door at precisely six as she knew he would. She was ready. Abigail took in his clean-shaven jawline, his broad shoulders, his bright blue eyes. Butterflies coursed through her stomach.

  “You look refreshed,” Riley said.

  That was the closest to a compliment he had ever given her.

  “Thank you.” Did she imagine it or did his face flush slightly?

  “Breakfast?” he said rather too briskly as he turned on his heel and led the way down the corridor.

  Abigail was more alert now and was taking in her surroundings. A Scottish coat of arms hung on the wall directly opposite the entrance to the dining room. The dining room was tiny, just enough room for two booths at right angles to each other. Currently, it was empty.

  The lady must have noticed Abigail looking around. “The other guests won’t have breakfast until eight. You have the room to yourselves.”

  Abigail shot her a smile before sitting down. She hadn’t noticed the lady’s Scottish accent until now. She had, however, noticed Riley sat with his back to the wall as he always did.

  “Coffee?” The woman hovered over them, holding a stainless steel coffee pot.

  “Yes, please!” Abigail said more forcefully than she intended. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was delightful.

  The woman laughed and filled both cups. When she left the room, Abigail looked around to make sure nobody could hear and leaned across the table. “I know exactly where the entrance to the tunnel is.” Her voice ended on a note of triumph.

  Riley looked shocked. “But how?”

  Abigail looked around the room once more before sliding the book across the table to him. She opened the page with the writing and jabbed her finger on it. “Look what it says!”

  “And you know where the Acropolis North is?”

  “I do,” Abigail said. “Can I have your iPad?”

  He reached into his backpack and fetched the iPad for her.

  She typed on it for a while and then slid it back to Riley. “This is drone footage of the Acropolis.”

  She watched his face as he registered what he was looking at. “What are all those tunnels?”

  “Those are cross sections of the tunnel that ran between the Acropolis and a dry stream-bed. There are several tunnels under Sardis. In 1964, archeologists uncovered a network of Roman tunnels dug by ancient tomb robbers. They were only wide enough for one person.” She tapped her finger on the iPad for emphasis. “These go under a burial mound to the chamber of what is presumed to be a member of the Lydian royal family. No chamber has been found as yet, despite archeologists digging over one hundred meters of tunnels.”

  Riley raised one eyebrow.

  Abigail took that as a signal to continue. “And guess who wrote about these tombs and chambers centuries ago? Hipponax, the Ephesian poet who lived around the time of Croesus. Hipponax was Jason’s area of expertise.”

  “Surely people have translated Hipponax before.”

  Abigail chuckled. “Hipponax’s Greek was slang. It was a mixture of Greek, Lydian, Phrygian, and some Anatolian. Anyone trying to translate what he wrote as straight Ionian Greek would get it wrong, badly wrong.”

  Riley set down his fork. “So what does that mean in practical terms? I take it we don’t go into those tunnels we saw on the video?”

  Abigail shook her head. “No, not one of those tunnels, but we do go into a nearby tunnel. The writing in the book along with the photographs will show us exactly which tunnel it is.”

  Riley nodded slowly. “I see. We go to the cliff face where all those tunnels are and then the photos Professor Briggs gave us will guide us to the exact spot.”

  Riley looked the closest to excited she had ever seen him. He pushed on. “And that’s why no one would have taken any notice of the tunnel if they had seen it before. They would simply think it was one of those tunnels that go between the Acropolis North to the—what did you say again?”

  “Dry stream-bed,” Abigail supplied. “Exactly! I discovered this around two or three in the morning and I was too excited to get back to sleep.”

  “Don’t mention this to Ellis or Thatcher.” Riley stopped speaking as the lady re-entered the room with two plates laden with food.

  As soon as she left, Riley pushed on. “As I said before, let’s keep this information to ourselves. The fewer people that know, the better. We won�
��t tell anyone, including Ellis or Thatcher, until the very last moment.”

  Abigail’s initial excitement was replaced with apprehension. She had almost forgotten she was in danger. “Riley, are you sure Professor Briggs is all right?”

  “Yes, he’s perfectly fine, no need to worry. He’s in the safe house with his cat.” Riley laughed. “Four Vortex agents were apprehended.”

  “How many of them were there to start with?” Abigail said.

  “They’re not certain as yet, but at least one did get away. “

  “That’s good, right?” Abigail looked into Riley’s face hopefully. “Just one on the loose?”

  “I’m afraid not. Vortex will send more agents.”

  Abigail’s face fell. “So they have a never-ending supply?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Her stomach sank. Riley was taking plenty of precautions, but was she in fact safe? How long before the new Vortex agents would arrive? Or did they know she was headed for Sardis and were there, waiting for her to show up? It wasn’t the excavation season so they couldn’t pose as archeologists. It wasn’t the tourist season either, but there would no doubt be tourists at the site. Maybe the Vortex agents would be there after all, posing as tourists.

  Despite the warmth of the food she was eating and the hot coffee, Abigail was unable to suppress a shiver.

  They caught a cab back to their car parked outside the Bed and Breakfast and then drove it to meet Ellis and Thatcher. As soon as the car stopped, Ellis and Thatcher materialized and hopped in the back seat.

  Riley drove off immediately. “They will anticipate we will drive straight to Heathrow, so we should take two cars and drive to Manchester airport. I’m driving to Carterton now to hire another car. It’s west of Oxford, so Vortex won’t expect us to go in that direction. Leave us in Carterton, and then the two of you proceed to Manchester, but stay off the main roads.”

  “Where and when will we meet you?” Ellis asked.

  “I’ll call you,” Riley said. “For now, head for Manchester airport and wait there until you hear from me.”

  “That’s a bit vague,” Thatcher complained.

  “That’s all you’re getting.” Riley’s tone was firm.

  Abigail turned her attention to the quaint villages. The thatched roofs on the picture-perfect cottages fascinated her. When they reached Carterton, Ellis and Thatcher drove away. Abigail wasn’t sorry to see them go. Ellis’s disapproval of her was a constant source of irritation. Not that she was able to relax, given the circumstances, but it would certainly make things easier for her if his mood improved.

  Abigail leaned back in the comfortable seat. Driving in Britain, on what to her was the wrong side of the road, was disconcerting. She ducked several times when cars passed on the narrow road, much to Riley’s amusement.

  They were driving through another little town filled with quaint brick buildings covered with ivy, when a car rammed them.

  21

  OXFORDSHIRE

  The car was a Range Rover, black, with tinted windows. Abigail heard a scream—was it her own voice?—when it slammed into their car, ramming them off the road and into a tree. Glass from the impact peppered Abigail.

  Someone dragged Abigail out of the car. It was a strange man. No, it was Riley. His face was covered in blood, but she could still see those eyes—those staggering, fierce eyes. He was barking orders at her, but she couldn’t hear a thing. Her ears were ringing, and even though she might have been able to read his lips if these were calmer circumstances, she couldn’t now. Not with her eyes all blurry from the impact.

  Seemingly giving up communicating with her, Riley yanked Abigail to her feet and tossed her over his shoulder. He carried her out of the car and down an alleyway at speed, escaping for a moment the occupants in the Range Rover. How many had there been? Abigail couldn’t say. She’d not seen a single one of them. She’d only seen Riley.

  Riley finally set Abigail on her wobbly feet. She watched as he took a quick inventory of their surroundings. They were in the shadows of old buildings. In front of the buildings, intermittent traffic coursed along the road. On the other side, a quiet park saw families gathering for picnics and to walk their dogs.

  There was no shelter in the park, and walking along the busy road would be crazy. They would be sitting ducks. Abigail could not believe they had been attacked in broad daylight, in a public place. Maybe they could go back the way they came, and call Thatcher and Ellis for help.

  “Here.”

  Riley grabbed her elbow and heaved Abigail through a vaulted archway. They’d found themselves outside a museum. A man was busy arguing with a young woman.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re closed until next Tuesday,” the man said in weary tones.

  “But my daughters want to see inside,” the mother complained. “You’re here now. Can’t you allow them inside for just a moment? As the curator, you have the power.”

  “I’m not here to open the museum. I was just here momentarily because I’d forgotten my book.” He showed her a small paperback.

  The twin girls were running past the man, into the museum. The man took off after them, as did their mother.

  “Come on.” Riley took Abigail’s hand, and the two of them slipped upstairs, unseen.

  At the top of the steps was a storage section cordoned off with red velvet rope, and it was in this section that Riley decided they should hide. Who would come looking for them there? No one.

  Abigail fell back against the wall, grabbing her head and panting. Riley slipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Are you all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be all right? It’s not like a car rammed us.” Abigail did her best to keep the tears at bay.

  “We need a place to hide for a few hours,” Riley whispered to her. “The Vortex agents will keep looking for us for a few hours. They won’t give up easily.”

  “Why don’t you call Ellis and Thatcher?”

  Riley shook his head and winced. “No, it’s best if we act independently of them for several hours. We’ll rendezvous with them at the airport.”

  They heard the woman’s voice at the front doors. She was yelling at her children.

  Riley guided Abigail to the wall. “We can hide behind these huge storage jars with octopi on them.”

  “It’s octopodes.”

  Riley’s mouth fell open. “Sorry?”

  Abigail hurried to explain. “Octopus is an ancient Greek word meaning ‘eight feet’. The plural of ‘foot’ in Greek is podes. People wrongly apply Latin plural rules to the word, and come up with the dreadfully wrong word octopi.” She shook her head sadly.

  His lips twitched. “Always the academic! Maybe you could explain it later. For now, we have to hide behind these jars with, um, sea creatures on them.”

  Abigail was embarrassed, despite the fact Riley appeared amused. They hid behind the jars, which had the added cover of a large display board sitting on the ground in front of them, seconds before they heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

  “It’s probably the curator,” Riley whispered.

  Abigail gulped. Yes. It was surely only the curator, but why had he returned?

  Then a voice spoke, the tone disturbingly sing-song and menacing. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  Abigail grabbed Riley’s elbow. That voice didn’t sound like it would belong to the curator. Abigail had gotten a good look as they passed him by—he was old, with white hair and a pink face. This voice sounded young and vital, if also chilling.

  “I saw you come in here,” the voice said again. It took a moment for Abigail to place the location of the voice.

  Abigail momentarily froze. She caught a glimpse of a young man—younger than the curator, at least. His expression was troubling, a sinister smile and dead eyes. In a flash he raised his gun, but Riley was even faster. He tackled him to the ground with a crash, sending the display board flying.

  Abigail tried to stand, but pain shot
through her ribs. She didn’t think anything was broken, but the bruising was enough to push her back against the wall with a grunt of pain. Riley and the man wrestled on the ground as the man reached for his gun, which Riley had knocked across the floor to a plaster imprint of a dinosaur’s foot. Abigail tried to grab it, but the man kicked out at her.

  “Stay back!” Riley called to her. The man shrugged him off and grabbed his gun, raising it at Abigail. Riley threw himself in front of her.

  A gunshot rang out.

  For an awful moment Abigail stared at Riley’s back, expecting him to crumple. But when the sound of a body impacting the polished floors echoed through the museum, Riley was still on his feet. Abigail looked beyond Riley’s shoulder. The man had shot the curator.

  It took Abigail several moments to process what had, in fact, happened. The figure was not the curator but a life-size mannequin of Winston Churchill. Riley was still on his feet and it was the Vortex agent who had been shot in the skirmish.

  Riley checked the man’s pulse and then looked over at Abigail. “He’s dead.”

  Abigail didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset. All she felt was panic.

  “Stay here and hide. I’m going to check the rest of the museum.”

  Before he left, Riley dragged the man into another room and left him there. Abigail was happy he was out of her sight, but she felt sick seeing the dead man. She stood and moved to the other side of the room, just to get away from all that death.

  Riley returned ten minutes later. “I found these frozen dinners in the kitchen. I microwaved them. We should eat where we can. We don’t know how long we’ll be holed up here.”

  Abigail didn’t want to eat when she had just seen a man die. The thought of it turned her stomach. What’s more, she was sick and sore. But when Riley opened one, revealing honey chicken, her stomach rumbled furiously. She accepted the meal from Riley and at once spooned some into her mouth. The food afforded her a measure of comfort.