The Tomb of Hercules

by Andy McDermott

  “Nonexecutive,” Chase noted sarcastically.

  Nina’s face tightened angrily. “Do you have any idea how bad you made me look in front of all those people?”

  “Oh, now we’re getting down to it,” said Chase, leaning back against the railing. “That’s what really pissed you off, isn’t it? You were there knocking back the champagne with the billionaires and the wannabe presidents and her fucking ladyship, and then suddenly you remember—oh, shit! My boyfriend’s just some thick ex-soldier, how embarrassing! Better put him in his place or my new friends might think I’m more like him than like them!”

  “That—that’s not what happened at all, and you know it!” said Nina, openmouthed with outrage. “And what is your problem with Sophia? Where do you know her from?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Oh, I think you’ve made it my business!”

  Chase shoved himself upright, face just inches from Nina’s. With the extra height of her heels, she was as tall as him. “All right, you want to know what my problem with Sophia is? She thinks that just because she was born into the right family, everyone else is beneath her. But you know what?” His face pulled into a sneer. “I didn’t mind it so much from her, because that’s how she’s always been, and she doesn’t know any better. But from you? You get a fancy job title and a bit more money and start schmoozing with politicians and all these rich dickheads, and suddenly you think you’re better than me and you can treat me like shit?”

  Nina flushed with fury, lips drawn tight and quivering. Then—

  Splash!

  “Fuck you, Eddie,” she spat, turning on her heel and stalking away, leaving Chase with red wine dribbling down his face onto his shirt and jacket. He took a deep breath, then wiped his eyes. The handful of other people on the deck quickly looked away.

  “What?” he said, offering them a broad grin that exposed the gap between his front teeth. “It’s not a proper party until someone gets a drink thrown in their face.”

  This particular party being on a yacht out in New York Harbor, simply getting a taxi back to their apartment wasn’t an option for either Nina or Chase. Instead, they had to wait for one of the boats to return, then sit through the unhurried journey to shore, before finally taking a cab all the way uptown to the Upper East Side. The whole trip took close to forty-five minutes. Neither said a word to the other the whole time.

  2

  Ow.”

  Nina squirmed painfully across her pillow, desperately searching for a cooler patch that might ease her headache. She didn’t find one.

  The music thumping from the next room, seventies and eighties rock, wasn’t helping matters. Nor was the “singing” that accompanied it.

  She reluctantly shuffled across the bed, the long T-shirt she was wearing creased and sweaty. One glance in the mirror as she rolled out from under the covers told her that her hair would require some serious restorative work before her meeting.

  The meeting…

  Suddenly filled with panic, she rushed into the apartment’s living room, squinting at the bright morning light through the balcony windows. “What time is it?” she demanded.

  Chase, in shorts and a gray T-shirt, was lifting weights. He broke off from his tuneless rendition of “Free Bird” to say, “Morning, sunshine,” in a decidedly sarcastic tone.

  “No, Eddie, really, what time is it? I need to get ready, I’m meeting—”

  “It’s only seven o’clock, relax. Even you don’t take that long to sort yourself out.” He resumed his bicep curls.

  “Seven o’clock? Wait, you got me up that early—can you turn that down?” She jabbed a finger at the stereo, into which Chase had plugged his iPod.

  He grudgingly stopped lifting long enough to lower the volume by a tiny amount, then picked up the weights again. “It’s Wednesday morning. Training day.”

  Nina winced. “Oh, God, do we have to? I really don’t feel up to it today.”

  “It was your idea in the first place,” Chase snorted. He put on a nasal and shrill impersonation of her accent. “Eddie, can you keep me fit? Eddie, can you teach me self-defense? You were the one who nagged me into doing it.”

  “I didn’t nag,” Nina complained. “Look, can’t we just skip it this week?”

  “You should be doing it at least twice a week if you want it to be any use.” He changed stance. “I’m going to work out anyway. I might be stuck at a desk all day, but at least I’m not going to turn into some blob.”

  Nina didn’t like his emphasis, but wasn’t sure whether he’d meant it deliberately or not. She decided to let it pass. This time. “Okay, okay. But keep it short, twenty minutes. I really need to get ready for this meeting. And let me freshen up first.”

  When Nina emerged from the bathroom five minutes later, Chase had shoved the glass coffee table and black leather Le Corbusier couch aside to make room for a thick blue foam mat in the center of the room. She had donned a pair of sweatpants, padding barefoot across the floor. “Damn, I’m cold.”

  “That’s bare wood floors for you,” Chase said dismissively. “Your old place was much nicer. You know, cozy and warm, carpets … None of this poncy stuff.” He made a sour face at the elongated carved statue of an African warrior that was the room’s showpiece.

  “You live here too,” Nina reminded him, with an equally disapproving look at the Cuban pottery cigar-box holder in the shape of a beaming Fidel Castro, now used to keep loose change, that Chase had insisted on displaying on the kitchen counter. Exactly what Chase had been doing in Cuba during his time in the Special Air Service was yet another thing about his past she’d never been able to pry out of him. She understood the figurine’s sentimental value—it had been a joking gift from his friend Hugo Castille, who had died on the Atlantis expedition—but God, it was ugly!

  “You wouldn’t think so,” he muttered, taking a martial stance. “All right! Let’s get started.”

  The training session began with a warm-up, then moved on to judo, each of them in turn trying to throw the other. It didn’t take long for Nina to realize that Chase was offering considerably more resistance than usual when she tried to throw him. And as for his treatment of her…

  She let out an angry gasp as she was smacked down—hard—onto the mat for the third time, Chase’s knee digging into her chest as he pinned her. “Eddie, that hurt!”

  “That’s why it’s called fighting. Otherwise it’d be called fannying about.” He held her down for a moment longer, then stood. “Okay, let’s try something else.”

  Nina waited for him to help her up. When he didn’t extend a hand, she glared at him and got to her feet. “What’s your problem? You’ve got a bug up your ass about something. You have for a while, actually. And I don’t just mean last night.”

  He gave her a smile devoid of any humor. “Wow, I’m impressed. You mean you can actually remember anything about last night?”

  “With the way you behaved, I’d rather forget it.” She knew he was about to make some scathing comment, and cut him off before he had the chance. “Come on, then. We were going to do something else.”

  Chase grunted, then reached into his sports bag and took out a gun—not a real one, but a garish orange plastic toy. “Fair enough. You want me to be the bad guy, I’m the bad guy. Let’s see if you actually remember anything I’ve taught you.” He took a step back, then raised the gun and aimed it at Nina. “Disarm me.”

  Nina shook her head. “For God’s sake.”

  “What? You wanted self-defense training. This is self-defense training.”

  “Yeah, but that was when I still thought there was a chance we might run into trouble, like if someone wanted revenge for Atlantis. Now? To be honest, all I want is a bit of a cardiovascular workout.”

  “And you’ll get a cardiovascular workout if someone sticks a gun in your face. Come on.” He thrust the gun at her. “Give me your purse.”

  “What? Eddie, come on—”

  He pul
led the trigger. The toy gun clicked. “Bang! You’re dead. Try again. You killed my boss. Now I’m going to kill you.”

  “Eddie—”

  “Bang! Dead again. Useless.” Nina frowned at him, growing annoyed. “Try again! I’m Giovanni Qobras’s brother, and you’re the bitch who got him killed—”

  Nina lunged, twisting her body away from the gun and grabbing Chase’s forearm with one hand as the other tried to pry the weapon from his grip—

  Whump!

  The room spun around her, and she found herself flat on her back, the breath whooshing from her lungs. The muzzle of the gun hung over her.

  It clicked. “Bang,” said Chase, smirking.

  Nina stared up at him angrily. Then she shoved herself upright and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Forty minutes later, Nina’s headache still hadn’t gone away despite coffee and some painkillers.

  But that wasn’t the main reason she was in a rush to get out into the open air.

  “So this bloke you’re meeting today, what’s it all about?” Chase asked. He was still in his T-shirt and shorts, slouched on the couch with his feet up on the glass coffee table and showing no sign that he intended to go with her.

  “Put your feet down,” Nina told him. He ignored her. “It’s classified, IHA business.” It wasn’t, but she had neither the time nor the inclination to go into details with him.

  Chase rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that right?”

  “And what’re you doing? You’re not even ready.”

  He waved a casual hand at the window. “Thought I’d take the morning off.”

  “You did, huh? And did you bother checking if that was all right?”

  “Well, since it’s pretty obvious you don’t need me for anything, I thought, why the fuck not?”

  Nina took a long, slow breath in a fruitless attempt to suppress her frustration. “The IHA’s a professional organization, Eddie. You’re supposed to get permission.”

  Chase put both hands behind his head and stretched out even farther. “Okay then, boss, can I have your permission to take the morning off? Seeing as I need to go to the dry cleaner because somebody got red wine all over my jacket.”

  “God!” Nina snapped, finally losing her patience. “Whatever! Take the morning off, take the week off! I don’t care.” She grabbed her bag and walked out, closing the door with a bang.

  Chase thumped a fist on the sofa cushion and got to his feet, his own frustration coiled up inside him. “Buggeration and fuckery!” he snarled, glaring at the African statue. “And you can fuck off, an’ all.” It stared back in wooden silence.

  Still fuming, he went into the bedroom and retrieved his jacket. Even on the dark material, the stains stood out clearly. “Well, bollocks,” he told it. “Suppose I really will have to get you cleaned.” He went through its pockets, emptying the contents—

  His fingers touched something unexpected. A sheet of paper, tightly folded into a small square. Anger giving way to curiosity, he opened it.

  He recognized the handwriting even before looking at the signature. Sophia. She must have slipped it into his pocket when she tugged on his jacket at the party.

  He read the note. Then his eyes widened and he read it again, just to make sure it really said what he thought it did.

  “Fuck me …” he whispered. Forget the dry cleaner—he needed to go to the IHA after all.

  But not to see Nina. This was definitely over her head.

  Nina’s office had a small private bathroom, in which she tried to make herself appear as polished and professional as possible for her visitor. She looked at herself in the mirror and touched the pendant hanging from her neck. The curved piece of metal was actually a scrap of an Atlantean artifact she had discovered years earlier without knowing its true nature; she had instead always regarded it as her good-luck charm. She hoped its luck would help her get what she wanted today.

  Satisfied that her hair finally looked worth five hundred dollars, she checked that her Armani jacket and skirt were straight and her black stilettos clean, then looked at her watch. Almost time for her meeting.

  There was something she had to practice first, though.

  Nina left the bathroom and sat at her desk, turning to face the view of Manhattan from the window of the United Nations building. “Okay. I can do this, I can get this right.” She took a breath. “Good morning, Mr. Popadol—Dammit! Popo, Popadolapis …shit!” She ground a palm against her forehead. “Mr. Nicholas Popadopoulos,” she finally managed to say, carefully enunciating each syllable. “Pop-a-dop-ou-los. Popadopoulos. Finally!” She giggled involuntarily. “Okay, I’m ready for you now, Mr. Nicholas Popadopoulos. And you are going to give me what I want.”

  The man in question arrived a few minutes later. Nina had spoken to him by phone on several occasions, but this was the first time she had met him in person. For such an obstructive personality, he was not terribly impressive to look at. Popadopoulos was in his sixties, stooped, with thin black hair plastered greasily down in a vain attempt to hide his bald spot. He had a little pencil mustache, and beady spectacles through which he peered suspiciously at Nina as she welcomed him into her office.

  “Good morning, Mr. Popadopoulos,” she said, mentally congratulating herself even as she held back a smile. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

  “Dr. Wilde, yes,” he replied. His accent was Greek, not surprisingly, but with a hint of Italian—the Brotherhood of Selasphoros was based in Rome, and, from what Nina understood, Popadopoulos had been in charge of the secret society’s archives there for over three decades. “I really don’t see why you had to force me to come to New York, no, no. There are these marvelous inventions now, telephone, fax, e-mail. Perhaps you have heard of them?”

  “Do take a seat,” Nina offered, already wanting to strangle him. Popadopoulos grunted, but sat down. She drew up another chair to sit facing him. “The reason I asked you to come to New York is because I haven’t been able to persuade you to help me by telephone, fax or e-mail. And since my bosses at the IHA and your superiors in the Brotherhood are finally in agreement that my research into the Tomb of Hercules is valid, and since the Brotherhood has agreed to assist the IHA—”

  “An agreement made essentially at gunpoint,” Popadopoulos cut in. “It was not as if we had a choice!”

  “However it was made, it was made. And I wanted to do you the courtesy of meeting face-to-face to explain why I need to see the texts of Hermocrates—the originals, not copies or photographs.”

  “There is nothing in them you cannot already have seen!” protested Popadopoulos, waving his hands. “They have been in our possession for over two thousand years; they have been studied by the Brotherhood’s own historians! If there were any clues to the location of the Tomb of Hercules in there, do you not think we would have found them by now?”

  “You had Plato’s other lost works about Atlantis for all that time as well, but you didn’t find it. I did,” Nina pointed out sharply. Popadopoulos looked stung. “Critias says on several occasions in the text of Hermocrates that he will reveal to Socrates and the others the location and secrets of the Tomb, as given to him by Solon, but he never does.”

  “That is because the text was never finished!”

  “I disagree. In every other respect, Hermocrates is a complete dialogue. The only thing not neatly wrapped up by the end is the matter of the Tomb of Hercules—which would have been one hell of an oversight by Plato if he’d just happened to forget about it!” Nina softened her voice, remembering that she was trying to persuade Popadopoulos to cooperate.

  “I’m convinced that there is something else to be found, some clue that isn’t obvious from transcripts of the text or photos of the parchments. Mr. Popadopoulos, we’re both historians—preserving and documenting the past is what we do, it’s our passion in life. It’s what drives us. I honestly believe that if you allow me to see the original texts, I’ll be able to find some clue that will r
eveal the location of the Tomb of Hercules. We both know why the discovery of Atlantis can’t be revealed to the world, but this is something, a genuine ancient treasure, that can.”

  Popadopoulos said nothing, but at least seemed to be considering her words. She pressed on. “Every precaution will be taken to ensure the safety and preservation of the parchments. The only members of the IHA who will see them will be myself and whomever else you authorize; you will have full control over access to them, and the security arrangements will be entirely up to you. The only thing I ask is that I be allowed to view the text here in New York, so that I have access to all my research and the IHA’s facilities. The Brotherhood’s archives are an incredible source of knowledge—please, let me put them to good use. For the benefit of history.”

  Nina sat back. She’d said her piece; everything was now in Popadopoulos’s hands. He stayed silent for several seconds, Nina’s anxiety increasing with each tick of the clock. If he said no, she was back to square one…

  “I will… consider your proposal,” he finally said. Nina could tell from the resignation in his voice that he was going to let her see the text; knowing that the Brotherhood had already agreed in principle would make it very hard for him to refuse. His “consideration” was just for show. “And I will also need to speak to the Brotherhood in Rome.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Nina told him. “Please, use my phone to make your calls.” She gestured at her desk. “I’ll give you some privacy—when you need me, just dial zero to have somebody page me.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Wilde.” They both stood and shook hands, then Nina left the room. As soon as she closed the door, she punched the air and mouthed a silent Yes!

  Feeling triumphant, she headed for the IHA’s lounge. Coffee wasn’t exactly a celebratory drink, but after the previous night champagne wasn’t high on her list of—

  She froze. Farther down the corridor, a man emerged from an office, his back to her, and headed for the elevators at the far end. A man in jeans and a battered black leather jacket.