The Minoan Cipher (A Matinicus “Matt” Hawkins Adventure Book 2)

by Paul Kemprecos

  He realized he was losing the race to the top. Taking a right between two walls, he loped along, catching glimpses of black-suited men in the network of alleyways. They would move in when there were no tourists around, Hawkins knew. They would want to avoid any inconvenient witnesses wandering the hill. He decided to take the offensive. He stopped at the open door to a small chapel. Stepping inside, he removed the artifact from the backpack and tucked it into a corner of the vaulted room.

  Then he filled his pack with chunks of masonry. Hoisting the pack on one shoulder, Hawkins exited the chapel and kept moving. The sun’s warmth was blistering and at an intersection he stopped to catch his breath. He looked down and saw one of his pursuers standing below on the path that ran parallel to his. The large aquiline nose under the brim of his hat was out of proportion, as if it had been pasted onto his narrow face. The chin was pointed and the mouth was shaped in an upside down V.

  The man parted his feral lips in a smile and began to climb, taking each step as if he had all the time in the world.

  Hawkins tried to divert him. “Did you kill Professor Vedrakis?”

  The man stopped and said something in a strange language.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Hawkins said.

  The man climbed another step and reached under his shirt. Hawkins hefted the backpack, trying to make it seem lighter than it was. “Do you want this?”

  There was no gun in his hand when the man removed it from under the shirt. He climbed another step and reached forward. He was no more than six feet away when Hawkins lifted the backpack.

  “Okay, pal. You want it, I’ll give it to you.”

  He tossed the backpack like a basketball player making a two-handed foul shot.

  The rock-filled bag soared in a tight arc and hit the man squarely in the chest. He instinctively grabbed onto the backpack, which threw him off balance, throwing him backwards so that his head smashed into a step.

  Hawkins hustled down the stairway. The man’s body was limp. Saliva dripped from the corner of his oddly-shaped mouth. Hawkins removed the hat, which is when he discovered the man’s shaved blue scalp.

  Hawkins went through the pockets of the black jumpsuit. He found a billfold containing some Euros and tucked it in his shirt pocket, then went to lift his pack only to freeze at the sound of a voice.

  “Nice work, bloke. Is he dead?”

  Pouty was standing at the top of the stairs. His English accent was gone and in his hand he held a Sig Sauer with a sound suppressor extending from the barrel.

  “He might be, Mr. Pouty,” Hawkins said. “Is that your real name?”

  “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is I’m someone who’s got your interests at heart. I was close by when I heard a shout and thought you were hurt.”

  “Well it wasn’t me who was hurt, Mr. Pouty.”

  “I can see that. How about giving me that bag. Please don’t throw it.”

  Hawkins started up the stairs and put the bag down on the top step. Pouty told him to dump out the contents. Hawkins unzipped the pack then turned it upside down so the rocks tumbled out. A puzzled expression came to Pouty’s ruddy features and then, he began to laugh.

  “Quite the beanbag. No wonder your playmate crashed and burned.”

  “He isn’t alone on the island. He’s got a friend out there,” Hawkins said.

  “I know that. I’ll take care of him.” He paused.

  “Who are these guys? And what’s with the blue head?”

  “Damned if I know. Too bad we can’t ask him.”

  “Sorry, but he didn’t introduce himself.”

  Pouty chuckled, and said, “We’re not all that different, you know. You and me.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “You will.” He tucked the pistol into his belt. “Better get moving.”

  Pouty slipped into an alley on his right. Hawkins hurried to the chapel and replaced the mechanism into the backpack. He descended to the main path and hurried past groups of camera-toting visitors to the landing. Abby was nowhere near the souvenir booth. He cursed himself. He should never have left her.

  “Matt!”

  Abby waved at him from a white wooden launch hovering a few yards off shore. The young Greek fisherman at the tiller moved the boat closer. Hawkins hurried toward the dock, handed the backpack to the Greek and climbed into the boat. The fisherman powered up the outboard and the boat headed to the mainland.

  “Damn it, Hawkins. I was worried,” Abby said. “Are you all right?”

  “Knee got banged up in a fall, but I’m okay otherwise.”

  Abby gave him a hug and a kiss. “Hell with the sterile cockpit,” she said.

  Within minutes, the boat approached the harbor port, leaving the mysteries of Spinalonga, old and new, in its foamy wake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Amsterdam, The Netherlands

  The jetliner Calvin had boarded at Cadiz taxied toward the sprawling terminal at Airport Schiphol. Making it quickly through customs, Calvin was now on the train to the city. As it trundled through the suburbs, he saw a new message from Molly on his electronic tablet. She had dug up more dirt on the man he was about to see. He read her latest tidbit, studied the photos and a smile crossed his broad face.

  Calvin caught a cab outside the main entrance of Central Station. Dressed in a dark blue suit he’d bought from a fashionable clothing store in Cadiz, and carrying a leather portfolio case, Calvin fit right in with the working crowd. The taxi dropped him off on a quiet, tree-lined residential street bordering a canal. Calvin stepped across a bicycle lane and walked to a narrow four-story house constructed of dark brick with a white trim. He read the name written in Dutch and English on the small brass plaque next to the front door.

  Security Technologies Ltd.

  Calvin flew to Amsterdam after talking to a couple of contacts in the arms trade. If he wanted exotic weaponry, they advised he go see Broz at Security Tech.

  He rang the doorbell and seconds later a female voice came over the speaker. “How may I help you?”

  “My name is Calvin Hayes. From Secure Ocean Services.”

  “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Hayes. Come right in.”

  The latch unlocked with a soft click. Calvin opened the door and stepped into a small lobby. A tall, middle-aged woman conservatively dressed in a gray jacket and skirt emerged seconds later from an elevator. She extended her hand in a strong grip.

  “I’m Gertrude Doost, Mr. Broz’s assistant. Thank you for coming to see us, Mr. Hayes.”

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  Her expression didn’t waver. “We operate 24/7. Our clients must often deal with the unexpected.”

  Calvin guessed that the “unexpected” had to do with the strategy that went back to the Stone Age: Never have a smaller club than the other guy. They went into the elevator and she pressed the button for the top floor. He followed her through a reception area into an office of moderate size, tastefully furnished with a shiny wood desk and comfortable-looking leather chairs. Paintings of Dutch village life, canals and windmills adorned the papered walls.

  The man at the desk with his back to the street-side windows rose from his chair and came around to shake hands.

  Speaking with a slight accent, he said, “Welcome, Mr. Hayes. I trust you had a good trip from Spain.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Broz. It was an easy flight.”

  Hayes surveyed Broz as they exchanged pleasantries. The arms dealers Calvin had met up till now were either tanned, clean-shaven, fit and fashionably dressed; or paunchy, scruffy and badly in need of a shave. Both types had “sleaze” written all over their uncaring faces.

  Yosef Broz was cut from a different mold. He wore a pinstriped navy suit with a pinched waist that emphasized his shoulders. His black hair was cut so short to his scalp it looked gray. He could have been a banker for Goldman Sachs or a high-end real estate agent with Sotheby’s.
r />   He appraised Calvin with light blue eyes, invited him to have a seat and returned to his desk.

  “What sort of weapons system are you interested in procuring, Mr. Hayes?”

  “As you know from the references I supplied, my company provides marine security for commercial ocean-going vessels susceptible to piracy.”

  “I called up your website. Very impressive. You’ve had a high rate of success using your armored safe rooms and professional hit squads.”

  “I prefer to call them maritime security details. They are basically sniper teams that knock out boarding pirates while the hidden crew removes the vessel from the attack zone. It’s been an effective formula but still leaves a hole in security.”

  Broz leaned back and tented his fingers. “Those left in the attack boats could launch one or more hand-held missiles, sinking the ship and its crew.”

  Calvin was glad that he didn’t have to lead Broz to the conclusion he wanted him to make.

  “Correct. I’m looking for something that can pick off a swarm of attacking boats.”

  “I have just the item. It’s called a Spike. Portable, powerful and designed to deal with swarming tactics. It can pick multiple attackers off before they get in close enough to use their rocket launchers.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

  Broz pecked at his computer keyboard, then swiveled the monitor around for Calvin to see the screen.

  “This is a video of the Spike being tested. Ten drone boats were sent in to attack a target. All were destroyed before they got closer than two miles. Fast-loading capacity allowed the whole operation to take less than two minutes. Only one defender was involved.”

  Calvin watched the screen for a moment, then said, “Wonderful! What will these babies cost my company?”

  Broz’s fingers played over the keyboard and a price list appeared on the screen. “The unit price is reduced according to the number ordered. Bulk discounts, in other words. Tell me how many you need and I’ll start the ordering process. It will take a few days for delivery.”

  “You must sell a lot of these things.”

  Broz paused. A mental tic. He was being asked about his business.

  “I’ve only recently acquired a reliable supplier.”

  It was a non-sequitur answer to a non-question.

  “Pardon me. I don’t mean to pry. I was wondering if I could draw on the experience of someone who may have used the product in a combat situation.”

  “Of course.” Broz seemed to relax slightly but the blue eyes were still wary. “I’m only the supplier. I don’t do follow-through. Many of my clients are regulars. I would hear from them if there were any complaints.”

  “And has that happened with the Spike buyers?”

  Broz must have decided that Calvin was becoming too inquisitive. His voice hardening, he said, “Perhaps you would do better taking your inquiries to another supplier.”

  “Is that a refusal to do business with me?”

  “It’s merely a statement of fact. I’m a cautious man.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t been cautious enough.” Calvin unzipped the portfolio case and pulled out his electronic tablet which he powered up and placed on the desk.

  Broz read the list of names on the screen. “How did you get this information?”

  “Nothing is private in today’s world.”

  Broz sat back in his chair. “I don’t see your point. This is nothing more than my client list.”

  “Which includes known terrorist organizations. Selling weapons to them could land you in jail.”

  “Come now. Today’s terrorist is tomorrow’s statesman. Even George Washington was considered a terrorist by the British Crown. I have many friends in high places who value and depend on the services my company provides them.”

  “So I’ve heard. Which is why I thought you would be interested in this.”

  Calvin clicked on another file and pushed the tablet back across the desk. The photo album showed Broz stretched out on the deck of a yacht. Lying next to him was a leggy blonde woman wearing the lower half of a bikini. Broz stared at the picture.

  “You’re treading in dangerous waters,” he growled.

  “Not half as dangerous as the waters you and the young lady were testing off the coast of Croatia while your wife was back here in Amsterdam. There are more pictures in the album. I assume the young lady is not your daughter.”

  “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

  “And neither are you, based on these photos. “

  Broz pushed the tablet away. “What do you want?”

  “A little information. I want to know who bought Spike missiles from you over the past six months. If you are honest and upfront with me, these embarrassing photos will never see the light of day.”

  “How can I know you won’t come back again and again with more demands?”

  “Your marital status doesn’t mean a damn to me, Mr. Broz. What I want is an answer to the question I asked.”

  Broz sighed. “When someone new approaches my company I ask for a reference. Sometimes more. I did it in your case. Evidently there is much more to you than what I knew.”

  “I’m a nice guy when you get to know me. Back to the Spikes. Who bought them?”

  “I’ve had three buyers. Two governments wanted the missiles for harbor patrol boats. The third buyer was an independent contractor. The security company he gave as his reference said he had been in special operations in Iraq where he was wounded and got an early discharge.”

  Broz checked his computer, jotted down the name of the security company, and shoved it across the desk. Calvin glanced at the paper before folding it and placing it into his pocket.

  “You said he was independent, which means he no longer worked for the company.”

  “That’s right. He had gone private. He told me he needed the missiles to protect his wealthy employer who lived on his yacht.”

  “Did he say who that employer was?”

  “Only that he could be a prime target for kidnapping. I left it at that.”

  “How many missiles did he buy?”

  “A set of four, plus the launcher of course.”

  “He must have given you the name he used when he worked for the security contractor.”

  “It’s Chad Williams. I don’t know what name he uses now.”

  “How did he pay you?”

  “The usual. Through a Swiss bank account.”

  “Did he give you his address?”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “A shot in the dark. How did he take delivery?”

  “All sales go through a distribution point in Croatia. My home country. From there the missiles were trucked over land to Cadiz, Spain. They were delivered to a warehouse to be picked up.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “When he sat in that very chair and placed his order several weeks ago. Are we through here?”

  “One last question.” Calvin looked around. “Where are the security cameras?”

  Broz smiled. “You’re the security person. What do you think?”

  “At the front door. In the lobby and elevator. In the reception area.”

  “Not bad. You forgot the one behind the windmill painting.”

  He went to his computer again and a moment later the printer on his desk spit out a photograph which he handed to Calvin.

  “Good looking guy,” Calvin said. “This should do it.”

  “Good. Then I expect our business is concluded.”

  Calvin raised his palm. “Not quite.”

  Broz listened to the last request and a smile crossed his face.

  “I’m sure we can accommodate you, Mr. Hayes.”

  Broz called in his receptionist and she escorted Calvin to the front door.

  “Come again,” she said, sounding more like a retail clerk than part of a slightly sordid arms dealing operation.

  Stepping out of the building he walked a
cross the street, narrowly missing a collision with a bike. Calvin hailed a cab. He had a couple of hours before his flight back to Cadiz, and although Calvin was not above dealing with the shadowy world of arms dealing, he needed a strong dose of sunlight.

  “Please take me to the Van Gogh Museum,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Athens, Greece

  Kalliste sealed the last cardboard box and placed it on the stack of cartons. Movers would come in later to transport personal possessions from her office to her apartment. She glanced around the small space with sadness in her eyes. Earlier, she had said goodbye to her colleagues at the Hellenic Ministry of Culture. A few co-workers had whispered that they might soon be following her out the door.

  She left the office key at the reception desk and stepped out of the ministry building. As Kalliste made her way along the busy sidewalk, her glum mood began to fade. She had a new sense of freedom in her step. She practically raced up the stairway and strode between the tall Ionic columns leading to the entrance of the Athens National Archaeological Museum.

  The artifact Matt had salvaged before the Minoan ship was destroyed offered endless possibilities. Life and career, she knew, were about to become exciting indeed.

  She made her way to a gallery that’d been set aside to exhibit the cargo of the ship that had sunk in a storm after striking a rock wall off the island of Antikythera. Sponge divers had found the wreck of an ancient Greek freighter around the turn of the century. The ship had carried bronze, marbles and jewelry. But the most amazing object found was a clock-like machine whose purpose had baffled scientists for years.

  She stopped at a display case and gazed through the glass at the Antikythera device— a piece that’d been at the museum since 1901. At first, it was thought to be an astrolabe, a navigational instrument that allowed mariners to chart latitude position using the sun and stars. Not until technical advances such as X-ray and imaging did scientists piece together the fragments. They concluded that the corroded assembly of gears within a circular bronze framework was an analog computer that could track the cycles of the solar system. Dated to the second century B.C., it had been fashioned hundreds of years after the Minoan mechanism.