Addison Cooke and the Ring of Destiny

by Jonathan W. Stokes

  Turkish people bustled in all directions. Some wore dark robes with colorful turbans; some wore business suits and toted briefcases. To the west stood the fabled spice markets of the Grand Bazaar. To the north lay the horse racetracks built by the ancient Romans. And before them sat the Hagia Sophia—a magnificent domed mosque flanked by four towering spires of minarets.

  Addison looked up from his Fiddleton’s Atlas and gazed in admiration at the sparkling city. “Roland J. Fiddleton—explorer, chess master, big game tracker, and cheese connoisseur—says Istanbul is one of the cultural meccas of the world!”

  “Great,” said Molly. “Another famous city Addison can destroy. Are there any other towns still standing? How about Salzburg? Or Milan? How about Seville, in Spain? I love flamingo music.”

  “It’s flamenco music, Mo. Flamingos don’t make music.”

  Addison led the group to the northwest corner of the cobblestone square and found Uncle Jasper’s rendezvous. It was a small seafood restaurant and bar marked by a sign saying DRINK AND EAT FISH. Addison wondered if commas were optional in Istanbul.

  They took seats facing the square where Raj could scan the crowds for any suspicious men in dark glasses. The proprietor was so impressed when Eddie ordered in fluent Turkish that he gave them their first plate of kebabs for free. Eddie was passionate about Turkish food with an ardor that bordered on criminal insanity. He had often stopped to get kebabs on his way to go get kebabs. Eddie shocked everyone by declaring the kebabs better than the kebabs at Restaurant Anatolia in Manhattan.

  When the falafels arrived, Eddie was more discerning. He picked one out of his pita bread and held it aloft. “This,” he declared, “is an awful falafel.” Addison’s group slowly nodded, but Eddie was not through. “It is so awful, it should be unlawful.” He plunked it down on his plate with disgust. “It is an awful unlawful falafel.”

  They feasted on fish shish kebabs until they used up nearly all of Eddie’s piano-busking money. For dessert, Addison thought about buying a persimmon, but felt too parsimonious.

  Instead, he consulted one of the three fake Rolexes on his left wrist. “Our rendezvous isn’t for another two hours.” He drummed his fingers on the red-checkered tablecloth. The mystery of the bronze tablet was scratching away inside Addison’s brain like a convict trying to escape. He desperately wanted to know what the tablet was and why the Collective needed it so badly. “This will never end,” he declared. “If the Collective can track us to Blandfordshire Bank, they can track us home to my uncle’s house. They can track us around the world forever. Besides, we can’t just spend hours lounging around this kebab restaurant like sitting ducks.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Eddie, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his belly contentedly.

  Addison folded his arms and creased his brow in thought. “The Templar Grand Master said he saw the tablet’s runes inside the most beautiful mosque in Istanbul.”

  “How many mosques are in Istanbul?” asked Molly.

  Addison already knew the answer. “According to Mr. Fiddleton, over three thousand.” Addison knew that his brain was somehow connected to his feet—he did his best thinking while pacing. He stood and circled the table, lips pursed in concentration, hands clasped behind his back. “The thing I don’t get is, the ancient Templars were Christian knights. So why would their runes be found in a Turkish mosque?” Addison frowned and took another lap. “I wish we had a clue, or even some sort of sign.”

  His thoughts were interrupted by a deafening roar from the Hagia Sophia across the square. Electronic speakers in its four minarets began blasting the Muslim call to prayer. It was a man’s voice, singing an ancient and mournful melody. The beautiful song echoed across the alleys and courtyards of historic Istanbul. It rang up and down the crowded streets, overpowering the hacking motorbikes, honking horns, and hawking street venders.

  Addison thumbed through Fiddleton’s Atlas and smacked his face with his palm. “Hagia Sophia was a church for a thousand years before it was ever a mosque!”

  Eddie tipped his chair back on two legs and frowned up at Addison. “So?”

  “So in the time of the Knights Templar, the Hagia Sophia was a church. We have to investigate the runes!” Addison stared at the skeptical faces of his team. “Look, I know I’m going out on a limb here—”

  “Addison,” said Molly, “you’ve gone so far out on the limb, it’s snapped.”

  “Molly, stick to me like suntan lotion. Stick to me like a vinyl car seat on a hot day—”

  Molly was not interested in Addison’s explanations. “Uncle Jasper gave us specific instructions to sit tight and not get into trouble.”

  Addison threw his hands up in exasperation. “We didn’t fly all the way to Istanbul in a cargo hold so we could sit around in a restaurant eating fish kebabs!”

  “I did,” said Eddie.

  “I’m going to the mosque to find the runes.” Addison turned to leave the restaurant.

  Molly called after him. “Addison, you’re being reckless!”

  “I am the opposite of reckless! I am reckful! These are calculated risks.” Addison pointed to Molly’s satchel, weighed down by the heavy bronze tablet. “If we’re going to risk our lives protecting that thing from the Collective, we have a right to know what it is.”

  Addison marched confidently across the square toward the mosque, not even turning to see if his team would follow. He believed that like him, they would be unable to resist the lure of an ancient mystery. For the first time in months, he was beginning to feel like himself again.

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  Addison gazed up at the soaring arches of the Hagia Sophia and was pleased to hear the footfalls of his friends catching up behind him. The good news was that the Hagia Sophia was now a museum, so anyone could get inside. The bad news was that everyone wanted to get inside. A milling herd of tourists stood in line to buy tickets.

  “This line must be an hour long,” said Eddie.

  “And we’re supposed to keep a low profile,” said Raj, his eyes scoping the crowd for dark-suited Russians.

  “And each ticket is forty Turkish lira,” said Molly, reading the sign by the entrance. “That’s one hundred sixty lira for all of us.”

  Addison detested lines the way a claustrophobe detests a crowded elevator. He knew that cattle are made to wait in lines on their way into the slaughterhouse and lemmings form lines when they leap off of Norwegian cliffs. But Addison was neither cattle nor lemming, and he did not believe the precious gift of life should be wasted standing in lines. Particularly when one is the target of a manhunt. “We have neither one hour nor one hundred sixty lira,” he declared.

  “Back door?” asked Raj.

  Addison nodded and was already on his way.

  The group circled around to the back of the mosque and found the rear exit. Addison stooped to the pavement and collected four used ticket stubs that hadn’t quite made their way into the nearest trash can. He dealt the ticket stubs out to his team and strode confidently up to the exit door. They were almost inside before a security guard flattened his hand against Addison’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.

  The guard grumbled something in Turkish.

  “He says we can only enter through the front door,” Eddie translated.

  “It’s okay,” Addison said to the guard. “We have our ticket stubs.”

  Addison, Molly, Eddie, and Raj all held up their torn ticket stubs and smiled innocently.

  The guard grunted something else in Turkish.

  “He says this is not a movie theater,” Eddie translated. “You can’t go back through the exit after you’ve left.”

  “Front door,” said the guard in accented English.

  “We’ve already been through the front door,” Addison explained. “We just left something inside and need to run back
in for a sec.”

  The guard listened to Eddie’s translation and firmly shook his head no.

  The guard was a strong silent type, Addison could tell, with a mind unclouded by thoughts.

  “Go!” the guard said, pointing away.

  Eddie whispered to Addison, “Maybe we should just leave. Your uncle told us not to get into any trouble.”

  Addison stood his ground. Getting inside was now a matter of principle. “Eddie, we are going inside, and this guard is going to politely hold the door for us while we do it.”

  Eddie sighed. He knew there was no turning back now.

  Addison smiled at the guard and spoke in his most let’s-just-be-reasonable voice. “We promised our parents we would take a picture inside the Hagia Sophia, and we forgot. We just need to duck in for a minute.” It was a bit thin, Addison thought. But what sort of monster would say no to such a request?

  “No,” said the guard.

  “Five minutes,” said Addison. “We promise we won’t enjoy anything in your museum.”

  The man shook his head.

  “The Hagia Sophia gets one million visitors a year,” said Addison. “The world will keep spinning if you let four middle-schoolers inside for five minutes.”

  “Go!” said the guard again, gesturing east, perhaps toward Asia.

  Addison was glad the guard was rude. It made him feel less guilty about what he had to do next. “All right. My parents would kill me if they knew I was doing this . . .” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a glittering gold Rolex. For the first time, Addison saw a flicker of life behind the guard’s granite eyes. Addison unclasped the Rolex and handed it to the man. “My father’s Rolex. If we’re not back outside in five minutes, keep it.”

  The guard weighed the watch in his palm. He held it to his ear and listened to it tick. He looked around furtively for any witnesses. Then, without a word, he pulled open the rear door for Addison’s team and waved them inside.

  “Notice,” said Addison, with an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, “how he politely holds the door for us.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Secret Rune

  ADDISON STOOD ON THE tiled floor of the spectacular structure. Light flooded in through dozens of windows, illuminating the massive dome that had stood for millennia. Addison wondered how many caliphs, Crusaders, and czars had stood on this floor gazing upward in wonder.

  Molly reached out her hand and shut Addison’s jaw. “I know staring at the ceiling is your idea of a good time, but remember, the guard wants us out in five minutes.”

  “The guard wants us to take longer than five minutes,” said Addison, “so he can keep the Rolex.”

  “Fine,” said Molly. “But our rendezvous is at ten o’clock and we can’t stand here forever. The Collective knew enough to ambush us in London and ambush us in Paris, and they can ambush us here, too.” She handed him her satchel. “But if you really want to sightsee, then you can lug around this heavy bronze block for a while.”

  Addison took the satchel from Molly, unbuttoned the flap, and carefully nudged the bronze tablet out a few inches. “This is the rune,” he said excitedly, pointing to the image of a carved sword protecting a scroll. “Gaspard Gagnon said he’s seen this rune in the most beautiful mosque in Istanbul. We’ll just take a quick look around for it and then retreat. I promise.”

  Molly sighed. She scanned the atrium for any sign of the rune. Her eyes widened and she gasped, pointing.

  “You found it already?” Addison asked.

  “No!” Molly whispered fiercely. “It’s Ivan!”

  Addison spun to face the entrance. Ivan the Terrible, his terrible mop of hair, and his terrible gang of guards were sauntering into the mosque. With a signal from Ivan, the Collective members fanned out. Addison ducked low, hoping to blend into the crowd. “Guys, abort!”

  He scurried toward the exit until he spotted men in dark suits and glasses covering the door. He wheeled toward an arched stairway leading down to the basement. “Hurry. Before they spot us.”

  “Look!” cried Raj. He pointed to the ancient capstone of the stairwell archway. There, worn and faded, was the faint figure of the carved rune.

  Molly was already halfway down the staircase and pointing to a second archway below. “There’s another one down here!”

  “Follow them!” said Addison. “Quickly!”

  The stairs reached a landing and took a hard right turn. Addison’s team raced to the bottom and found the basement level sealed behind a heavy iron gate.

  Eddie clutched the bars. “Why’s it locked off?”

  Addison drew his penlight and shone it through the bars. The basement area was dank, dark, and crumbling. “Probably isn’t very safe. I mean, the masonry’s fifteen hundred years old. They can’t let tourists bumble around in there.”

  “Look,” said Molly, who had the keenest eyes. She pointed through the bars to a basement pillar in the gloom. “Another rune.”

  Addison lit it up with his flashlight. “We have to get in there.” He examined the thick padlock protecting the iron gate. “Eddie, you’re up.”

  Eddie peered through bars into the menacing darkness and gritted his teeth. “Addison, just tell me right now. Are there graves in there?”

  “What am I, a psychic? I’ve never been here before.”

  Eddie put his foot down. “I know rooting around in skeleton-infested basements is your great passion in life. But I would rather listen to polka music while pouring boiling hot Drano in my nostrils than subject myself to another one of your catacombs.”

  “Eddie, your voice is at a seven and I need you at a two. Also,” Addison added, as gently as he could, “your personality is at an eleven and I need it at a three.” He turned to the rest of his team. “Raj, Molly, you’re our lookouts.”

  Raj retreated to the top of the stairway. Molly stayed at the nearest landing so she could relay his messages.

  Eddie lay on his back underneath the heavy padlock, staring up at it. He mulled it over. Or, more accurately, he mulled it under. He mulled it under so long, he nearly molded over. After a period of time that Addison took to be several centuries, Eddie produced a lock pick from his pocket, made a few tentative pokes, and returned to mulling.

  Addison’s patience was fraying at the seams. “Eddie, could you do that a bit more slowly?”

  Eddie glared at him. “When Michelangelo was painting the Sistine Chapel, did people stand around checking their Rolexes?”

  Before Addison could reply, he heard the light hoot of a barn owl. He looked up the stairs in confusion.

  Molly cupped her hands and whispered down from the landing. “It’s Raj—he’s seen something.”

  “Ask him what a live owl would be doing in a museum,” said Addison. “I mean, owls are nocturnal, right?”

  Molly relayed this up the stairs to Raj. A few seconds later, she whispered back his answer. “He says it’s not his fault we didn’t come up with a prearranged signal and that you should be more concerned with the fact that Ivan’s heading in this direction.”

  Addison fumed. “How is Ivan getting his information? How is he always right on our tail?”

  Molly relayed these questions up to Raj, paused, and then turned back to Addison. “He wants to know if you’re being rhetorical.”

  “Ask him what Ivan’s doing!”

  Molly communicated this and waited for Raj’s answer. “Raj says Ivan’s team is fanning across the entire main floor and zeroing in on this stairway.”

  “The Right Honorable Sir Alec Douglas-Home, First Lord of the Treasury!” Addison crushed his fist in his palm. He stared hard at Eddie, who was still fiddling with the lock. “Eddie, I don’t mean to put more pressure on you . . .”

  “This lock is old and Turkish, and I haven’t got the right tools for it!” Eddie sputtered.

  Addiso
n heard the agitated calls of an extremely panicked barn owl.

  Molly called from the stairway. “Addison, they’re heading straight for us!”

  Addison turned back to Eddie. “How’s the painting going, Michelangelo?”

  Eddie twisted and strained with his picks, his veins standing out in his temples. “I think it’s rusted shut!”

  Addison turned from the iron bars, searching for options in the dead-end hallway. He could see why a situation like this was called a dead end: he was about to be dead and meet his end.

  Molly flew down the stairs, Raj at her heels. “They’re coming, Addison!”

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  Addison looked left and right, desperate for options. Out of ideas, he even looked up and down. It was this last move that gave him an idea. He pointed to an iron drainage grate set in the flagstone floor. “Eddie, pick this open instead.”

  Eddie came up with a flathead and set to work on the screws.

  Addison flicked out his butterfly knife. Raj pulled open his Swiss Army knife. Together they worked all four screws loose.

  Footsteps echoed down the stone staircase above.

  Molly hopped nervously from foot to foot. “Hurry!”

  Straining together, they hoisted up the drainage grate, scraping it to one side.

  “Addison, how many sewers are you going to put me in on this trip?” asked Eddie.

  “As many as it takes. Now go!”

  Molly crawled in first. One by one, they dropped down into the stone shaft after her. Inside, Raj and Addison managed to pull the grate over their heads just as Ivan’s men rounded the staircase landing.