Addison Cooke and the Ring of Destiny

by Jonathan W. Stokes

  “The Cookes are like the world’s first archaeologists,” Raj blurted out.

  Roland nodded. “That is not far from the truth.”

  Addison furrowed his brow, considering. “That’s how my parents died in Cambodia . . . how my aunt and uncle died in Mongolia . . .”

  “Yes, Addison,” said Roland. “Your family has been fighting to protect ancient relics for seven hundred years.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Eddie. “Tutor Thesauri.”

  “It means ‘guardian of treasure,’” said Roland. “Addison—you, your sister, your father, your aunt, your uncles, and all the Cookes . . .” He held the medallion aloft so that it glittered in the filtered light of the crooked alley. “You are the relic guardians.”

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  Roland handed Addison his medallion and turned down a dark alley behind the ancient stockyards and loading docks of the Golden Horn of Istanbul.

  “Mr. Fiddleton,” called Eddie, out of breath from their march, “what does all this have to do with Raj and me? I can see why Addison has to risk his skin protecting artifacts—it’s his family business. But my parents are lawyers—that’s my family business. Maybe Raj and I should really be heading back to New York. I mean, no offense, Addison.”

  “None taken.” Addison was happy Eddie and Raj had come to visit him in England, and it really wasn’t his intention to lead them to their deaths in Istanbul. Good friends generally don’t lure each other to their deaths. Addison would be very sorry to see Eddie and Raj go. But if the two wanted to go home, they really had every right to do so.

  Roland peered over his shoulder at Eddie, his eyes glittering with merriment. “Your name is Eddie Chang, I believe?”

  “How did you know that?”

  Roland smiled. “In Chinese, Chang means ‘archer.’ The Changs were Imperial Guards, protecting the Tang emperors. And if my Hindi is good, Bhandari means ‘guardian of the treasury.’ The Bhandaris formed the first police force to protect Bombay.”

  Raj and Eddie gaped.

  Roland led the group through a breach in the ancient Roman wall that fortified Istanbul and hurried down a set of steps to an even darker passage. “Eddie, somewhere in the lower branches of your family trees, you and Raj are the descendants of guardians. Just like Addison and Molly.”

  “Well,” said Eddie, “this could all just be a weird coincidence.”

  Roland cocked his head. “Eight million people in New York and you make friends with Cookes. Is it a coincidence? I don’t know if I believe in those.”

  At last Roland slowed his pace. “We’re here.” He strode to an ancient wooden door cut in the stone façade of a tenement. “May I present the Rusted Dagger. Home to brigands, smugglers, thieves, and cutthroats since the Ottomans were ruled by Bayezid the Thunderbolt.”

  The crooked wooden door was not more than five feet tall. No sign marked the entrance, although Addison thought he saw dried bloodstains on the door frame. Roland took a deep breath and appeared to brace himself. “Keep one eye on the front door, one eye on the back door, and one eye on your wallet.”

  “That’s three eyes,” said Eddie.

  “Well, there are more than two eyes in your group,” said Roland. “Delegate.” He pushed his way inside.

  It took Addison a moment for his two eyes to adjust to the gloom. Kerosene lamps hung from the rafters. Ukrainian smugglers in fur caps hunched over playing cards at the bar. Greek sailors on shore leave reclined on satin pillows, curled over pewter hookahs. A belly dancer balanced on a table, jingling all the coins in her belt, hoping to add more coins to her collection.

  Two Bulgarian men were locked in an arm-wrestling match near the fortune-teller’s booth. The Bulgarians were so hairy, it took Addison a moment to realize they were shirtless. Over by the pool table, three Albanian longshoremen with wiry black beards like scouring pads took turns punching one another in the stomach.

  One lone figure sat wreathed in shadow at a table near the back. Addison could see reflected lamplight gleaming in his eyes, but the rest of his face was darkened by the brim of his hat. The man was watching him.

  Before Addison could react, Eddie let out a howl. A massive, slathering hound sprang from behind the bar and charged Addison, rearing up on its hind legs.

  Addison did not have time to run. The enormous creature locked its bearlike paws on Addison’s shoulders and proceeded to lick him from chin to ear. Addison sputtered and gagged, wiping slobber from his cheek.

  The man at the back of the bar tilted the hat back on his head and lifted his face to the light. “Hello, kid.”

  Addison gasped, at a loss for words.

  It was Dax Conroy.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Rusted Dagger

  MR. JACOBSEN WAS A Great Dane with mediocre manners. Addison removed the paws from his shoulders and scratched the affectionate beast behind the ears. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and patted dog slobber from his new jacket with as much composure as he could manage.

  Dax rose from his seat. “Of all the dive bars in all the world . . .” He took the toothpick from his mouth and clasped Addison’s hand. “It’s good to see you, kid.” Dax grinned broadly and shook hands with Raj, Eddie, and Roland, beckoning them to join him at his table. “Where’s Molly?”

  “The Shadow has her,” said Addison gravely.

  Dax returned the toothpick to his mouth, his expression darkening. “People sure like kidnapping Cookes.”

  Addison nodded. “We do have a knack for getting ourselves abducted.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “It’ll be a difficult rescue operation. Hard to pull off.” Addison shook his head. “How are we supposed to rescue Molly without Molly’s help?”

  “It’s true,” Raj agreed. “She’s really more useful than all of us.”

  A one-eyed barkeep with a leather-hilted dirk in his belt arrived carrying a round of Arnold Palmers.

  “I took the liberty of ordering drinks,” Dax said. “I hope you don’t mind, the Rusted Dagger spikes their Arnold Palmers with curry powder and mint.”

  “It’ll do,” said Addison, who had never been more in need of a drink. He required fluids after so much dancing and running, but he also had a thirst for information. “Has anyone heard from T.D. or Grand Master Gaspard?” he asked when he came up for air.

  “Tilda had her hands full in Paris,” said Roland. “But she managed to get Gaspard to a safe location. She can’t believe you’re still alive. Between us, I didn’t get the impression the lass holds a very high opinion of your survival skills. She says she’s going to try to catch up with you if she can.”

  Dax sipped an inch off his drink. “I’ll radio her coordinates when we know our next move.”

  Raj scooched his chair closer to Dax and stared up at his hero. “How did you get here, Dax? The last time we saw you, you were flying your Cessna Skyhawk to Tanzania to poach poachers.”

  “I had a run of bad luck.” Dax took another slug of Arnold Palmer and squinted. “I got held up at gunpoint in a pool hall in Dar es Salaam. Had to fight my way out. One of the thieves turned out to be the mayor’s son. Police tried to arrest me. I had to leave everything behind and flee the country.”

  Raj listened, wide-eyed. “Everything?”

  “Besides my plane, I only have two things in this world: a Great Dane and a bad attitude.”

  Roland set his Arnold Palmer down on the knife-scarred tabletop. “Dax has returned to smuggling, and he helps out the Templars from time to time.”

  “But what about the rhinos?” Raj blurted out.

  “There are fewer than fifty black rhinos left in Tanzania,” said Dax, his voice more bitter than the Turkish tea in the Arnold Palmers. “It’s the way of the world.”

  “Well, this has been a cheerful
reunion,” said Roland, in his lilting Scottish brogue. “But what we should be talking about is where the Shadow will be taking Molly. What’s the Collective’s next move?”

  “I’m glad you asked.” Addison pulled his notebook from his chest pocket and produced the receipts Molly had found in Malazar’s hotel suite. “Eddie and I overheard Malazar saying one word. We think it might be the name of a place.” He cleared his throat and read aloud from his notebook. “Cantoo.”

  Dax frowned.

  Roland stared at him quizzically.

  Addison realized he might be mispronouncing the word. Or he might be correctly pronouncing a word that Malazar mispronounced. Or he could be correctly pronouncing a word that was not an actual place-name. Addison’s shoulders slumped.

  Roland studied the receipts and held one aloft. “Kartal’s Café . . .” He leaned back in his chair, and his eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. “It was summertime. I was on leave from the merchant navy and bested the prince of Monaco in a fencing match. He took the loss poorly and sent the gendarmes to arrest me. I only escaped when a deep sea fisherman hid me belowdecks under some netting and ferried me out to the Mediterranean.”

  Addison listened, enraptured.

  Eddie piped up. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Well,” said Roland, his blue eyes twinkling, “that fisherman’s name was Kartal. And he later opened up a café that I have visited many times over the years. Come to think of it, it is near a town called Kantou.”

  “So what country is it in?” asked Addison.

  “The island of Cyprus.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” said Addison, rising from his seat.

  “Hold on,” said Dax. “My instructions are to fly you to safety. Not fly you to Malazar’s headquarters.”

  Addison turned to his old friend. “Dax, I can’t lose any more family members. After Molly and Uncle Jasper, I’m fresh out. I don’t want to get you in trouble. But I have to go after Molly. We owe it to her.”

  Dax looked Addison in the eye and slowly nodded. “I hear they have good casinos in Cyprus. When do we leave?”

  “Now,” Addison declared. “Or sooner, if possible.”

  The group stood up.

  Addison held out his dog-eared copy of Fiddleton’s Atlas for Roland to sign.

  After penning his autograph with a flourish, Roland handed Addison a business card. “Addison, if you ever need me, just show this card at the London Explorers Club. They will know how to contact me.”

  “Where are you going now?” asked Addison eagerly. “A Saharan caravan to the gold markets of Mali? A canoe trip down the Ganges to climb the sacred Ghats? An elephant expedition to the fabled city of Bagan on the old Silk Road?”

  “I am getting a haircut,” said Roland. “It’s been three months since I’ve had a proper trim and a shave.”

  “Just one more question, Mr. Fiddleton,” said Addison, as they shuffled between the crowded tables on their way out of the tavern. “If each Templar family has a different specialty, what is T.D.’s expertise exactly?”

  Roland shook his white mane. “That I do not know. She holds her cards close to the vest. If you find out her specialty, you will have to tell me.”

  “I will,” Addison said, nodding thoughtfully. “When you come of age.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Crash

  ADDISON HAD SAT ON couches that were longer than Dax’s plane. The four-seat Cessna Skyhawk was a cramped ride even when you didn’t have a 150-pound Great Dane named Mr. Jacobsen on your lap. The wings were mounted awkwardly on top of the plane, instead of sprouting from the sides. Addison wasn’t sure if the plane was designed for flying or drying laundry. All in all, the Skyhawk had all the stylish sophistication of a garbage disposal, except with less pickup.

  Still, after the harrowing taxi ride to Ataturk Airport, Addison thought Dax’s airplane felt downright safe by comparison. Istanbul was already a pinprick in the distance when the plane reached cruising altitude, level with the clouds. The roaring engine seemed to lull Mr. Jacobsen right to sleep, along with Eddie and Raj. All three dozed in the back seat. Addison rode shotgun, watching Dax man the controls.

  Dax eyed the back seat and seemed to sense that he finally had a moment of privacy with Addison. “Kid,” he said, his voice only just loud enough to be heard over the beating propeller, “I went after your aunt and uncle.”

  “What are you talking about, Dax?”

  “After I evacuated you and Molly from Mongolia in July. I went right back in.”

  Addison leaned forward in his seat. “You went back to the mountain?”

  “Yes. I returned to the chasm where your aunt and uncle . . .” Dax’s voice trailed off.

  “That was dangerous,” said Addison. “It was crawling with gang members—Chinese triads and Russian vori.”

  “They were cleared out by then,” said Dax. “The Black Darkhad took care of the triads. And the Russians, well, I didn’t see any sign of them.”

  “Did you do a fly-by or get out and explore?”

  “I landed at the base of the mountain. I hiked until I reached the gorge. I combed the river where I figured your aunt and uncle might be. I hiked the banks on both sides for three miles.”

  Dax flew for a moment in silence.

  Addison was afraid to ask his next question and afraid not to ask. “What did you find?”

  Dax set his jaw and pursed his lips. “Nothing. Not a trace of them.”

  Addison puckered his eyebrows and frowned. It would be nice to have closure. It would make it easier to say goodbye. At last he spoke. “Thank you, Dax.”

  The plane soared over the sprawling and ancient land of Turkey. Where Achilles’s Greeks once battled the Trojans. Where Antony cavorted with Cleopatra. Where Byzantines built underground cave cities to hide from Assyrian invaders. Where a half million men were cut down at the Battle of Gallipoli in World War One.

  Dax broke the silence when at last the tiny plane chugged over the Mediterranean Sea. “The island of Cyprus is over thirty-five hundred square miles of territory. Addison, do you have any idea which square mile you’re heading to?”

  “Kartal’s Café,” said Addison.

  “And where’s that exactly?”

  Addison realized he had no idea. He did what he always did in cases of emergency: he cracked open Fiddleton’s Atlas, pausing briefly to admire the newly autographed title page. He quickly found Kartal’s Café, near the town of Kantou. “The southern tip of the island.”

  Dax worked his toothpick across his mouth. “Why is Malazar in Cyprus?” he mused. “And why there on the southern tip?”

  Addison stared at his map and saw his answer staring right back. “Kolossi Castle.”

  Dax looked at him sidelong with a cocked eyebrow.

  “The Knights Templar owned the entire island of Cyprus during the Crusades.” Addison skimmed the description in Fiddleton’s Atlas. “Kolossi Castle was their stronghold.”

  “What does Malazar want with that place?”

  Addison shook his head. “I only know he’s obsessed with Templars.”

  Dax leaned over to study Addison’s map. “The international airport is way over on the east side of the island. Paphos Airport is way over on the west. Molly’s in danger—we don’t have that kind of time.”

  “So where do we land?” Addison asked.

  Dax chewed his lip in concentration. He stabbed a finger at the map. “The southern tip of Cyprus is British territory. The Royal Air Force has a base just a few miles from the castle.”

  “Are you allowed to land this plane on an air force base?”

  Dax tightened his grip on the throttle and edged the plane into a steep descent. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  “Dax,” said Addison, suddenly nervous
, “what are you planning?”

  “What I do best,” said Dax, one corner of his mouth lifting into a grin. “I’m going to crash-land.”

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  Dax called a mayday in on his radio. He steered the plane into an ear-popping nosedive.

  Eddie and Raj woke up in the back seat when Mr. Jacobsen fell off their laps.

  “Are we there yet?” asked Eddie, rubbing his eyes.

  “We’re about to be,” said Addison. “Tighten your seat belt—we’re going to crash.”

  “Crash?” said Eddie.

  “Relax, Eddie,” said Dax. “We’ve crashed before.”

  “Why do I get in a plane with you?”

  Dax didn’t answer. He yanked a latch on the dashboard. The needle on a large gauge began spinning wildly.

  Addison didn’t like the look of it. “Dax, what are you doing?

  “Dumping fuel.” Dax winked at Addison. “Got to make it look convincing.” He wobbled the steering, causing the plane to lurch.

  Addison clung to the overhead grab bar.

  The British Royal Air Force control tower crackled over the radio. Dax announced he was making an emergency landing.

  Addison noticed he did not ask permission.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cyprus

  BRITISH ROYAL AIR FORCE pilots, crewmen, mechanics, and technicians scrambled out of the path of Dax’s speeding Cessna. He hammed it up, bouncing the wheels several times before skidding out at the very end of the runway.

  As soon as the plane rolled to a stop, Dax leapt from the cabin and popped open the engine hood. “Got to break something quickly before they take a look,” he explained to Addison.