The Atlantis Stone

by Nick Hawkes

  The Atlantis Stone

  Nick Hawkes

  Hawkesflight Media

  The Atlantis Stone

  Copyright © 2019 by Nick Hawkes

  All rights reserved.

  First edition published in 2019

  by Hawkesflight Media

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters in this novel are purely fictional.

  Any resemblance to people who have existed, or are existing, is coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-6481103-4-7

  www.author-nick.com

  Cover Design by Karri Klawiter

  Contents

  The Atlantis Stone

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  What is true…and what is fiction?

  Notes

  About the Author

  Also by Nick Hawkes

  Also by Nick Hawkes

  The Atlantis Stone

  by

  Nick Hawkes

  To Michael and Denise…who were engaged on the day this book was finished.

  Prologue

  It was a single piece of parchment stamped top and bottom, and he’d signed it with his name. It was an agreement; a treaty…and he had no intention of abiding by it.

  John II, king of Portugal and the Algarves, had studied it carefully. The first line was written in bold, decorated text, perhaps to give fair warning of the verbosity that was to follow. It was being read aloud by Fernando Alvareze, scrivener of the high court of justice, to all those gathered in the great hall.

  The king had dressed carefully for the occasion, wanting to give the impression of understated power. He wore a red velvet cloak, over which he’d hung a gold chain with a diamond and pearl-encrusted pendant. This—together with his black cap and black beard—would, he felt, lend an appropriate air of severity.

  He glanced across to the Spanish contingent. There was chief steward Don Enrique Enriques, chief auditor Don Gutierre de Cardenas, and Dr Rodrigo Maldonado. They were representing king Ferdinand II of Aragon and his wife, Isabella I of Castile…and they were looking altogether too smug.

  The king was only half-listening as Fernando Alvareze continued to read.

  Don Ferdinand and Dona Isabella, by the grace of God, king and queen of Castile, Leon, Aragon, Sicily, Granada…

  Hell’s teeth! He’d worked hard to reassert Portugal’s fortunes and political dominance; he wasn’t going to weaken now. He thought back to the early years when he inherited the throne from his father. The old king had fled to a monastery, leaving the nation in financial ruin. The resulting power vacuum was filled by the nobles, who’d run riot. King John curled his fingers into a fist. He’d needed to curtail their excesses.

  They had protested, of course, and plotted rebellion—but the king had responded decisively. When his spies intercepted incriminating correspondence from the Duke of Braganza, he confiscated the Duke’s lands and had him executed.

  John’s own cousin and brother-in-law had been equally truculent. The king recalled the night he had personally stabbed him to death—the agonizing retch, the look of astonishment.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised. Fool.

  The Bishop of Evora had been the next to die. He’d assumed that his clerical status gave him license to agitate with impunity. He was mistaken. The bishop had been fatally poisoned in prison on his orders.

  John was now satisfied that his hold on the nation was secure. Financial stability had been restored and he’d even earned a nickname from his people: o Príncipe Perfeito, ‘the Perfect Prince.’ He stroked his beard. But he wasn’t satisfied; he wanted glory. He wanted to revive the dream of his great uncle, Henry the Navigator—to discover new lands, subdue them, and have their wealth flow into his kingdom.

  He acknowledged to himself that his explorers had done well. Diogo Cao had discovered the great Congo River. Bartolomeu Dias had rounded the southernmost tip of Africa, which the king renamed the Cape of Good Hope. Even now, his explorers were readying themselves to push on to India.

  But he’d heard tell of a land, a vast land in the southern seas—a land of gold.

  In the name of God Almighty, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, three truly separate and distinct persons and only one divine essence. Be it manifest and known to all who shall see this public instrument, that at the village of Tordesillas, on the seventh day of the month of June, in the year of the nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ 1494, in the presence of us.

  King John looked covertly at his nemesis, Isabella I. He could expect trouble from that woman, “Isabella the Catholic.” He glanced down at her feeble-looking son, John, Prince of Asturias. “My little angel,” she was fond of calling him. But no amount of finery could disguise the fact that the boy was a weakling. He would pose no threat, but his mother was another matter. She was Queen of Castille and every bit as powerful as her husband, Ferdinand II, known (predictably enough) as “Ferdinand the Catholic.” Both were religious zealots. Together, they had torn up the Alhambra Decree that protected Muslims and set out on a religious rampage, forcing both Muslims and Jews to convert to Christianity or face deportation—or death. They were strong.

  The king gripped the side of his chair. But he was stronger.

  Ferdinand and Isabella had sponsored Columbus’s voyage in 1492. That had started the problem. It was only through good fortune that Columbus called in to Lisbon and reported his American discoveries whilst on his way back from the Americas to Spain. John remembered his anger on hearing of it. He had complained to the Pope that any lands discovered in that part of the world were promised to Portugal, not Spain. The Spanish had immediately organized a diplomatic solution for they were intimidated by Portugal’s maritime might.

  As well they might be, thought John sourly.

  The Pope, Alexander VI, had moved quickly to organize the Treaty of Tordesillas. Its purpose was to divide trading and colonizing rights for all newly discovered lands between Portugal and Spain, to the exclusion of other nations. It decreed that all lands west of the meridian forty-six degrees west would belong to Spain, and all those east of the line would belong to Portugal.

  That at least should protect my claim on Africa and India, thought the king—but he was hungry for more. He wanted to find new lands that were rich in gold, wherever they may be.

  We renounce all fraud, evasion, falsehood, and pretense, and we shall not violate or oppose this treaty, or any part of it, at any time or in any manner whatsoever.

  John shifted impatiently in his seat.

  Drawn up by me, Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, secretary to the king and to the queen, scrivener of the high court of justice, and notary public in their court, who is witness.

  It was done.

  The king leaned back and growled to his secretary, “Fetch me Ma
nuel. We must plan how to find new lands of gold before the Spanish find them. Manuel will soon succeed me as king, so I want those plans in place immediately.” He banged the seat of his chair. “If he prevaricates, remind him that I executed his brother. If there is a great South Land of gold, Portugal must own it. A pox on the Spanish and their wretched pope…and damn this miserable treaty!”

  Chapter 1

  The doorknob turned very slowly, then stopped…and twisted back again.

  Benjamin watched it in the darkness. His skin prickled as the familiar fear washed over him. He held his breath and waited. He must not—dare not move. His body screamed in protest and begged him to breathe. He allowed himself a shallow pant; it sounded like a sob. This couldn’t be happening! The nightmare was being played out again. He’d sobbed in terror many times as a child…watching the door handle turn.

  It turned again, testing. Benjamin expected to hear the labored breath and the drag of the crippled leg.

  But there was only silence.

  He waited. Moonlight streamed through the windowpanes of his workshop, highlighting the last of the wood dust that was still trying to settle. Everything was still—almost. With his cheek pressed against the splintered wooden floor, Benjamin watched the shadow of two feet through the crack under the door.

  He felt trapped inside his canvas swag, the bushman’s sleeping bag that he’d rolled out on the workshop floor. Only a moment ago he’d been snugged down, hiding in sleep from the chilly night air.

  Benjamin drew his arms up and placed his hands on the floor, bracing himself to flee or fight. Which?

  He glanced across the darkened room. His half-inch skew chisel was made of Böhler S700 high-speed steel. Its edge could shave the hairs off his arms; its long blade would be deadly. But it was well out of reach, nested neatly in the rack above the wood lathe on the other side of the workshop.

  The shadows under the door disappeared. Silence.

  A minute passed.

  Then another. An eternity.

  Suddenly, there was the crash of splintering glass. Benjamin ducked instinctively. Something large fell through the skylight above him. It ripped off the old sheet that he had tacked over part of the skylight and smashed to the floor beside him.

  Shards of glass fell everywhere. Then all was still.

  Benjamin removed his hands from his face. It took a moment for him to focus…and to realize that he was staring at the ruined remains of a human being. A corner of the sheet had tried to fold itself over the body like a shroud. It failed to cover an out flung arm. A pistol had spun away and slid across the floor. Moonlight gleamed on the dull metal of its silencer as it rested against the leg of Benjamin’s workbench.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Benjamin Bidjara.”

  “Spell it.”

  “B-I-D-J-A-R-A.” Benjamin knew what was coming next.

  “What sort of surname is that?”

  “It’s Aboriginal.”

  Detective sergeant Richard Anderson scowled. “You don’t look Aboriginal.”

  “I know.” When it was apparent that the inspector wanted more information, Benjamin added, “My mother was Kija, from around Kununurra. Not sure of my father. Never knew him. I was told his family originally came from around here.”

  “Kununurra is northern Australia. That’s a long way from Port Fairy here in coastal Victoria.”

  Benjamin shrugged and felt awkward. He didn’t understand either. He reached across the workbench and picked up a block of mulga that he had prepared for turning. It was wood of uncompromising hardness from the desert regions of Australia. He stared at the dark wood and traced the ivory-colored streak that ran through it with his finger. A bit like me, he reflected sourly. Black but not black. “Throwback,” they’d called him. “Hey, Throwback…you think you’re better than us, eh? You gonna forget you’re trash, like us? You gonna get a white man’s job in the city?…Hey, Throwback, show us your white willie.” Laughter.

  “You don’t even speak like an Aborigine.”

  Benjamin raised an eyebrow.

  “You speak…formally, like a Pom: an Englishman.”

  “How should a blackfella speak, detective?”

  The detective ignored the rebuke, remained impassive, and waited for an explanation.

  Benjamin sighed. “The Christian Brothers offered scholarships to a few of us to attend Rostrevor College in Adelaide. I went to school there. They had a good English teacher.” Benjamin pinched the top of his nose. “I haven’t been back to Kununurra since I was twelve.”

  They were sitting on ornately carved stools next to the workbench under the window. Behind them, a police photographer hefted a camera case over his shoulder and made for the door. Crime scene investigators in white overalls were still examining the scene, occasionally placing samples into specimen bags. The body had been taken away two hours earlier.

  The detective looked at his notes. “Why would anyone be standing on the parapet of a wall next to your skylight with a silenced pistol?”

  “I thought we’d been through this.”

  “Let me hear it again.”

  “No idea.”

  “You owe anyone? If it’s drugs, we can organize some sort of protection…but only if you help us.”

  “As I’ve told you before, I don’t do drugs. I don’t owe money…and there’s no one I can think of who would wish me harm.”

  “A bloke doesn’t shin up to the parapet of a wall with a silenced gun for no reason. It’s likely he was trying to get a clear shot at you. You’d only covered half the skylight with your sheeting. Why did you put the sheeting up, by the way?”

  “I work in wood. I’m a wood-turner, so having the right light is important. Light needs to be even and diffuse. No deep shadows.”

  The detective swiveled to and fro on his bar stool, rubbing his hands along the side rails of the seat appreciatively. “Did you make this?”

  Benjamin nodded and looked at the delicately turned spindles. He’d enjoyed making them. Redgum. Strong enough to hold a one hundred kilogram policeman.

  “It’s good.” The detective continued on seamlessly. “We’ll need to search this place thoroughly for…anything, and also your home. Where do you live?”

  “I live here, in the workshop.”

  The detective raised an eyebrow. “All the time?”

  “For the last eight months—ever since I’ve been in Port Fairy.”

  The detective looked at him disbelievingly.

  Benjamin pointed around the room. “Shower in the cubicle over there. Potbelly stove for warmth. Electric fry pan by the sink…and a swag on the floor.”

  “So you’ve got money problems?”

  Benjamin rubbed his forehead wearily. “Until my business gets going, I can either put petrol in my ute or rent a flat. Can’t do both. I’m happy enough with the arrangement and in no hurry to get other accommodation.”

  “Well, you can’t stay here. We’ve got another day’s work to do at least. Your workshop has been taped off as a crime scene and we’ve put a tarp over the skylight to protect it. We don’t want you traipsing around.”

  Benjamin was about to protest when the detective got to his feet and peered out the window. “Damn and blast. The press are here.” He levered himself off his stool. “I suppose I’ll have to speak to them.”

  Benjamin followed the detective’s gaze out the window and frowned. An untidy figure was standing beside a car. His hands were deep in the pockets of an open coat that he was swishing around as he emphasized what he was saying to a policeman. There was something familiar about him. Benjamin turned the piece of mulga over in his hands and waited for the answer to swim into his consciousness. Lost thoughts, like trees, needed time to grow—and they grew more quickly if you didn’t watch them too closely.

  The man’s untidy gait…standing by a lemon-scented gum years ago…wearing a black blazer with red trim. Aah, yes…the front gardens of the school. Then he had it. It was an
old classmate from Rostrevor days. Benjamin hadn’t seen him—or, indeed, any of his classmates—for five-and-a-half years. He looked out the window again to make sure. The angular figure jerked like a badly co-ordinated string puppet as he argued with the policeman. There was no doubt about it. Marcus O’Lauchlan was being as passionate and loquacious as ever.

  Benjamin turned and called to the detective who was speaking with a forensic officer. “Detective, I think I know the bloke outside, the guy you said was the press…if that helps,” he trailed off.

  The detective scowled. “You’re not to go blabbing to the press until I give you permission to do so. Is that understood?” He rubbed his hands through his hair, walked to the open door and ducked under the crime scene tape.

  Benjamin watched the ensuing pantomime from the window. He wasn’t surprised to hear raised voices. The detective put up a hand to forestall the torrent of words coming from the reporter and beckoned for Benjamin to join him outside.

  Benjamin did so diffidently, unsure of what would transpire. He stood a few paces away, waiting to be invited into the other men’s space—waiting to be recognized.