The Atlantis Stone

by Nick Hawkes

  Ten minutes later, Michael knocked on the workshop door. He was dressed as before but had slipped his feet into a pair of sheepskin ugg boots.

  Benjamin pointed to the computer and showed him a satellite image of McCarrs Creek. He pointed to the headwaters. “This is where the phone of the Khayef guy who contacted Felicity is. It may mean nothing, but Archie and I would love to check it out discreetly.”

  “Can it be done discreetly?”

  “I probably should have told you—Archie is ex-SAS.”

  The doctor stared Archie up and down. Archie said nothing and continued to masticate his matchstick. Michael pushed himself back from the bench. “You two got Flick’s car back from her ex-husband, didn’t you?”

  Archie nodded.

  The doctor sucked at his teeth. “I’ve had a few run-ins with Nick on Flick’s behalf. He’s a hard-nosed, intimidating bastard, so pulling that off persuades me you must be fairly capable. But why did you want me to come over tonight?”

  “Because we’d like to borrow your boat,” said Archie.

  “The Shark Cat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And tow it a thousand kilometers to Sydney and back?”

  Archie nodded. “We could probably get a boat locally but this would make things less complicated.”

  “My ute’s pretty old,” said Benjamin. “But its got a 3.2-liter engine, so it should be able to pull it okay.”

  “You’d still have to go carefully. It’s a big boat. When do you want it?”

  “Three days’ time,” said Archie.

  “Do you know how to operate it?”

  “Yeah, but I’d like you to show me any idiosyncrasies and run through the procedures.”

  “Okay.”

  Outside, the wind-vane squeaked as it turned backward and forward.

  The doctor nodded. “Bring the ute to the slipway at 10am tomorrow. We’ll take the boat for a brief spin. If I’m happy that you can handle her, and if your ute can pull her out of the water on her trailer, you can borrow her—and any other gear I’ve got that’s helpful.”

  “Thanks,” said Benjamin. “That’s great.”

  The doctor got down from his stool and made for the door. He paused as he took hold of the doorknob. “Please find Flick,” he said, and was gone.

  Archie rubbed his hands together. “I can get the rest of the gear we need from some people I know in Sydney. I’ll contact them tomorrow.”

  “Is there anything more we can do tonight?” asked Benjamin.

  “Yeah. You need to make another phone call. But first, let me tell you some technical stuff I’ve just learned from Phoebe.”

  When Archie had finished sharing, he looked at his watch. “It might be a bit late to call him, though.”

  Benjamin shook his head. “No. A late call will add to the sense of drama. It’s a good time.” He made the call.

  “Hello Marcus.”

  Chapter 19

  Doran Khayef was furious. He strode from the lift, barged through the glass doors into his office, and barked at the receptionist behind the paneled counter, “No one comes into my office or disturbs me until I say so.”

  He slammed the door of his office before the receptionist could reply. After placing a plastic bottle of kerosene on his desk, he reached down to pick up a stainless steel waste paper bin. For a moment, he splayed his fingers on the desk, leaned over, and swore savagely. Then he pulled out his phone and made a call.

  Carter answered. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Blast the bloody morning. Now tell me this, how sure are you that the document you’ve got is the real Sardinian copy of that bloody treaty?” There was a pause. “Come on, man, I need to know.”

  “What seems to be the problem, sir? Has anything happened?”

  “Just answer the bloody question.”

  “Ah, well…Ms. Anderson has begun working on softening the document but she’s only been working on it for one day. She says it will take some weeks to fully unroll it. She’s just started working on it again this morning.”

  “Can we be sure?”

  “I think, sir, that if you take into account how the document was found, where it was found…and link it with the disclosures in the PhD thesis, there can be no doubt that this is the document. The only question is how readable it will be once we’ve opened it up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ms. Anderson says that the writing ink may have faded over the years, but it will still show up under UV light—or some other band in the electromagnetic spectrum. One way or another, it will be readable. She’s actually got a UV light here already. She uses it overnight to kill off any fungi trying to grow on the vellum.”

  “And you’ve scared her enough to ensure total compliance? The document is safe?”

  “She is co-operating fully, sir.”

  “So, you would stake your life on the document being the treaty and it being readable?”

  “Er…yes sir. But may I ask why?”

  “Because you might have to,” he spat.

  “But sir…”

  Khayef interrupted him. “I’ll tell you bloody why. It’s because the bloody English have tagged their copy of the treaty with some new, hush-hush, high-tech aerosol. That’s bloody why!”

  “Perhaps you could…um, tell me about it.”

  Khayef passed a hand over his hair. “They’ve got a thing called a taggant which has been engineered as a result of research into quantum physics. Tiny quantum dots of powder have been put in an aerosol that can be sprayed on to bloody parchments.”

  “But sir, you’ve had it examined and tested by the very best…”

  “This technology is only a few years old and still being developed. No one has ever heard of it being used on documents before, so no antiquarian could possibly know about it—damn it!” He sighed. “The tiny particles absorb and emit light at specific wavelengths. I don’t know the details. All I know is that when they’re illuminated with an ultraviolet laser, the bloody spray can be detected by infrared cameras. Batches of the stuff are engineered to have distinct spectral signatures.”

  “Oh, I see, sir.”

  “I damn well hope you see because I’m about to destroy the English treaty. That’s why I have to be bloody sure that the Sardinian document is the real thing.”

  “It is, sir. It has to be.”

  Khayef grunted and ended the phone call. He paused, then stabbed the intercom button. “Get me a hammer from maintenance and bring it me, pronto.”

  He threw himself into the high-backed office chair and considered the next complication that had come his way: Benjamin Bidjara. The impudent upstart had demanded to see him in two days’ time in Port Fairy. His audacity rankled. Red carnation indeed! Khayef compressed his lips. By the time he had flown to Warrnambool, driven to Port Fairy…and then come back, it would be over half a day. He was not in the habit of giving that amount of time to anyone he disdained.

  Should he go, or should he just send Eddie to sort him out? He pondered the question for the umpteenth time. Certainly, Eddie had to be there, one way or another. Khayef sighed. There was a certain thrill at seeing a man face-to-face, knowing that you were going to kill him. It was a childish pleasure, but he enjoyed it. More importantly, he needed to learn from Bidjara exactly how much he knew. The fact that he and the Anderson woman had pieced enough clues together to go searching for the treaty in Sardinia was disturbing…even if it had eventually turned out well for his own plans. He tapped a finger on the table. Yes, he resolved, I’ll keep the appointment.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come,” he said.

  “Here’s the hammer you asked for, sir.” The receptionist handed it to him and withdrew.

  Khayef laid it on the desk and went to the end wall. He pushed at a piece of paneling. It moved back, allowing him to slide it to one side and reveal a wall safe. He dialed the combination and heaved the door open. The English treaty lay between two pieces of glas
s on the top shelf. He pulled the glass-plated treaty out and carried it to his desk. Moments later, a few taps of the hammer reduced the plates to shattered fragments at the bottom of the waste paper bin. He doused the treaty and the shards of glass in kerosene and carried the bin through the sliding door to the balcony. He stared at the ancient parchment for a few seconds, momentarily grieving the expense and trouble he’d gone through to obtain it. To destroy it now was galling.

  He lit a match and dropped it.

  Felicity knew she was probably going to die very soon, much sooner than she’d thought. She was horrified. It couldn’t be. What she’d discovered was shocking and bewildering.

  She stared at the outside section of vellum that had been steamed and brushed with a urea-ethanol solution for the last four hours. The process of restoration was bringing about results that should not be possible. It was going far too well. The vellum was already softening—and that shouldn’t be possible.

  She sat back on the wooden step between the two bunks. It was the only thing that passed for a chair in her cabin. The mattress of one bunk had been removed so the bunk could be used as a workbench. Felicity had set up a gas camping stove at one end and was boiling a kettle with a tube running from the spout into a wooden box. The roll of vellum lay in the bottom of the box on a cake rack.

  She had been using a blunt pair of tweezers to test the rigidity of the vellum’s edge. Unbelievably, it had moved slightly. Felicity rubbed the back of her hand across her brow and tried to think how this could be possible. Calf-skin that had desiccated for over five hundred years simply didn’t behave this way, not even when it was stored in the darkest, coolest, and driest of conditions. She looked back into the box and tweaked the edge of the vellum again. Perhaps she had cracked it and hadn’t noticed?

  No. The edge of the vellum bent demurely into a healthy curve.

  She sat back again and looked around. The walls of her wooden prison seemed to close in on her. In the distance, she could hear the low thrum of the diesel generator; it was started up every morning to provide electricity. Being cooped up in the forepeak meant there was little air movement. Her cabin became hot with the heat of the day, a heat that was made worse because she had the camping stove running for so many hours. She’d insisted that the rear of the hatch above her be opened a few inches to allow some of the airflow from the air conditioner to reach her through the louvered doors. The fore-hatch could be opened a little way, but it was firmly secured by a steel rod that was locked in place with a padlock to prevent it from being opened any further.

  She gazed up at the fore-hatch willing it to open and let her fly free, to allow her to escape the nightmare. But it remained above her, translucent and gray—a permanent cloud between her and the sunshine.

  What did the riddle of the vellum mean? What should she do? She moved across to her bunk, drew up her knees and hugged them as she thought. Tears welled up at the frustration of life and its cruelty. She longed for hope; for someone to show kindness…for Benjamin.

  What would he be doing now? Had she done enough to help him find her? KF—Khayef—wasn’t much for him to go on. She lowered her head and found herself praying. Dear God, there’s so much that I don’t understand. Please help me. She waited for the chilling inner voice to mock her hypocrisy and tell her she was a fool…but it didn’t come.

  That was strange.

  She thought again of Benjamin. So much had changed since she met him. Love, heady love—a love that was total and made her feel safe. She remembered how his arms had first wrapped around her, leading her up toward the surface of the sea; how he’d helped her take off her wetsuit—her breasts pressed innocently by his forearm—and she affecting to take no notice.

  No notice? Yeah, right! She rested her head on her knees. It was electric—even back then.

  She glanced at her watch. It was past midday; lunch would be soon. The food had been surprisingly good. Although it was served in plastic takeaway cartons, it was obviously prepared by excellent cooks, probably at a nearby restaurant. Once a day, the speedboat buzzed away to pick up the meals and the laundry. Even after the food had been reheated in the microwave, it was excellent.

  She’d hardly seen Eddie. He’d opened the door once to allow her to have her morning shower and whispered, “I’m a patient man, bitch.” She affected to ignore him, but inside the cramped shower cubicle, she held on to the taps and whimpered in terror until Carter had knocked on the door and reminded her that their water supplies were limited. Carter was always the one who gave Felicity her meals and he used these occasions to review her progress.

  Progress? She daren’t make any progress—or at least, not much. Felicity swung her feet off the bunk, stepped over to the tiny gas stove, and turned it off. Fear prickled through her. Somehow, she had to buy time to afford Benjamin and Archie the maximum opportunity to rescue her—if, indeed, they could. Would she be able to spin things out for four weeks? She very much doubted it. One thing she was now very sure of: the vellum lying in the bottom of the steam box was not the treaty signed between Henry VII of England and John II of Portugal. A detached, historical part of her heart felt crushing disappointment over this. She’d been so certain that it must be the missing Sardinian treaty. What else could it have been? The circumstances in which it was found could mean that it was nothing else. And yet…

  Felicity peered into the steam box once more. The vellum remained very brown, dry, and brittle. After two days of work, it was still rolled into a cylinder shape. And yet, the edge had already started to soften. She touched it gently with a finger. Felicity closed her eyes and tried to imagine what she would conclude about the vellum if she knew nothing of its provenance. She came to a conclusion without much difficulty. All the evidence indicated that the parchment in front of her could not be much more than one hundred and fifty years old—nothing like five hundred years.

  Felicity bit her lip. She couldn’t stall Carter for many more days; he was far too intelligent. The trouble was, he would only need to see a few inches of the vellum unrolled before he knew that what he had wasn’t the Sardinian copy of the treaty.

  And when that happened, there would be no reason for her to be kept alive.

  Benjamin woke to the musical chortling of magpies outside his window. He eased himself out of his swag and glanced across the workshop to where Archie was also stirring himself. He’d moved himself inside for the last two days—but it hadn’t been easy for him. Benjamin had heard him cry out with night terrors on the first night. On the second night he’d moved his swag closer to the open window. The workshop was chilly. The pot-belly stove had died out some time in the early morning.

  He went outside to the toilet and took the opportunity to inspect the carpet of snail shells and the spider’s web. No visitors.

  After a cold shower, he sat down with Archie and worked his way through a cooked breakfast.

  “I’ve got some gear being brought up from Melbourne. It should be dropped off about lunchtime,” said Archie, as he cupped a mug of tea between his hands.

  “What sort of gear?”

  “Dive gear, mostly—a semi-closed nitrox rebreather unit.” He took a swig of tea. “Think of them as scuba tanks, but ones that leave no bubbles. They make divers hard to see.”

  Benjamin raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like pretty sophisticated stuff.”

  “Nah, not really. This one is fairly low tech, but fine for what I need. It’ll give me 160 minutes dive time at five meters. I won’t be going deeper than ten. The unit is actually lighter and more comfortable than a scuba tank. Your air stays warm and moist so your mouth feels less dry.”

  Benjamin shook his head. His old life had been shattered in the last month. He’d discovered both agony and ecstasy. The agony of anxiety…and the crushing fear that he might lose Felicity. And the ecstasy of having found her…of feeling love…of being complete…of being significant to another…of being captivated by the giddying, disturbing power of her sexuality. She look
ed fantastic. Her smile, her…

  “Mate, bloody pay attention!”

  Benjamin realized that Archie had been speaking. “Er, sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I’ve also got ten cans of temporary car-art paint coming. It’s black. Your job this afternoon is to spray-paint your ute.” He tapped the end of a match on the bench top. “It doesn’t have to be too professional, but it does have to be black. Think you can manage it?”

  Benjamin nodded. “Yes. The only job I’d like to finish today is to put the last two coats of Scandinavian oil on Marjorie’s blackwood box.”

  Archie put the match into his mouth. “Well, take it easy today, mate, because tomorrow the balloon goes up.”

  Chapter 20

  The next day, very few words were spoken. Archie lifted up a bag that Benjamin had never seen before. He heard a faint metallic chink as he settled it on his shoulder.

  They walked together into the town center, now busy with early morning trade, toward the café where Gabrielle worked. Benjamin carried Marjorie’s box under one arm. The final coat he’d applied to it was still a little tender, even though he’d placed it in front of the stove overnight.

  They walked down a side road and turned into the service track that went to the back of some two-story apartments. The door to number two was open, and they made their way upstairs. Archie immediately went to the old sash window, opened it, and looked across the road to the café. Seemingly satisfied, he said, “Keep well back from the window and stay out of sight.”

  He then dragged a heavy desk to the center of the room, put a rug over its surface, and lifted a chair on top of it. Archie climbed up into the chair and checked that he had a clear view to the café. He got back down and opened his shoulder bag. Its contents were as sobering as Benjamin feared. Three minutes later, the various sections of a collapsible rifle had been assembled, complete with telescopic sights and a silencer. It was a grim looking thing.