Silver

by Brian January

  With exaggerated importance, Turner set down the briefcase and snapped it open, extracting a print-out. “I have here a report on the non-tarnished sections of the silver,” he said. “It’s neosamarium, a newly-discovered REE, structurally similar to the REE samarium, and absolutely vital for precision-guided weapons systems and stealth technology, far better than the samarium-cobalt technology currently in use. It’s harder, and more stable than samarium, and doesn’t oxidize or spontaneously ignite like samarium does. That’s why those sections of the disk are bright silver, and the same with the finger you’re holding. It’s the only REE in the world that occurs specifically with silver deposits.”

  For a moment he paused, aiming his gun-barrel stare at them. “The bottom line is, three days from now the Chinese are going to publicly announce a further restrictive embargo on REE’s. And neosamarium is their trump card, because China has the only known deposits in the world—at least as far as we know. Obviously some of the Minoan silver that’s been found contains neosamarium, so obviously they had a source unknown to us now. Which means there could be a lot more. At least that’s what we’re counting on. And if there’s a hoard of Minoan silver out there, we need to find it before the Chinese press conference. We need to cut them off at the knees and empower our country’s defenses. It’s imperative that you find that silver. Do I make myself clear?”

  Skarda showed him a wintry smile. “There’s no ‘we’, Colonel. It’s ‘us’—myself, April, and Dr. Bennett. It’s imperative that you stand back and let us do our job. Do I make myself clear?”

  For several seconds Turner stood rooted in placed, glaring. Then he turned on his heel and pounded out of the lab.

  FOUR

  Venetian Harbor, Rethymno, Crete

  PRESSING the eye cups of the Sony DEV-5 binoculars to her face, Morgana watched the 142-foot motor yacht Alkmene sail past the sixteenth-century stone lighthouse and make its way into the inner harbor. For the last hour she’d been biding her time in the shade of an awning at an outdoor bar, sipping a glass of wine, luxuriating in the fierce glare of the late afternoon sun. From her table she had a commanding view of the old harbor, now crowded with luxury yachts, fishing boats painted in vivid blues, yellows, and reds, and the Barbarossa, the replica pirate ship that ferried tourists on daily excursions to Marathi. Beyond the thirteenth-century mole that still served as a breakwater, a ferry bound for Piraeus was disappearing over the horizon of the Cretan Sea. To the east, she could see more yachts moored at pontoons in the new harbor.

  The Alkmene nosed up to the harbor wall and the crew busied themselves with tying her up. Movement caused her to turn her head. At a slow crawl over the uneven stones of the quay, a black limo drove up and braked to a halt in front of the yacht. Morgana turned her attention to the arrival, her gray eyes gleaming as she watched a short, blocklike man in a red shirt climb out of the rear door, his head turning from side to side as he surveyed the dock. Then he bent down and helped a woman in her thirties climb out. She had short-cropped brown hair and wore white pants with an aqua-blue shirt, a typical tourist on holiday on Crete.

  But Morgana knew they weren’t tourists. The woman was Catherine Lake, United States Senator from Illinois, and ranking member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and Chairman of the Subcommittee on International Development and Foreign Economic Affairs for China.

  Another man, taller and more rangy, climbed out, his eyes darting left and right as he fell into place behind the senator.

  Private bodyguards.

  A horn blared and a black Hummer powered up next to the limo, driven by a young soldier. It jerked to a halt with a squeal of rubber. A square-shouldered man climbed out of the passenger seat and shook hands with Lake.

  Morgana recognized him, too: U. S. Army Colonel Craig Turner.

  She watched while the group boarded the yacht. Then she lowered the binoculars and smiled to herself.

  This was getting very interesting.

  ___

  Phaistos, Crete

  Costas Galanakis yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth with his hand. It was closing time, and he was already anticipating the ntakos his wife had promised to make for him, along with a few sips of the raki he made himself from his brother’s grape harvest.

  A couple of British tourists passed by him and he nodded, showing them a grateful smile for their patronage of the museum. The Archaeological Museum of Phaistos was the smallest of its kind on the island, but rich in artifacts found along the southern coast. Costas was very proud of his Cretan heritage and the island’s links to the glorious past that was Minoan Crete. This was the reason he’d come to work as a guard at the museum in the first place, because he loved the ancient treasures so much.

  He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to go. Time to start heading toward the exit while he checked the aisles for any stragglers. Reflected lights winked as he moved past a glass case enclosing a Late Minoan vase depicting dolphins and flying fish in tones of blue and gold. He smiled to himself. It was beautiful.

  A sound made him look away. At the end of the corridor a man had stepped into view. He was tall and whipcord lean, like a bundle of steel cables braided together into the shape of a human being. Despite the heat, he was completely clothed in black.

  Like a shadow come to life, Costas thought.

  Making no sound, the man closed the gap between them. He stopped suddenly, blocking the guard’s path.

  “It is closing time, sir,” Costas told him in English. There was something frightening about this man, something about the sharp planes of his face that reminded him of a bird of prey.

  The tall man stared down at him. His eyes were dark, the color of elemental lead, and reflected no light, as if they’d been painted onto the flat craters of their sockets.

  A numbness overtook Costas. He felt paralyzed, frozen to the spot.

  As if materializing by magic, a seven-inch black carbon steel knife appeared in the tall man’s hand. He took a step forward, his movement like a flash of lightning. The heavy, wicked blade sliced through the air, slashing Costas’ throat open in a ragged gash.

  With an astonished look on his face, the guard sank to his knees, then slumped forward in a widening pool of blood.

  The man, whose name was Krell, strode briskly down the corridor, heading for the section of the building that housed the administrative offices. At a door marked “Office of the Curator”, hand-lettered in Greek, he stopped and twisted the knob.

  A woman was standing behind a reception desk, rooting through her purse. She looked up as Krell entered, a bit startled by the intrusion.

  Pulling out a silenced 9mm Glock, he shot her between the eyes. Her knees crumpled and she toppled forward, draped over the desk. The contents of her purse scattered over the floor.

  Moving past her, he crossed to the curator’s office door and yanked it open. A well-fed, balding man was talking in on the phone, while at the same time tapping on the keyboard of his computer.

  He looked up, just as startled as the receptionist had been. With a quick appraisal he sized up the intruder. “Sir, this is a private area of the museum,” he said. He glanced at the clock on his PC. “And it’s past closing time.”

  Krell showed him the pistol.

  The man blanched, his face going pale.

  “Hang up the phone,” Kell ordered.

  But fear lent the curator courage. He yelled a cry for help into the receiver.

  Krell pulled the trigger and blood spurted from the man’s knuckles. He cried out as the receiver fell from his grasp, clattering out of sight.

  Krell moved to the wall, ripping out the line. “I want the silver plaque,” he said.

  The balding man looked at him. Tears of pain shone in his eyes as he clutched his bloody hand with the unscathed fingers of his other hand. “What silver plaque?” Terror clenched him. The Americans had left the artifact in the museum’s custody—a custody that had been sacred to him his entire professional life. It wo
uld go against his every instinct to turn the artifact over to this thief.

  Krell lifted the Glock and fired. With an ugly ripping noise the bullet tore away the top of the man’s right ear. He screamed as blood gushed out, splashing down the side of his face.

  “All right!” he shrieked. “I’ll take you to it.”

  ___

  Three minutes later Krell strode out the front entrance of the museum, carrying the plaque in a leather case. He’d left the curator dead in the lab room, sprawled out in front of the open vault where Nathaniel had stored the treasure for safekeeping.

  Crossing the street, he walked to the rear of a van parked parallel to the curb and yanked open the doors. Inside lay an M32 multiple-shot grenade launcher. Setting down the case, he hefted the weapon to his chest and pointed it at the museum. In rapid succession he fired six HEAT rounds through the front windows. Gouts of flame burst open in rolling fireballs, followed by coiling billows of black smoke that spiraled skyward as an inferno erupted and raged through the building.

  Stowing the M32, Krell grabbed the plaque and climbed into the passenger seat, sitting with his spine ramrod straight.

  He nodded at the driver and the van sped off.

  FIVE

  Rethymno Harbor

  DUSK had turned the tranquil water of the harbor into a flat sheet of purple and gold that reflected the lights blinking on in the warehouses and tavernas that crowded the waterfront. The Alkmene, still tied to the stone jetty, bobbed up and down in the gentle harbor tide. Belowdecks, the main salon had been fittted out like a situation room: computer consoles, X-wall video displays flickering with images and news feeds from around the world, and communications hook-ups.

  Turner sat in a leather chair across from Senator Lake, regarding her cooly. He was trying to assess his reaction to her. Her no-nonsense, chip-on-the-shoulder demeanor didn’t surprise him—in Washington he’d met plenty of women who thought being “strong” meant tossing aside their femininity and acting like they had suddenly sprouted a pair of balls, and she looked like she was no exception. Mentally, he shook his head. Women were stupid. It just made them come off like ignorant, selfish bitches instead of effective leaders.

  But as he stared into her cocoa-colored eyes, he saw what her rock-clad exterior was masking—a deep vulnerability, maybe a wounded psyche or a career woman’s unmet need to be cherished and desired. Something sexual stirred inside him, making him sit up erect in his chair. A cold smile touched his lips. Vulnerability was good—it was something he could exploit.

  Normally he preferred women at least twenty years his junior, but this one definitely turned him on. Maybe if everything worked out, he’d make Senator Catherine Lake a project.

  But then again, maybe not.

  Even as he watched, that inner core of weakness vanished, replaced by a steely rigidity. It was the persona she wore like a suit of armor, the one she wanted the world to see. But something else was lurking there, too, something she couldn’t cover up: greed. Recognizing it, Turner smiled to himself. She was, after all, a United States senator. Greed was a way of life.

  But to this he had no objection. He himself wasn’t exactly averse to capitalizing on the perks of his job—and he sure as hell wasn’t expecting to retire poor.

  Becoming suddenly aware of his scrutiny, Lake scowled and got up to pour a cup of coffee. Through the portholes, the shadows around the yacht were purpling and taking on deeper tones, the gloom seeming to brighten the ever-changing images flashing across the video displays.

  “So are these people good?” she asked, turning to face him..

  Turner reflected for a moment before answering her, his tone weighed down by begrudging admiration. “So I’m told. I’m told they’re the best. Not that that matters. This should be my AO. As far as I’m concerned, they’re civilians.”

  “Their clearance is Yankee Black. That outranks military, Colonel.”

  Ignoring the remark, Turner glared at her with his gun-barrel stare. “But that leaves the question, just why are you here, Senator?”

  She regarded him with a frigid smile. “Let’s just say I’m protecting the interests of my committee, Colonel. When the neosamarium is found, I want to be on the spot. This is a very tense situation, with implications on a global scale. We’re in a bad place with this thing, Craig, and split-second decisions may make all the difference.”

  With a reluctant nod, he acknowledged the point. “And if they don’t find it?”

  “I want to be here for that, too.” For a moment her face was pensive, and then her eyes grew stony as she met his gaze. “For all our sakes, they’d better be good.”

  SIX

  Almyrida, Crete

  THE western sky was a vivid blue-black by the time April drove the Aston Martin DBS up the winding road to the villa Skarda had rented in Almyrida, on the northwestern coast of the island. Constructed of local stone and timber, the house straddled the slope of a mountain, anchored by a stone terrace with a staircase that angled down to a boathhouse and a crescent-shaped beach and the sea.

  Since Skarda wanted to open a bottle of Giacomo Conterno Barolo Monfortino Riserva, he and April had decided to invite Nathaniel for a dinner of local cuisine: kreas kokkinisto and loukanika sausages for April and Nathaniel; and a vegetarian horiatiki salad and dakos for him.

  In the cool early evening breezes that blew in from the sea, Nathaniel and April sat on the terrace, enjoying the excellent wine, while Skarda busied himself in the kitchen putting the meal together. “There are many authentic Minoan words that show up in the Linear B tablets, transliterated into Mycenaean Greek—like ‘cyclops’, ‘sesame’, and even the word for wine,” Nathaniel explained to her. “‘Sesame’, you know, ultimately derives from Ugaritic ssmn, Akkaddian sammassammu and Hurrian summisummi, proving once again the links to—“

  He broke as off as Skarda stepped onto the terrace, his face set in hard lines.

  “I just got a call,” he said. “The Phaistos Museum was bombed.”

  Nathaniel’s face paled and fell apart. “What—?” His shoulders twitched as if someone was shaking him. “Was anyone hurt? Oh, my God! Those priceless treasures!”

  “I don’t know,” Skarda told him. “It happened after closing time, so I assume all the patrons had left. I don’t know about the staff, though.” He sat down heavily and turned to April. “It has to be the same people who killed Blackpool. They must have been after the plaque.”

  She gave him a somber nod. “They’re covering their tracks. No witnesses.”

  Turning to Nathaniel, Skarda said, “This is getting dangerous. I think we should put you in a safe house until it’s over."

  For a few moments the scholar considered his words, his eyes not hiding the fear he was wrestling with inside. But then he shook his head. “I’m no hero, but finding the silver is very important. And if it’s here on Crete, you’re going to need my help to find it.” His eyes shifted from Skarda to April and back again. “So I’m going to stay in.”

  With a level gaze Skarda studied him and then nodded his assent. “Anytime you want out, just say so.”

  “Don’t worry,” April told him. “I’ll keep you safe”. Her voice was soft, but held a knife-edge of steel.

  Nathaniel turned his head and looked at her. Something passed between them. For a few heartbeats he sat there, his eyes mated with hers, and then he slowly bobbed his head and smiled. “I believe you will.”

  ___

  An hour later Skarda and April sat on the terrace, watching the waxing moon cast a glittering path on the dark surface of the sea. Nathaniel had gone to his room to study the digital photos of the plaque.

  “He’s an interesting guy,” Skarda said.

  “Definitely a brainiac.”

  A mischievous smile touched his lips. “Definitely not your type.”

  She glowered at him.

  He laughed out loud. “So you really have the hots for him, huh?”

  She shot him a “duh”
look. “What do you think? He’s beautiful! But I’ve got a feeling girls are way, way down on his list. I think I’d be better off if I were a Minoan vase.”

  Grinning, Skarda looked out to sea. The fragrant smell of wild sage and thyme wafted up to his nostrils, mingling with the sharp salt air. His expression changed. “I’m really not happy about having him come along, but I think he’s right. We’re in a time crunch and we probably can’t do it without him.”

  Turning her face up to the moon, April gave a grim nod. “Yeah.”

  ___

  When a knock sounded on Nathaniel’s door, he wrenched his attention away from the laptop and crossed to open it, without remembering he was wearing just a T-shirt and European-style briefs.