The Sacred Vault nwaec-6

by Andy McDermott

  Nina patted his shoulder. ‘Y’know, I’m more than happy for us to have a quiet life.’

  ‘I suppose . . .’

  She snorted. ‘Oh, Jesus - you really do miss the action, don’t you?’

  ‘No, no,’ he insisted. ‘Well, a little bit. I mean, it’s sort of what I do, innit?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I wish it didn’t go to such extremes. Exotic travel, amazing historical discoveries - that’s the kind of excitement I’d be happy with. No need to add tanks and bombs and machine guns as well!’ She kissed his cheek. ‘You looked after me during everything we’ve been through in the last four years. You can take things easy from now. You deserve it.’

  ‘Aye, well . . .’ He returned the kiss. ‘Just so long as things don’t get boring.’

  ‘I’ll try to find a happy medium.’ She kissed him again, and stood. ‘Come on, let’s go to bed. I’m sure we can find something exciting to do there.’

  ‘I’ve got some ideas, but you always call me a pervert when I suggest ’em!’ He had started to follow her across the room when his phone rang. ‘God, who’s this?’ he muttered, fishing it from his pocket. ‘Hello? Oh, Nan, hi. I thought you’d gone to bed?’ He listened, tapping a foot with mild impatience as his grandmother ambled towards her conversational destination. ‘What? No, Nan, you have to pay extra for the movie channels. That’s why you can’t see them. And trust me, you won’t like any of Grant’s films anyway.’

  ‘I’ll be in here,’ said Nina, smiling as she entered the bedroom.

  Eddie gave her a resigned shrug. ‘No, Nan, no - you definitely don’t want to watch those channels! Just go to bed, okay? Yeah, yeah, we’ll see you tomorrow. Okay, Nan, night. Night-night. Bye.’ He ended the call. ‘Bloody hell. Can’t even get any time to ourselves in our own home.’

  ‘Only a couple more days and we’ll finally be able to have a nice, relaxing break,’ she assured him.

  As Nina had gloomily predicted, a large part of her next day was spent on the phone. The Treasures of Atlantis exhibition, displaying a plethora of ancient artefacts the International Heritage Agency had recovered from the sunken ruins of Atlantis, was about to begin its four-month tour of sixteen cities in fourteen countries. Even delegating much of the organisation to Rowan Sharpe and others, the IHA’s director was finding it a major - and draining - addition to her workload.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she sighed, rubbing her eyes at the conclusion of one especially long call. ‘Next time I have to work with the Secret Service, please just phone them anonymously and tell them I’m a communist or something, so they’ll blacklist me and I’ll never have to deal with them again.’

  ‘Clearance hassles?’ asked Eddie, who had been sitting with his feet up on her desk, waiting for her to finish.

  ‘You’re not kidding. Interpol suggested that the UN ought to beef up the exhibition’s security because everyone’s paranoid after Michelangelo’s David got stolen, but now the Frisco city council’s complaining because they don’t want to pay their half of the extra costs, and the Secret Service threw a fit because they have to vet the extra staff. Plus, the mayor’s office keeps adding to the VIP list because obviously everybody wants to meet the President, and the Men in Black need to clear all the new guests too. And for some reason, they’ve decided it’s all my fault.’

  ‘It’s tough at the top.’

  ‘Damn right. And get your feet off my desk.’ Nina glowered at the offending extremities until they returned to the floor. ‘Is everything ready?’

  He nodded. ‘The flights and hotel are all confirmed, and Lola’s going to bring those Egyptian reports you needed to check. Oh, she says she needs higher clearance to get them, though. The Egyptian government wants some stuff kept classified. They’re down in secure storage.’

  She made a sour face. ‘The only way that’ll get approved before we fly out tomorrow is if I go and stand on the security supervisor’s desk until he signs it off. She can just use my clearance, she’s got the code.’

  ‘Christ, you don’t even let me use your security code.’

  ‘She’s my PA, not my husband. It’s a whole different degree of trust.’ She smiled at his exaggeratedly offended expression. Her phone rang; she picked it up. ‘Hi, Rowan! Back in San Francisco, then? Are you wearing flowers in your hair?’

  Eddie watched her face fall as her old friend spoke. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said, putting his feet back on the desk.

  Nina flapped an irate hand to shoo them off. ‘Okay, I’ll talk to them,’ she said, exasperated, after some time. ‘I’ll see you there tomorrow. Bye.’ She hung up and buried her face in her hands. ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘Of course. The mayor’s changed the VIP list again. Which means the Secret Service will be calling to yell at me in about five minutes.’

  ‘You want me to tell ’em you’re a communist?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  ‘Still,’ Eddie said reassuringly, ‘after tomorrow it’s out of your hands and you can stop worrying about it. You just have to fly to Frisco, show off all the stuff from Atlantis, meet the President . . . then you can finally get back to what you really love. Digging bits of old junk out of the ground.’

  It was her turn to look offended. ‘Ha ha. Although it will be good to get back to some real archaeological work.’ She glanced at a display case in one corner. ‘Maybe I’ll finally figure out where Prince came from.’

  Eddie grinned, going to the case. ‘Prince. That still makes me laugh.’ He peered at the small purple figure within. The statuette, crudely carved from an oddly coloured stone, had been discovered inside the Pyramid of Osiris, but it bore no resemblance to any known artefact from ancient Egypt, and even after five months of analysis nobody at the IHA was any nearer to identifying its origins. ‘Tell you what, give me a hammer drill and ten minutes alone with him, and I’ll find out everything he knows.’

  ‘I don’t think that approach would get through the peer-review process,’ Nina joked, then she became pensive.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just thinking about the President,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to expect. I mean, the guy was Dalton’s vice-president. He might not be too happy that we forced his boss to resign.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Eddie. ‘He became the most powerful man in the world because of us. We ought to be on his bloody Christmas card list. Anyway, I thought him and Dalton couldn’t stand each other.’

  ‘It was something of a party-unity ticket, I suppose. I’m still worried, though.’

  ‘If he had any problems with us, the Secret Service wouldn’t let us within a mile of him.’

  ‘You’ve got a point. But I’ll be glad when it’s all over.’

  Eddie rounded the desk, leaning over the back of her chair to give her a shoulder massage. ‘You just need to chill out, that’s all. Think of it as getting a free trip to San Francisco. How bad can it be?’

  Nina tipped her head back to look up at him. ‘Isn’t that normally what one of us says just before something explodes?’

  Eddie laughed. ‘Come on. What are the odds of that?’

  3

  San Francisco

  The Halliwell Exhibition Hall in the city’s Civic Center district was wreathed in fog, streetlights beyond the glass façade reduced to indistinct UFO-like glows. San Francisco’s notoriously changeable weather had gone from clear, if cold, to completely smothered in barely an hour.

  In some ways, Nina wished the fog had descended earlier. That way, Air Force One’s landing might have been delayed, forcing President Leo Cole to change his itinerary. The official opening of the Treasures of Atlantis exhibition was, she was sure, the least important of his three engagements of the night before he embarked on a tour of the Far East prior to the upcoming G20 summit in India. But he was here, accompanied by his family, his political entourage, the press corps and what seemed like several hundred Secret Service agents, impassive eyes constantly sweeping the room.


  The speeches had been made - first by Nina, then the mayor of San Francisco, and finally the President himself - and now Cole and his family were being given a personal tour of the exhibits by Rowan Sharpe and Nina. ‘And here,’ she said, indicating one of the display cases, ‘we have an artefact recovered from the Temple of Poseidon: a golden trident.’

  Cole nodded appreciatively. ‘A solid gold weapon. I guess Atlantean defence contractors weren’t that different from ours!’ Sycophantic laughter came from his retinue.

  Even though she knew he was joking, Nina felt compelled to correct him. ‘It’s not actually solid gold - it wouldn’t be much use as a weapon if it were. It has an iron core for extra rigidity. Although it’s purely ceremonial, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cole politely. ‘And what about this?’ He indicated the neighbouring case, which held a large book, some eighteen inches tall and almost a foot wide. It was open, revealing its most unusual feature - the pages were not paper, but sheets of reddish-gold metal, scribed with dense text in the ancient language of the Atlanteans.

  ‘We call it the Talonor Codex,’ said Nina. ‘It’s not the most valuable artefact the IHA’s recovered from Atlantis in purely monetary terms - although it’s made from orichalcum, a gold alloy, so it’s worth a lot in its own right. But its contents are what make it really valuable.’

  ‘Talonor was one of Atlantis’s greatest explorers,’ Rowan went on. ‘On one of his expeditions he visited South America, and on another he rounded Africa, crossed the Arabian peninsula, and even reached India. The Codex is his journal, an account of all the places he visited and peoples he encountered.’

  ‘Our researchers at the IHA are working to translate the entire text,’ Nina added.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Cole. The book was supported by a stand; he rounded the case to look at the cover, noting a circular indentation about six inches across in the metal, then moved on. ‘Now, this looks valuable.’

  Rowan nodded. ‘It is - it’s our crown jewels, literally.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said the First Lady. ‘How much is it worth?’

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ Nina replied as everyone gazed at the object behind the toughened glass. It was an ornate crown, made from gold and orichalcum with silver trim. The metalwork was adorned with precious stones, which glinted enticingly under the lights. ‘In purely material terms, maybe three million dollars. But as a cultural artefact, the crown of the ruler of a lost civilisation . . . who can say? It’s literally priceless.’

  ‘Then I hope your security’s up to scratch,’ the President joked. More laughter. ‘This is an incredible exhibition, Dr Wilde.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr President.’ She felt relieved. Maybe her concerns about the big, jowly former lawyer had been unfounded . . .

  ‘It’s good to see that all the funding the US government has put into the IHA is finally producing some visible returns,’ he continued, squashing Nina’s optimism like a bug. ‘After all, these are turbulent economic times. The American taxpayer needs to know the money is being spent wisely.’

  ‘Well, I’m not American, but I pay taxes here,’ said Eddie, moving closer to Nina, ‘and I think the IHA’s pretty good value. Especially as it does all kinds of useful stuff that most people don’t hear about. Mr President,’ he added.

  Cold looks came from the presidential entourage, but Cole gave him a smile; one that didn’t quite reach to his eyes. ‘Of course it does, Mr Chase. By the way, it’s interesting to meet you and Dr Wilde at last. My predecessor was very well acquainted with you both.’

  ‘Hopefully we, ah, lived up to your expectations,’ said Nina, feeling a nervous knot form in her stomach. That Cole’s reply was just another empty campaign smile only made it tighter.

  Instead, he turned to his followers. ‘A great exhibition, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s hear it for Dr Wilde and the IHA.’ There was a ripple of polite applause. ‘Now, unfortunately I have to move on to my next engagement - keeping a roomful of lawyers waiting for their five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner is a surefire way to get sued!’

  The group’s laughter as he led it away seemed genuine this time, lawyer jokes always universally appreciated. The Secret Service followed, moving towards the main entrance in unison as if someone had tilted a tray of ball bearings. Someone loudly announced that the President was departing, and the other guests broke off from their conversations to applaud him as he left. Nina joined in, though Eddie’s response was more of a slow handclap.

  ‘I didn’t like what he was implying about the IHA,’ said Nina to her husband, concerned. ‘You think he’s going to cut our budget?’

  ‘Who knows what any politician’s thinking? Except for “I want more power”, obviously.’

  ‘I assure you, we’re not all like that,’ said a voice behind them. Nina winced a little when she realised to whom it belonged: Roger Boyce, the mayor of San Francisco.

  ‘I’m sure you’re not, Mr Mayor,’ she said. She had been introduced to Boyce before the President’s arrival, and knew a little about him by reputation: the latest in a long line of Democratic incumbents, and by all accounts a fresh-faced poster boy for political correctness. He was accompanied by a group of people who, Nina guessed from the number of outfits that cost more than her monthly salary, were the VIPs whose invitations had caused her so much hassle the previous day. ‘Eddie was only joking. Weren’t you?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Eddie, without conviction.

  ‘Oh, no offence taken,’ said Boyce breezily. ‘It’s all part of the job. You won’t last long as mayor if you’re thin-skinned! But hey, I wanted to thank you and Dr Sharpe for doing such a terrific job with the exhibition. I’m sure it’ll be a huge hit when it opens to the public tomorrow. Just a shame it can’t stay here for longer.’

  ‘Fifteen other cities might get mad if it did,’ Rowan said. ‘But I think it’ll get the tour off to a great start.’

  ‘Well, what better place to start anything than San Francisco?’ asked Boyce, gesturing at the fog-shrouded street beyond the windows. Nina almost replied ‘New York’, but suppressed the urge. ‘Have you had a chance to check out our city?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Eddie. ‘Looking forward to it, though. I want to drive too fast down that twisty street, and see where all those great car chases were filmed - Bullitt, The Rock . . .’

  ‘There’s more to San Francisco than car chases,’ Nina chided, sensing Boyce was unhappy at hearing his community reduced to a backdrop for Hollywood blockbusters. ‘We’ll be visiting places that are actually interesting too.’

  ‘Happy to hear it.’ The mayor turned to his companions. ‘Anyway, if I may, I’d like you to meet some very special guests.’

  He made the introductions; the VIPs were a mix of leaders of impeccably liberal special interest groups, entrepreneurs from Silicon Valley and foreign businesspeople, being wooed by the mayor in the hope they would bring jobs to California in general, and San Francisco in particular. ‘And this is Pramesh Khoil and his wife Vanita,’ he said of the final couple. ‘Mr Khoil owns some of the fastest-growing technology and telecoms companies in India - and is also the inventor of the Qexia search engine.’

  ‘Oh, Qexia? “Just ask”, right?’ said Nina, repeating the slogan from Qexia’s TV commercials as she shook hands. On the surface, Khoil was extremely unassuming, round face as smooth as a sea-worn pebble behind wire-rimmed glasses, and tending towards a plumpness that his tailored Nehru jacket could not hide. Even had she not been wearing heels for the occasion he would only have been fractionally taller than her. She guessed him to be in his early forties. ‘You invented Qexia? A friend recommended it to me - I use it almost all the time now.’

  ‘We will become the world’s top search engine within two years,’ said Khoil matter-of-factly. His English was very precise but oddly accentless, flat and vaguely robotic. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Dr Wilde.’

  ‘We were hoping to discuss the exhibits,’ said Vanita. Unlike her hus
band, she had a distinct, melodious accent, and was considerably more striking, wearing a traditional Indian sari of exquisitely decorated silk and bedecked in jewellery, most prominently a pair of large golden earrings. She was about the same age as Khoil and undeniably beautiful, but in a sharp, birdlike way, her nose thin and angular.

  ‘Just ask, to coin a phrase! Dr Sharpe and I will be happy to answer any questions,’ Nina said, addressing the group.

  As she’d expected, the majority of questions were about the crown. But the Khoils were more interested in another artefact. ‘The Talonor Codex,’ said Khoil, bending for a closer look. ‘How much of it has been translated?’

  ‘About ninety per cent, so far,’ said Nina. ‘Dr Sharpe has been in charge of the translation work. The last ten per cent is the tricky part, but our knowledge of the Atlantean language is growing all the time.’

  ‘Have you considered using crowd-sourcing to speed up the process?’

  Nina was surprised by the question. ‘Er, not really. It’s not how we work.’

  He regarded her owlishly. ‘Dispersing the project throughout a network would be quicker than concentrating it amongst a few people. Aggregating a larger number of results would also reduce the probability of individual error. My company can provide suitable software - for a very reasonable fee.’

  ‘Archaeology isn’t really like computer science,’ said Nina. ‘Besides, we want to keep the translation work in-house for security reasons. The Codex describes a lot of places visited by Talonor, which are all potential sites of great archaeological importance. If we made it publicly available too soon, they could be raided before we had a chance to examine them.’

  ‘But some pages have already been made available online by the IHA.’

  ‘That was my predecessor’s decision, not mine,’ said Nina, acid in her voice at the thought. ‘One I reversed as soon as I was appointed director. I rate science higher than publicity.’