Clockwork Doomsday

by Alex Archer

Eyuboglu thought quickly, remembering that maybe Troiai had told him the name of a ship. He wished he knew if the woman was aware of what ship the mechanical butterfly had gone down on. Even if Troiai had told him the origin of the shipwreck, even if he could remember, the woman might think it came from somewhere else.

  There was no correct answer.

  He shook his head, his lower jaw trembling in fear. “I don’t know. I swear to you, I don’t know.”

  “That’s all right. I believe you.”

  “Thank you. Thank you.” Eyuboglu was so relieved that he was almost weeping. Then he saw the gleam of the long knife in the woman’s hands.

  “I believe you, but I have to make certain. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

  Eyuboglu fought his restraints and screamed. Neither did any good. He did not get free, and his screams went no farther than the basement walls. His blood slid down his body, across the floor and oozed finally through the drain in the center of the room.

  * * *

  “YOU ENJOY THAT far too much for your own good.”

  Peeling the surgical gloves from her hands, Melina Andrianou looked at her grandfather. He stood there calmly, in dress pants and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to midforearm. Some would mistake him for a university professor, and he could have been. He was smarter than all of Melina’s professors had been when she’d attended.

  The strong scent of the Turkish coffee he sipped permeated the room.

  She threw the bloodstained gloves into a bright orange hazardous waste receptacle against the wall beside the door that led to the basement she’d just come through. She peeled off the bloody gown and tossed it in, too. They would be taken to the incinerator as soon as she left.

  She was tired. The few hours of sleep she’d managed on the short flight from Florence to Athens by chartered plane hadn’t been enough. Only the thought of torturing Eyuboglu had buoyed her spirits. But now reality had set in. Garin had vanished, and it was already the gray hours of the following day.

  “It’s work. It was necessary. There’s no reason not to enjoy it.” Melina crossed to the sink mounted on the wall on one side of the small room. On the other side was a computer workstation.

  “Did you get the truth from that man?”

  “Yes. In the end he didn’t know as much as he claimed he did.” She washed her hands in the sink.

  “I didn’t think he would. A man like him, he only cares about profit margin.” Georgios Andrianou pointed at another cup on the small cupboard beside the sink. “I brought you coffee. I knew you were nearly finished when he no longer had the strength to scream.”

  Melina picked up the coffee cup and sipped. The strong aroma washed some of the blood scent from her nostrils. She hadn’t minded the blood, though. Her father had taught her everything she knew about torture.

  The whir of the bone saws coming from the basement provided background to their conversation.

  Her grandfather gazed at her in quiet contemplation. “Your grandmother always insisted that something was wrong with our blood after my grandfather died in that salvage expedition in 1902. She believed the mechanical snail had infected all of those aboard the vessel with a sickness.”

  Melina shook her head. She’d heard the story before. “Do you believe my father was some sociopath, Grandfather? Or that I have a diseased mind?”

  He smiled, the first true smile she’d seen on his face in weeks. “No, but your grandmother, may she rest in peace, would. She was a superstitious one, your grandmother. She said that the Andrianou family had become cursed that night when the mechanical device was lost, that the old gods had found disfavor in us.”

  Melina knew her grandfather had his own superstitions no matter what he said. Enchanted by the stories of his grandfather’s death, the finding of the mechanical device and the fierce old man who had snatched his life from the jaws of death, Georgios Andrianou had chased the legends of the clockwork devices with an aggressive determination. He had built an empire solely to fund his search for them.

  “What do you believe about my father and me?” Melina watched the old man’s face, not sure if she would know a lie from him if she saw it. She would need her knives to know the truth for certain.

  “I believe that I raised a strong son and helped raise a strong granddaughter. I am thankful for you.”

  “You would be more thankful if we knew the secret of the clockwork.”

  Her grandfather sipped his coffee. “That man Roux has not aged since 1902. He remains the same old man who hired Pavlos Andrianou.”

  That was true. She had seen the photographs taken aboard her great-great-grandfather’s ship. Those images were in black and white, grainy, but Roux had been easily recognizable. “Garin Braden has not changed, either.”

  In the beginning, her grandfather had pursued the clockwork in an effort to solve the mystery of what happened to his grandfather, Pavlos. Six years ago, though, when they found Roux and discovered the man was—incredibly and inexplicably—still alive, the quest for clockwork artifacts had taken on an edge of frenzy. Her grandfather was an old man with few years left to him. Now he believed that the clockworks somehow had the power to stop time.

  Melina didn’t know what to believe, except that she wanted to kill the old man, Roux, and Garin Braden.

  Her grandfather took a towelette from the sink and delicately dabbed at her face. Small traces of blood stained the towelette when he removed it. “You’re going to Genoa next?”

  “Yes. I have a team en route to watch Sebastiano Troiai. I will go there next.”

  “You do not know that Roux and Garin Braden will go there.”

  “I do not know any other place they will go. They will want to look into the origins of the butterfly, as well. Now only Troiai knows where he found it.”

  Her grandfather threw the towelette into the hazardous waste bin. “That’s too bad.”

  “But I do have another clue.”

  He turned to her and folded his arms across his chest. “What?”

  Melina dug a USB thumb drive out of her pocket. “Eyuboglu took several high-resolution photographs of the mechanical butterfly. There’s an inscription on the device.”

  Her grandfather smiled again, something Melina had never seen twice in one day. “Magnificent.”

  She went to the computer on the other side of the room and moved the mouse, bringing it to life. Inserting the thumb drive into the USB port, she waited. A minute later, the search screen came on.

  Eyuboglu’s device held many pictures of diverse items he had for sale. Melina had to sort through a couple hundred before she found the images she was searching for. When she brought the photographs of the mechanical butterfly up on the monitor and increased the magnification, she was impressed with the quality. The details were all there.

  Including the inscription under the butterfly’s left wing.

  Her grandfather bent closer to the monitor. “That is very small.”

  “Metalworkers were meticulous men, used to working on small surfaces. You’ve seen some of the metal scrolls we’ve recovered.”

  “Yes.” Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed and he peered more closely. “Can you make it out?”

  “No. It looks like Greek, or some form of the language, anyway, but I can’t read it. However, we have a friend who might be able to.”

  Straightening, her grandfather nodded. “Tell the cardinal I said hello. And let me know what he thinks immediately.”

  “Of course.”

  “I hope Roux and Garin go to Genoa. I hope we haven’t lost them.”

  “We haven’t. The hunt is only now starting. I’ll find them. I’m sure of it.” Excitement stirred within Melina. She didn’t really care about the clockwork. She wanted another chance to kill the old man.

 
18

  Hey, Annja, so it’s robot bugs you want, huh? Ick! No, really, ick! Still, since you asked about automatons, I thought I’d throw this into the pot.

  Have you heard about the karakuri ningyo? They were mechanized puppets created in Japan in the seventeeth century and used until the nineteenth century. They were pretty cool. They made the zashiki karakuri automatons to serve tea. They were small, powered by whalebone springs and carried cups of tea to guests.

  Karakuri translates loosely to “mechanism” or “trick.” Ningyo translates kinda into “person-shape.” That included puppets and dolls. Dashi karakuri were used in religious events to act out myths and legends. Butai karakuri were used on the stage, mainly in Kabuki theater.

  I don’t know if there were any insects, but you might check there. After all, several Asian cultures believe crickets are good luck!

  Still...ick!

  Sailor Moon’s Shadow

  Annja sat cross-legged in the spacious seat of the private jet she’d boarded at Logan International Airport only minutes ago. The staff of three flight attendants had gotten her squared away quickly, then pestered her, trying to find things they could do for her. She’d finally chased them back to wherever it was they were flying, leaving the cabin just for her—And here’s the buzzer if you need anything, Ms. Creed. Please let us know.

  What she needed was peace and quiet. And answers. Lots of answers. She opened the journal she carried in her backpack and framed her questions on paper. Although the tablet PC could be used anywhere there was electricity, and for hours even when there wasn’t, she wanted a blank space to think while she surfed the internet and trolled the alt.history and alt.archaeology sites.

  Her mind had already fragmented the questions into different fields of research.

  Where did the butterfly clockwork come from?

  Who is/was the Andrianou family?

  What are Roux and Garin most likely hiding?

  She responded to the post on the alt.history site, typing quickly on the tablet PC’s detachable keyboard.

  Thanks for the reply, Shadow. Sorry, not in the market for Japanese bugs! I knew about the karakuri ningyo. Cool stuff.

  Annja’s computer dinged as she sipped a cup of chamomile tea the attendants had provided her. Opening her email, she found a new message from Garin’s private researcher. The woman hadn’t yet given her name, and the email address had obviously been set up to use and lose, but she was good at what she did.

  Ms. Creed:

  I’ve set up a Dropbox for all the news I could dredge up on the Andrianou family. Hope it helps.

  Schrettinger

  The woman had a sense of humor as well as a keen intellect. Martin Schrettinger had been a German librarian and a priest at the Benedictine monastery in Weissenohe, Bavaria. He was also considered the father of modern library science based on his work at organizing the great library at the church.

  Annja surmised that whoever this “Schrettinger” was, she was a librarian by training. Probably more than that, though, since she worked with Garin. Annja knew her gender because Garin had referred to the contact as female.

  Thanks, Marty!

  That was just to let the woman know she’d identified the name.

  Following the Dropbox link, Annja logged into the folder—“Schrettinger and the Archaeologist”—and opened up the files, copying them from that location into her own storage space on the cloud. The cloud location was new, as well, not one she was currently using on other projects. She wasn’t going to give Garin—or his little librarian—a glimpse into her personal files.

  Flicking through the various PDFs of newspaper stories, Annja discovered that Schrettinger had found articles relating to the tragic accident aboard the Silver Cyclops, the salvage ship owned by Pavlos Andrianou. The loss of the ship had been attributed to “a freak storm.” There were a few black-and-white photographs of the family and of Pavlos. The man was stark and lean, hard-faced, but had an easygoing smile.

  There were also police reports—copies of handwritten ledger entries—that mentioned the suspicion officials had about Pavlos’s involvement in disappearing ships and boats in the areas. The original notes had been written in Greek, which Annja could read a little of, but Schrettinger had provided English translations, as well. It was a lot of work and Annja was suitably impressed.

  Another document showed the Andrianou family tree all the way down to Melina Andrianou. The family had remained small. There were a few assorted cousins, but none of them seemed to be involved with Georgios and Melina Andrianou.

  Annja closed the family history and opened up the one on Melina Andrianou. The first photograph showed the woman walking in front of a bakery that specialized in wedding cakes. The picture was sharp enough to show her left profile as a darker image in the window glass. She wore business casual and was in midstride. She didn’t have the humor of her great-great-grandfather. She was cold and distant.

  The next picture showed the woman at some kind of social event. The little black dress she wore drew the attention of men and women around her and set her apart from the crowd. She was talking to a white-haired man that a digital note identified as Georgios Andrianou, her grandfather. In the picture, Melina was smiling and at ease.

  She was a beautiful woman, as Garin had said, but Annja thought she could see hints of cruelty in the deadness of her eyes and the set of her mouth. Schrettinger had been good about building a personal history, as well, but there were a lot of missing areas. Melina had attended the University of Athens, but hadn’t completed a degree. She’d studied history while she was there and had received excellent marks.

  Schrettinger evidently had no problem hacking into university computer systems. Annja filed that information on Garin’s liaison away.

  Melina had also studied a number of martial arts, and was licensed to carry a weapon. Several weapons, as a matter of fact, and was listed as a security officer in the family business. Numerous documents showed she had a lack of respect for authority. She’d been arrested a dozen times, but the charges had been dismissed in each case, either pled out for a reduced fine or sentence served, or witnesses withdrew their testimonies.

  Most of those brushes with the law were in regard to various artifacts, most particularly mechanical devices. Schrettinger had highlighted those sections on the reports. One of those reports revealed that Melina had been arrested at age twelve for breaking and entering and being in possession of burglar’s tools. She’d been caught stealing a mechanical bull, which had later disappeared from the private museum she’d unsuccessfully targeted.

  Okay, so you’ve been looking for the clockworks for some time, too.

  Annja flipped through more pages and discovered the news report of Xydias Andrianou’s death at the hands of unknown assailants. Xydias had been stabbed several times, and decapitated. That file included crime scene photographs of Xydias’s body lying in an alley where it had been discovered by passersby. The dead man looked as if he’d been savagely mauled.

  Roux had said Melina was there when he’d killed her father, but he hadn’t mentioned that he’d removed Xydias Andrianou’s head. That had to have left an impression on the woman six years ago. Annja would have thought it would leave an impression on Roux, too. That was pretty cold-blooded.

  A chill drifted through Annja as she looked at the woman again. Melina Andrianou couldn’t have weathered such an experience without emotional scars. Roux and Garin are lucky to be alive.

  The computer dinged, and this time is was another post on the alt.history site.

  Hi, Annja!

  Big fan here! Love, love, love the show! Keep up the good work. BTW, have you heard of Tippoo’s tiger? It was built for the Tippoo sultan, the ruler of an Indian kingdom called Mysore, which I always thought was a weird name. Anyway, Tippoo’s tiger is really pretty coo
l, in a bloodthirsty mechanical way. That sultan had a real thing for watching Europeans get killed. I’ve attached a photo to this post so you can look at it. I know it’s not the bug you were looking for, but maybe you’ll find some in India? I’ll keep looking.

  Toymaker Tom

  Opening the attachment, Annja studied the image. The orange-and-black mechanical tiger crouched on top of a mechanical man wearing a red shirt and a black hat. He was obviously not Indian. India hadn’t been happy with England or any of the Western world at the time the toy had been made.

  The man lying under the tiger was dwarfed by the big cat. The automaton contained an organ that created screams for the victim and growls for the tiger. As the organ was played, the victim lifted a hand in helpless terror at being eaten. The sultan had a macabre idea of what a good time was.

  Tippoo’s tiger had survived the British invasion in 1799 that had brought about the fall of Seringapatam during the Fourth Anglo-Mysore War. Annja had seen the actual mechanical “toy” at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, where it had also survived World War II.

  Hey, Tom, thanks for the help, but I believe the automatons I’m looking for were made in Greece. Or around Greece. I’ve studied the artifact, and there’s an inscription on it that looks Greek.

  Annja’s phone vibrated and she took the call. “Annja Creed.”

  “Annja!” Thodoros Papassavas’s voice was boisterous and jovial, deep and rich. It fit the man, a giant in personality and stature. “How are you doing, my dear?”

  “I’m doing well, Thodoros.” Annja leaned her head back against the comfortable seat. “How are you and Mina doing?”

  “Fine, fine. Mina, of course, sends her love. She’s busy these days with the children. They are constantly into things. She misses the days when she was in the field as an anthropologist, but the children are forever finding things in our backyard for her to ‘authenticate.’”