by Greig Beck
Matt and Rachel entered and stood at the rear, and Matt noticed there were no buttons to press, but keyholes next to each number. The concierge leaned in and inserted another key into the slot at the very top. It lit up, and he stood back outside the elevator examining them as he waited for the doors to close. Matt could make out a small bulge at his breast pocket and bet he had a gun tucked in there. The door closed smoothly. Matt and Rachel both felt extra weight settle over them as the elevator accelerated.
“Thanks, Lurch.” Matt turned and grinned.
Rachel snorted.
“Expensive.” Matt looked at the inside of the small elevator. “I can’t imagine what all this cost. I bet I could work my entire life and not afford this place.”
“You could work a hundred lifetimes and not afford this place.” She half-smiled. “And this is only her New York residence.”
“Rich and single; sweet.” Matt jiggled his eyebrows.
“Rich and ve-eeery influential.” Rachel looked at Matt from the corner of her eye. “Best behavior, okay?”
“Why?” Matt asked. “She asked for me, remember. Let’s hope she’s on her best behavior.”
The elevator slowed and then the doors rolled open.
“Oh boy.” Matt had expected a palace complete with ornate gold furniture, crystal chandeliers, and artworks by the masters. But instead they were presented with a room that was gothic dark and smelled of dust.
“Ten bucks says it haunted,” he said softly as he panned left. The furniture was large and heavy, the wood of either mahogany or perhaps even ebony. A few fringed lamps glowed orange and though there were paintings on the walls, they were hard to make out as they were lost in shadow. Matt bet they held dour-looking ancestors giving himself and Rachel disapproving glares.
“Professor Kearns.” A woman materialized from the gloom and strode toward them.
She looked to be in her fifties, taller than Matt, and quite possibly broader. She had a head of tight iron-gray curls, a strong jaw and pale eyes that didn’t blink as she bore down on them. Matt also noticed a pair of powerful-looking hands clasped before her, each with club-like fingers.
“Yes, hello, I’m Matthew Kearns. I’m here, we’re here, to meet with Mrs. van Helling.”
“I know. I’m Greta Sommers, Mrs. van Helling’s personal nurse.” She smiled tightly.
“Is anyone else here? I mean working up here with Mrs. van Helling?” Rachel asked.
“No one else is allowed on this level.” Greta’s smile tightened further. “I’m also the cook, cleaner, and primary companion.”
“Sounds like a full-time job.” Rachel responded, looking away.
“Yes, full-time job.” Greta’s piercing eyes bored into Rachel for a moment.
“So, you guys like it dark, huh? Is Mrs. van Helling with us now?” Matt looked around and caught Rachel’s warning look – behave, her expression said.
“She likes her privacy.” Greta said. “She also likes some of her rooms more than others, and I’ve set her up in the viewing room with some refreshments.” Her eyes drilled Rachel again, and Matt wondered why she seemed to already harbor some sort of animosity toward her.
“Mrs. van Helling is not well and is restricted in her movements. Also, please talk softly in her presence.” She curled one muscular finger and turned. “This way please.”
Greta went through an arched doorway, moved along a short passage and came out onto an enormous living room, with one wall fully glassed. The window glazing was tinted, so even with the natural light pouring into the room it was still a soft twilight inside. But it was the view that had Matt catching his breath – Manhattan’s Central Park was like a forest laid out before them.
After the visual impressions washed over him, Matt’s other senses kicked in, and these brought less pleasant sensations – the smell of medicine, antiseptic, and cloying perfume. There was also the faint hiss of a respirator. He turned his head, seeing a magnificent oval table inlaid with ivory, ebony, and other precious woods in a scrolling pattern that looked to be 300 years old if it was a day. It was set for guests with bone china plates laden with small cakes, geometrically perfect sandwich squares, plus two sterling silver urns, one tall, the other squat – tea and coffee, Matt guessed.
On one side of the table, almost camouflaged, there was a wheelchair parked. Its wheels were tucked below the table edge, and a female figure, small and brittle, was seated within.
Rachel strode forward, but Greta headed her off, moving extremely quickly for such as solid woman.
“Ma’am, I’d like to present our guests; Professor Matthew Kearns of Harvard, and Agent Rachel Bromilow of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Greta turned to Matt. “Mrs. Eleanor van Helling.”
The little figure sat facing him with her back to the windows which made her features indistinct, but Matt could feel the tiny eyes on him. For several seconds there was nothing but silence and she never moved a muscle.
Matt went to nod, but instead couldn’t help delivering a deferential half-bow. “Mrs. van Helling; it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He waited, and there was nothing. He began to wonder whether she was awake, and turned to Rachel who stared at the old woman with her brows knitted together.
“You’re younger than I expected.” The voice was reed-thin and dry with age, but there was sharp authority in every note. Matt knew it was the voice of someone who got what they wanted and was comfortable with power and wealth.
“Thank you,” he tried.
“It wasn’t a compliment,” she responded.
“Okay.” Matt turned to Rachel. “Your turn.”
Rachel nodded. “Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. van Helling. On behalf of…”
“I invited Professor Kearns. You invited yourself.” The old woman still hadn’t moved.
Matt heard Rachel exhale.
He smiled, and bet that the old woman was having the time of her life. “You can call me Matthew or Matt if you like.” He half-turned. “And Rach…”
The old woman finally moved, waving a hand to cut him off. “And you can refer to me as Mrs. van Helling. Do you know why you were invited here, Professor?”
“I think so.” Matt approached and Greta immediately stepped in front of him. But this time the old woman reached out a bony claw to grip the nurse’s forearm and tug her out of the way.
“Sit down. I don’t like looking up to people.” Her eyes momentarily went to Rachel before sliding back to Matt. “You closest, Professor.”
“Thank you.” He sat just near her, and Rachel eased into another heavy chair across from them. Greta poured their desired hot drinks, and then stood back at the old woman’s shoulder once again like some sort of Amazonian bodyguard. And perhaps that was one of her duties as well, and accounted for her big hands and physique, Matt thought.
Mrs. van Helling reached a bony hand forward and turned over an ornate silver picture frame.
“He used to call me his angel.” She studied it for a moment before handing it to Matt. “Do you recognize this young man, Professor?”
Matt looked at the picture. It was an old-style shot that had been colorized, making the cheeks overly pink on a young, fit-looking man with dark eyes and darker hair swept back in a 1940s razor-shave-style haircut.
Matt recognized him as the man that stumbled from the forest in Canada, to be beheaded by unknown assailants.
“I know you do. I can see it in your face, Professor.” She snatched the frame back, placing it upright on the table facing her, staring at it sadly for another few seconds. She stroked its surface. “Clarence, Clarence van Helling, my beloved husband.”
“Maybe I do,” Matt said cautiously.
“That’s why we’re here,” Rachel said. “But the man who appeared in Canada, looking like that… it’s just not possible.”
“I know that,” Mrs. van Helling snapped back. “He disappeared before the Second World War, and today that would make him 115 years old. I’ve see
n the images, and I know you have too. That was him; I know it was.” She stared, her eyes penetrating, as if reading every tiny nuance in his expression.
Her eyes moved back to Rachel. “Clarence was a driven man, the sole heir to a fortune, and the greatest love of my life. But he had a mystical side, and sought out things that didn’t make sense to us common folk. A myth or legend was an open invitation to him.”
She turned her gaze back on Matt. “As it is with you, I understand, Professor.”
Rachel straightened in her chair. “Mrs. van Helling, we were led to believe you have some additional evidence or insights you wished to share with us?”
The old woman slowly lifted her gaze to Greta. The tall woman received it as a signal and took hold of the wheelchair and pulled her back from the table.
“This way.”
Matt and Rachel followed as Greta and Mrs. van Helling led them back into the depths of huge top-floor apartment, and came to a door that looked like it more belonged in a castle, complete with iron rivets and metal banded fortifications.
“Wow, where’s the drawbridge?” Matt asked.
Mrs. van Helling laughed dryly. “A little something Clarence picked up from Castelnau de Guers in France.” She leaned to the side in her chair, so she could half turn to them. “He was a collector of the strange and unique, Professor.”
“A man after my own heart. I wish I could have met…” Matt clamped his mouth shut.
“I wish you could have met him as well. You would’ve been kindred spirits.” She winked or blinked, Matt couldn’t quite tell which, and then smiled for the first time.
Greta went around the chair and unlocked the solid barrier and then pushed it open. It gave a satisfying creak. She took up her position behind the chair and pushed it and the old woman inside.
Matt squinted in the gloomy room. It wasn’t completely dark as there were numerous small spotlights hovering over different objects – some were on pedestals, some in frames on the wall, or in glass cases. The room was large and long, but it was hard to tell its exact size, as its far corners were lost in the shadows.
Matt inhaled the ancient scents. The building had only started its life in 1930 when it was the St Moritz, but the artifacts in the room combined to give it a flavor far older, and more akin to something that had absorbed centuries not decades.
He stopped before one of the plinths that held a single object under a dome of glass. He peered in, his eyebrows up.
“Oh, wow.”
Rachel stopped beside him, and he lifted a finger to point.
“This can’t be real.” He stared at the crude weapon. It was a spear tip, made from forged iron, and probably owned by a simple Roman soldier of low rank. Its tip still looked sharp enough to easily pierce flesh. “Impossible,” he breathed.
“I assure you everything is real here, Professor.” Mrs. van Helling said softly. Greta had wheeled the chair around to face him.
“But, the Spear of Destiny… really? Adolf Hitler was supposed to have been the last person to have had this in his possession.”
“He did… for a while.” Eleanor said.
Rachel frowned. “Looks Roman.”
“That’s because it is.” Matt turned to her. “Have you not heard of the spear owned by the Roman centurion called Longinus?” Rachel looked blank. “If that was just a Roman spear it’d be interesting and worth a few hundred bucks. But this…” He touched the glass. “… this is the Heilige Lanze – the Holy Lance. Longinus used it to pierce the side of Jesus Christ. It can have no value because it’s a holy relic and beyond value. Not to mention supposedly having mystical qualities.” He straightened. “Whoever possesses it can rule the world.”
“And yet, I’m not ruling the world.” Eleanor smirked.
“But you’ve got to want to.” Matt said. “And Hitler nearly did.” He stared at the iron weapon. “The last I heard, it was preserved beneath the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica, in Italy. How did you get it?”
“Like I said, Professor, Clarence was a collector, persuasive and very rich. And he never gave up. If he wanted something, or wanted to find something badly enough, he did. Some things he bought legitimately, some he acquired on the black market, and some he sought out himself from the four corners of the world.”
Matt leaned in a little closer, and felt something. He raised a hand and pressed his fingertip against the glass. He frowned and turned.
“Yes, it’s warm.” Eleanor tilted her head. “The steel is always ninety-eight degrees.”
“Body temperature.” Rachel said softly.
Eleanor nodded and smiled. “No one knows why. It’s fascinating isn’t it, Matthew?”
Matt stepped back from the glass dome. “Fascinating doesn’t begin to describe it.” He looked down and along the darkened room. It felt more like a museum than a residence, and he could only guess that it must have occupied one half of the entire penthouse.
“I could spend a week in here.” He grabbed Rachel’s hand. “Come on.”
He was walking quickly now trying to catch up to the wheelchair, and he pointed at different relics as he recognized them.
“Ha! The Shield of Achilles – he used it in his fight with Hector – magnificent.”
Matt then pulled up so quickly, he felt Rachel bump into him. He stared at the object under the thickened glass dome in the center of the room. It was the one item that was secured by a cage rising from the floor that covered the glass and plinth.
Eleanor van Helling had Greta push her chair back toward them.
“That’s right, Professor, it is what you think it is.”
Matt couldn’t help his mouth dropping open into a wide smile. “It was said to be the first test that mankind ever failed.”
“But the game was rigged, right, Matthew?” The old woman smiled, knowingly.
The item inside was a huge jar, two feet across and made from some sort of unidentifiable stone. The top was sealed with another piece of stone jammed down hard, and there was rope binding it, with red wax completing the job. It looked as old as mankind itself.
“What is it?” Rachel asked.
“That old thing?” Matt grinned. “That’s Pandora’s box.”
“I see.” Rachel’s brows drew together. “But it’s not even a box.”
“It’s exactly as the Greek poet, Hesiod, described it,” Matt breathed, walking around the cage. “Zeus gave it to mankind as a gift. But the gift was that he had sealed away all the ills of the world. He instructed no one to open it.”
“Let me guess – Pandora?” Rachel grinned.
“Yes, Pandora. It was an act of revenge on us. According to Hesiod, when Prometheus stole fire from heaven to give to mankind, Zeus wanted his revenge. He knew of Pandora’s curiosity, and also knew she’d never be able to avoid opening the box.”
“So he did set her up to fail?” Rachel said.
“Yes.” Matt dropped his arms. “No one said the gods were above treachery.”
“Wasn’t there something left behind?” Rachel asked.
“Hope.” Matt said. He turned to her and grinned. “So let’s hope it has leaked out a little over the millennia.”
“You certainly know your stuff.” Rachel checked her watch.
“It’s part of my job.” Matt heard Greta turning the wheelchair away.
“Please follow. I tire easily, and don’t have a lot of time before I need to rest.” Mrs. van Helling held up a hand, stopping Greta. “Perhaps you can come back by yourself at a later date, Matthew?”
Matt felt a shot of excitement run through him. “Yes please, and thank you, Mrs. van Helling.” He beamed.
“Eleanor,” she said, looking up at him briefly.
Matt saw a single picture on a pedestal. It showed a youthful Clarence with a tall and beautiful young woman who looked like an old-time movie star, perhaps a little Greta Garbo in the hair and cheekbones. He walked toward it.
“You?”
“Yes, I was a chi
ld bride and more years ago than I want to admit.” She pointed and Greta wheeled her closer. “And my dashing Clarence.” She sighed. “The years are thieves, Matthew, remember that. And remember to live life and take everything that’s available to you when you’re young.” She smiled up at him. “And we’re only young once, hmm?”
She held Matt’s eyes for a moment then she turned to catch Greta’s attention and the woman moved them off toward a dark alcove. “I’m not seeking a day laborer here, young man. All I need is someone to fill an advisory role, with maybe a tiny bit of fieldwork.” She smiled. “I know it’s something that would be of interest to you.”
Greta stopped her at a small dais that had a brushed metal control panel on its surface. She pressed a few of the buttons and the far wall illuminated.
“Clarence’s prized possession, and the last he ever sent back to me. It’s also the thing that consumed him with the fire of curiosity that he couldn’t extinguish.”
Matt walked slowly forward. There was a scrap of parchment, the words immediately recognizable – Chaldaic.
He began to translate: “… those that drink from the Ark’s wellspring will be absolved from death for as long as they drink its life.”
“Like the scroll.” He craned his head closer. “But there’s more this time.” He read.
“Then the curse of age will not afflict them as long as they remain with him.” Matt straightened. “For as long as they remain with him – what does that mean?” He turned to Eleanor. “Just like the Canadian scroll.”
“Or maybe one of the earliest copies.” Eleanor was wheeled a little closer. “The provenance of this shard has been carbon dated to 1200 BCE. My Clarence obtained it from a man who called himself Priam. He said he was the last Trojan, and he had been living in a secret place, a hidden garden.” Her eyes narrowed. “Priam, Professor; Priam of Troy.”
Matt stared for a moment. “Priam.” Matt repeated. He felt a little light-headed. “King Priam, father of Hector and Paris.”
She nodded slowly. “Clarence said that he met the man in Crete. And in my beloved’s own words, he grew hideously old right before his eyes.” She dabbed at one moist eye. “This is what sent my dear husband off on his final adventure.”