by John Sneeden
THE HADES CONSPIRACY
A DELPHI GROUP THRILLER
John Sneeden
To my siblings, whose support has been constant and unwavering.
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“And there we saw the Nephilim (the sons of Anak, who come from the Nephilim), and we seemed to ourselves like grasshoppers, and so we seemed to them.”
Numbers 13:33
PROLOGUE
April 8, 2003
National Museum of Iraq
Baghdad, Iraq
HAMID ARAM SLIPPED through the shadows at the base of the building, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. He glanced nervously behind him. Save for a stray dog sniffing through trash, Nasir Street was deserted. American forces had already sliced through Baghdad’s perimeter defenses, sending most of the city’s residents scrambling inside.
Easing forward, he peered around the corner. A stiff wind blew a cloud of sand across the square. Once it passed, the National Museum of Iraq appeared in its wake. The building was majestic, with twin stone towers flanking an arched entryway. Nothing had changed since he was last there several years before.
A burst of gunfire erupted a few blocks away. The fighting drew closer. In an hour or so, the Americans would swarm the area. Bullets and mortars would arrive with them. If he didn’t finish before they got here, all would be lost.
He rose and sprinted across the plaza. The twin towers grew larger as he approached. He darted into the shadow of the arched entryway and stopped. He glanced back toward Nasir Street, but there was no movement save the swaying of a few palms. Someone yelled a block away—a parent scolding a child to come inside.
Hamid reached into his pocket and removed the revolver he’d stolen from his mother’s closet. He pushed out the cylinder and made sure all the bullets were in place. It was a small caliber, but that didn’t matter. Just having a weapon gave him some much-needed confidence.
As he prepared to enter the museum, Hamid thought back on the events that brought him there. It all began two nights ago, when he was summoned to the house of his Uncle Omar, one of the museum’s assistant curators.
When Hamid arrived, he was immediately escorted back to Omar’s bedroom. Omar told his nephew to pull a chair close to the bed. He had something to tell Hamid that wasn’t meant for other ears. After a little small talk, Omar told Hamid he’d recently been diagnosed with cancer. His body was riddled with the foul disease, and the doctors said his life would now be measured in weeks not months. Hamid wept bitterly at the news. Omar had been like a father to him. To hear his beloved uncle was about to pass was unbearable.
Strangely, Omar told him that wasn’t the primary reason he’d been called over with such urgency. Something was even more pressing than the disease. Omar needed Hamid to perform a task, something that had to be done before the American forces took control of Baghdad. Hamid agreed to help even before knowing the details. He would do anything for his dying uncle.
In between slow sips of water, Omar spoke of the looting at the museum. Priceless treasures were being whisked away to line the pockets of the greedy and add to the collections of the wealthy. Sadly, Omar had heard that a few artifacts had even been thrown away. But despite the large-scale theft, all was not lost. The looters didn’t know the objects on display in the building were only a portion of the entire collection. Many more—including some of the most valuable ones—were housed in a secret underground chamber, a place known only to the museum’s curators.
Omar lowered his voice to a whisper. He told Hamid there was a relic that was more important than all the others combined. It was one of the greatest archaeological finds in the history of the world, and yet few knew it even existed.
When Omar spoke of the relic, Hamid saw fear in his uncle’s eyes. Was it because he feared losing it or because he feared the relic itself? Originally, Omar and the other curators had planned to leave the relic where it was. The Americans would thoroughly search the museum, but it was unlikely anyone would discover the entrance to the underground treasury, which was hidden in a way no one could find it.
Soon after the curators made the decision to leave everything hidden in the chamber, Omar had heard whispers that one of his colleagues was no longer on board. He had his own plan for the relics and was determined to carry them out. The rumors may not have been true, but Omar wasn’t about to take any chances. He told Hamid he must go to the museum, retrieve the relic, then bring it back to Omar. Hamid asked why he didn’t just send one of the other curators, and Omar’s response was he didn’t know whom he could trust now.
Throughout their meeting, Hamid sensed there was more to the relic than his uncle was letting on. As he stood to leave, Omar’s final words gave him a hint as to why the task was so important. “This relic has a dark secret. It must be brought back to me, whatever the cost.”
The distant rumble of mortar fire pulled Hamid back to the present. It was time to enter. After a final look behind, he stole down the stone pathway between the towers. The museum’s entrance loomed just ahead. Its steel doors hung open, and debris was scattered along the walkway.
Hamid slipped into the dark entrance hall lit only by a splash of moonlight coming through the domed-glass ceiling. Having memorized the instructions, he turned into the gallery on the right. The darkness was heavier here, so he clicked o
n his flashlight and shone the beam around the space. Stone reliefs of Assyrian warriors and kings stared down at him in silence. They almost seemed angry at his presence. Hamid shuddered. The place frightened him. Once he was finished, he’d waste no time fleeing back to the streets.
As he continued through the gallery, he visualized the route in his mind. He would turn left at the corner of the building, then proceed…
A noise reached his ears. He froze as the sound grew louder. Someone was running toward him, and in a few seconds, they would come around the corner. His heart thumping, Hamid thumbed off his flashlight and looked for a place to hide. A statue stood near the corner, but he’d never be able to reach it in time. Left with no other choice, he removed his revolver and slipped into the shadows.
He was not a moment too soon. Two figures barreled around the corner. To his shock, they were kids—aged ten or twelve at the most. Now more confident, Hamid stepped into the middle of the hall and raised his gun. Both of the boys came to a halt, their eyes widening in shock.
“What are you doing here?” Hamid asked in Arabic, giving his voice an authoritative tone.
The boys looked at each other, trembling. Finally, the taller one said, “We… we were exploring. Just having fun. No big deal.”
Hamid waved his pistol toward the entrance. “Get out! The Americans are coming, and you’re going to be killed if they find you here!”
The boys needed no further encouragement. They raced past him without looking back. Hamid wasn’t sure if it was the pistol or the threat of the American soldiers, but he knew they wouldn’t return.
After the footsteps died away, Hamid turned on his flashlight again and continued around the corner. Five minutes later, after passing through several dark galleries, he arrived at his destination, a short hallway at the rear of the building. On the right was the storage room door he was looking for. He stepped closer. As his uncle had suspected, it had been pried open. Hamid stepped inside and swept his beam across rows of empty metal shelves. Mops, rags, and bottles of cleaning solution were strewn across the floor. The looters must have been desperate to find anything of value.
Hamid walked down an aisle to a tapestry affixed to the back wall. Thankfully, it hadn’t been disturbed. If only the looters had known… Rather than ripping it off, he gently pulled it free, folded it, and placed it on a nearby shelf. Just as he’d been told, the concrete wall behind it was engraved with large, decorative rectangles. Hamid stepped back and aimed his beam at each one. He soon found one that was darker than the others. The secret door. He approached and slid his fingers into the gap on the left. As he pulled, he could tell the panel was not concrete at all, but a light veneer. It slid easily to the right, exposing a dark opening.
Hamid directed his beam inside. A steel door appeared at the end of a short tunnel. He approached and found the keypad on the right. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and entered the sequence of numbers on the keypad. A loud click followed.
As he placed his hand on the handle, a noise came from somewhere out in the museum. Although distant, it sounded like the thump of footsteps. Had the boys returned? Maybe they’d brought some of their friends. He doubted it, but one thing was certain—someone was out there. Hamid returned to the veneer wall and pulled it back into place, sealing off the tunnel. If someone happened to enter the storage room, they’d never notice the secret panel.
Returning to the steel door, he opened it carefully. After stepping inside, he closed it behind him and followed a narrow corridor to a set of stairs, which he took down into the darkness. A minute later, he emerged into a cavernous chamber. He shone his light around, scarcely able to believe the sight that met his eyes. Gold masks, weapons, shields, chests, and other relics filled rows of shelving. Other larger artifacts were stacked against the walls. Hamid marveled at the vast quantity of treasure surrounding him. If he had more time, he would love to walk through and examine each one.
According to Omar, the cabinet he was looking for was on the far side of the room. He took two steps. A click carried down the stairs behind him. He turned, his chest tightening at the sound. Had someone found the door? His mind spun through a dozen different scenarios. Perhaps someone had noticed the tapestry was missing. Perhaps he’d left footprints on the dusty floor.
Another click sounded, this time followed by the groan of a door hinge. Someone was coming. His heart thumping wildly, Hamid looked around. To his left, ancient armor hung from a rack. A small sign indicated Assyrian soldiers had once worn the metal covering. It wasn’t a perfect place to hide, but it would have to do. Sprinting over, he slid behind the rack and turned off his light.
He was just in time. Boots thumped down the stone steps. He leaned to his right and peered out. Several beams of light stabbed through the darkness at the base of the stairs. Voices followed, and Hamid’s brow furrowed in confusion. They spoke English, a language he knew from watching American and British television shows with his mother.
As the voices grew louder, Hamid pulled back behind the shield.
“Good heavens,” someone gasped in a distinctly American accent.
“Welcome to our real collection, gentlemen.” The man spoke in English, but Hamid guessed he was an Iraqi.
One of the flashlight beams swept across the armor. Hamid froze. Once it passed, he peeked out again. His eyes widened in surprise. A short Iraqi man wearing pleated trousers stood in front of a dozen U.S. soldiers. The muscular, stern-faced men wielded rifles mounted with lights. One of them—a man in his late fifties or early sixties—carried no weapon and wore a camouflaged cap. Hamid guessed he was the commanding officer.
“There are untold treasures here,” the Iraqi man continued. “It’s—”
“We don’t have time for the grand tour.” The officer cut him off. “Let’s get what we came for and leave.”
“As you wish. This way.” The Iraqi man gestured toward one of the aisles.
“If it’s not here, you can rest assured you’re not getting…”
As the men disappeared from sight, Hamid frowned. What were the Americans doing in the museum? A battle waged several blocks away. It didn’t make any sense.
Burning with curiosity, he slid out from behind the armor. He had to find out what was going on. After a brief glance around, he entered the aisle next to the one the men had taken. He saw the glow of the soldier’s lights one row over, so he followed quietly. The room was much longer than he’d realized.
He stopped near the end of the aisle. The men were only a few feet away.
The Iraqi man spoke again. “You have nothing to worry about. Once we—”
“Just open it,” the officer said. “We need to hurry. We’re in a war zone, and my closest support is a quarter mile away.”
“I understand.”
A door groaned.
There was a long pause, then the officer spoke. “Let’s see what’s in the box.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the soldiers said.
After another pause, Hamid thought he heard someone gasp. Or was it a yawn? He thought of peeking around the corner but knew he couldn’t risk it. If he were spotted, he’d be shot on sight.
“You see? It’s right where I said it would be,” the Iraqi said. “As we agreed, I expect final payment tonight.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be paid,” the officer said.
A few more inaudible words were exchanged, then the door swung shut, and the men marched off. A minute later, Hamid heard the steel door at the top of the stairs slam shut.
They were gone.
After switching on his light, Hamid continued to the end of the aisle. He splashed his beam across the numbered metal cabinets lining the rear wall. The one he was looking for must be near the one the Americans had opened. A few seconds later, he found it. The locker was fitted with a simple lock. Using the combination he had memorized, Hamid spun the dial back and forth, stopping on the final number. He removed the lock and opened the door.
/> After shining his light inside, his eyes widened in surprise. It was empty.
Take a deep breath. Don’t panic. It’s here somewhere.
Hamid closed his eyes and thought. Maybe there was a false wall or hidden compartment. Omar hadn’t mentioned one, but he might as well check. He dropped to his knees and ran his hands around the interior. The entire surface was smooth. No ridges, no levers. Nothing.
Omar had been concerned about one of the other curators. Perhaps…
His pulse quickened as he remembered what the Iraqi man had said just a couple of minutes earlier. “You see, it’s right where I said it would be. As we agreed, I expect payment tonight.”
He was the curator Omar had spoken of. He must be selling the relic to the Americans. But why? Why would the Americans risk coming here? Maybe he was doing it to protect the treasure.
As Hamid turned to leave, Omar’s cryptic words echoed in his mind. “This relic has a dark secret. It must be brought back to me, whatever the cost.”
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
Venice, Italy
DR. RICHARD PAULING nervously scanned the crowded square, looking for a place to hide. The man was still close on his tail, but with any luck, Pauling figured he might be able to lose him in the mass of humanity.
A large group of tourists assembled in front of St. Mark’s Basilica. He stared at them for a moment, pondering an idea. For now, it would have to do. Slipping behind them, he took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. At this point, he had no one to blame but himself for the danger that was closing in. He’d heard from reliable sources that a shadowy group was searching for him, but instead of staying in hiding, he’d made the arrogant and reckless decision to attend the 26th Annual International Conference on Ancient Cultures. In his defense, Pauling had done all he could to mask his presence at the event. He knew the organizers and had asked the administrator to register him under an alias. Unfortunately, the group must have had an inside source who’d tipped them off to his presence.