by Attard, Ryan
On the cover was an imprint, the same one as the coins in Astrid’s collection: several men praying to a multi-headed, multi-limbed deity, standing in the upper center like the sun. The image of the monstrosity burned itself into Nick’s eyes until he was completely absorbed by it. Background sounds and other senses were blocked out, and all he could do was stare at the creature’s multiple visages. Something stirred inside his head. He suddenly felt singled out, as if he had a spotlight on him.
“Oy, Professor.” Locksmith was doing his best not to let his voice carry as he shook Nick violently and whispered loudly in his ear.
Nick shook out of his daze and blinked awkwardly. “What the hell-?”
“You spazzed out on me,” Locksmith hoarsely whispered. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Nick said. “Blood pressure or something.”
Locksmith shook his head. “You kids these days. Can’t even handle a simple heist without fainting.”
“Just get the case open, all right?” Nick rubbed his forehead. What on Earth just happened to him?
Locksmith deftly opened the glass case and handed the book over to Nick.
“Careful, Professor. It’s heavy,” he mocked.
Nick ignored him and examined the book. It was locked on the side with some sort of brass clasp, which meant Locksmith’s job wasn’t over just yet. Nick couldn’t properly authenticate it without examining its contents. However, the connection he felt to the image on the cover was proof enough that whatever secrets this ledger contained were not entirely of this world.
“It’s the real thing,” Nick said over the earpiece and turning to Locksmith. “I just need you to get this thing open-”
He never finished his sentence. Alarms and sirens suddenly went off, their screech hitting Nick in the pit of his stomach. Beyond the sounds of the alarms, he heard the panic downstairs.
“What in the blazes is going on?” Locksmith yelled. He pressed his Bluetooth earpiece. “Circuits, what happened to our ten minutes?”
“They must have overridden the program somehow,” Circuits replied, his voice barely containing his panic. “Get out of there, now! If no one is back on the boat in an hour, I’m leaving.”
“Wait, Circuits,” Locksmith shouted. “Don’t you bloody dare leave us behind.”
But the earpieces were now dead and the only voices came from across the corridor, on the other side of the door.
“Fermateli! (Stop them!)”
Nick heard gunfire and bullets tore through the wooden door. He pulled Locksmith behind a shelf for cover and saw blood trickling from the old man’s shoulder. Nick toppled the bookcase over, blocking the door.
“I’m all right. Just a scratch,” Locksmith said. More shots rang against the door, and the angry voice who issued the order was yelling for them to stop firing.
Nick looked around for an escape route. “‘What could go wrong?’” he said in a high pitched voice, repeating what the beautiful woman had told him on the boathouse. “She had to jinx this, didn’t she?”
Chapter 24
“Aprite questa meledetta porta! (Open this damn door!)”
Whoever was behind the door stopped yelling long enough to issue an order and Nick heard them hacking at the door with something sharp and heavy. A fire axe, he guessed.
“Hello? Are you still there?” The woman’s voice echoed through his earpiece.
“Yeah, but we’re trapped inside,” Nick replied.
“They are ushering all the guests outside. We have to follow them out too, or risk blowing our cover.”
“Head back to the boathouse,” Nick instructed. “Wait for us there. Locksmith is gonna join you soon.”
“What about you?” the Australian asked.
“I’ll distract them,” Nick replied as he scanned the room.
“This guy must have a way to transport items up here,” he said, thinking out loud. Finally, he saw a freight lift and directed Locksmith towards it. “Get in here and rendezvous with Distraction.”
“What about the book?”
“Book stays with me. That way, you guys don’t leave me behind. Now, bon voyage,” Nick said, as he closed the doors of the freight lift.
The gunmen on the other side were almost through, with the door nearly in shreds, but Nick was ready for them. He grabbed a fire extinguisher and the Frankenstein manuscript.
“Sorry, Shelley. It’s for a good cause.”
He tore up the pages and stuffed them inside the wide funnel of the fire extinguisher. Then, he spun, waited for a hole big enough to appear on the door, thrust in the funnel, and sprayed.
The pages shot out everywhere with a blast of foam behind them. Nick barreled past the group of armed thugs, and sprayed more foam in their direction. The smoke screen covered his tracks. He shoved the heavy fire extinguisher at a gunman and threw him backwards, before dropping his impromptu weapon. Like a scared rabbit, he bolted along the corridor. A bullet ricocheted very close to him but they were still blind.
Nick reached inside his belt and unbound a stack of vinyl records he had tied together. Mozart, Bach, Aretha Franklin, and Ray Charles—they all sailed like Frisbees, providing an ulterior target other than Nick. The gunmen opened fire, shattering the records, while Guillermo Del Sacco screamed.
“Ammazzatelo! (Kill him!)”
Nick didn’t need a dictionary to understand that.
He ran up the fire escape, sending any other fire extinguisher along the way tumbling behind him. As he exited on the third floor, he heard the goons ascend the stairs. He called up the elevator and got in, pressing the button for the topmost level, one floor above.
As the elevator finished its journey, he climbed through the hatch on top of the elevator and supported himself with the cables. He found the manual lever for the brakes and pulled, locking the elevator in place. This way, he would slow the enemy down and cut off reinforcements.
Gritting his teeth, he looked up. There was another floor which led to the roof and he saw small maintenance ladder which led to a small door.
Nick grabbed the thick hydraulic cable and began climbing up the elevator shaft. His muscles ached; it had been a while since he had gone to the gym. He climbed past where the ladder was. No way could he jump horizontally that far or from the position he was in, dangling in the air. Instead, he made it all the way up to the top and released his legs. Slowly, he brought his feet against the steely rope and pushed. For a while, he sailed horizontally, before descending at an angle.
The ladder got closer and closer, until he crashed into the metal rungs and clung to them for dear life. His whole body jarred with the impact, and his shoulder muscles screamed in agony. He ignored the pain and climbed the ladder. The door required a thrust of his shoulder, but it swung open, leading Nick into a maintenance room. Finally, he made his way outside onto the roof and was greeted by the cool evening air.
“Eccholo. (There he is.)”
Two guards spotted him and trailed his movements with bullets. Nick bolted, running for his life, until he got to the edge.
The one thing that fascinated Nick about Venice, other than its polluted canals or many old buildings, was the household architecture. His mind recalled the conjoined rooftops he had seen while absent-mindedly looking at buildings on his way here, and now that little kernel of information was about to save his life.
He kept on running and leaped over. Sure enough, a lower roof was there to meet him, and he rolled to break his fall. His stunt gave him more distance, but the two gunmen gave chase nonetheless. He could see two bright spots of light from the LED flashlights attached to the front of their firearms. More gunshots rang and Nick realized that the goons were trying to box him into a corner.
Nick ducked to the right and switched course. He sailed over a railing and onto another rooftop, this one full of linen washing—the perfect spot for a trap.
As the two gunmen entered the linen maze, Nick set his sights on one of them. He struck the ma
n in the neck, but the thick muscle blocked the true intention of the strike, which was to silently render him unconscious. Instead, the man let out a grunt and was quickly silenced by Nick’s elbow.
The other gunman opened fire, but Nick’s quick reaction saved him. He twisted his grip and forced the first man into the line of fire, like a human shield. The man died from friendly fire, and Nick scooped up his weapon. Instinctively, he threw it aside and bolted in the other direction.
The second gunman saw the light from the gun Nick threw and thought it must have been the archeologist making a run for it. He opened fire and struck the firearm. By the time he realized his mistake, Nick had descended down a drainpipe and into someone’s backyard.
Nick was met by another washing line and an idea struck him. They hadn’t seen his face yet, which meant that if he were to get out of the monkey suit, he’d be no different from any other wandering tourist.
He found a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that were roughly his size and stripped off his Hugo Boss suit. The red ledger had been taped around his chest under the blazer. He tore it off, wrapped it in a shirt, and put on his new clothes, leaving the suit neatly folded for the owner to find.
Across the street, a bicycle caught his eye. It was an old and rusty thing, and the seat looked uncomfortable, but the wheels spun, and that was all Nick needed. Dumping the book in the dented front basket, he hopped on the bike and began pedaling towards the pier as fast as his aching legs allowed him.
The journey took him twenty minutes, until Nick finally saw the boathouse. He tapped his earpiece and let them know he was at the front door.
Circuits greeted him at the door. Nick wanted to punch the coward in the face, but it looked like someone had already beaten him to it. Circuits was pressing an ice pack to his nose and had bloodstains on his shirt. The edges around his eyes were blackened.
So instead of hitting him, Nick rubbed his middle finger against his chin and smiled pointedly at the guy.
Circuits walked away without saying anything.
Locksmith grinned when he saw Nick walking in. “You’re alright in my books, Professor,” he said, handing him an open beer bottle.
Nick took a swig, relishing in the cool drink after his recent bout with death and the subsequent marathon. He unravelled the book and handed it to Locksmith.
“I still need you to unlock that,” he said. “In the meantime, I am going to change into my regular outfit and get some sleep.”
Locksmith nodded. “We’ll wake you up when it’s time to get to work again.”
Nick simply grunted in response, already halfway through his cabin, and wistfully eyeing the bed.
Chapter 25
A rapt knock on the door frame jarred Nick from his slumber. He couldn’t remember what he was dreaming about, but Nick was sure it involved people more attractive that the middle-aged Aussie standing at the door.
“Astrid’s on the line,” Locksmith said.
Once he saw that Nick had somewhat woken up, he left the archaeologist alone in his cabin. Nick checked the time and groaned. Four hours. That’s all he was given to rest from a heist gone wrong which ended with him being chased on a rooftop as gunmen fired at him.
Surely, after he had single-handedly delivered Astrid’s prized book, he deserved some rest.
When he finally made it to the common room, he carried a mug of very strong coffee and more sugar than was recommended. Astrid would most likely ask him to look at the book, and Nick’s mind was useless without some caffeine. The remaining four members of the team sat around a coffee table, looking at a laptop. Astrid’s face came into view as Nick sat down.
“Professor,” Astrid greeted him. “I seem to have missed quite the spectacle last night.”
Nick shot him a glare and said nothing. Yes, last night’s events could have been chalked up to bad luck or poor timing, but Nick’s suspicious mind was busy replaying all the conversations he had had with his team when he met them for the first time yesterday.
“In any case,” Astrid continued. “If you would all be so kind as to give me and the Professor some privacy, we have a book to authenticate. I have already sent coordinates for you to follow.”
Circuits was already out the door, headed for the wheelhouse. The Italian couple rose somewhat solemnly. The woman frowned at Nick while her partner shrugged. Nick had already decided that the two scam artists were more amusing than dangerous. Locksmith tapped Nick on the shoulder and pointed at the red leather-bound ledger that nearly cost the archaeologist his life.
“Join us for a cold one when you’re done,” he said as he left. That made Nick smile—nothing like saving a man’s life to gain his alliance.
He sipped his coffee and picked up the ledger. Locksmith managed to open the clasp holding it shut, and Nick took a lot of care not to open the book too quickly, for fear that the leather cover might crack and break off. It was a very old book and years of use and seafaring had been unkind.
The first page was an elaborate, detailed drawing of a single entity being worshipped. It stood within a circle, presumably a representation of the sun. The figure resembled a man, in that it had arms and legs. But from its neck emerged a number of long, serpentine heads that flared to face each direction. A mass of limbs motioned violently, as if it were the most grotesque Siamese in existence, or someone had hurriedly conjoined a group of people together.
The bottom, beneath the god’s feet, was a mass of people bowing deeply so that only their bent backs were shown.
Something else caught Nick’s attention: the clouds swirling on top of the god. They were numerous, all clustered together, but each individual cloud had its own individual pattern. Solomon ran his fingers on them, discovering that the entire page was made from thick leather, and the picture was etched in it. To Nick, it looked like dried up skin, and it dawned on him that it was most likely human. His fingers felt small bumps inside each cloud. The patterns were confusing until he recognized one.
Constellations, he thought.
By the looks of it, this picture was most likely Mayan. Nick saw the influences of their culture: a serpent-headed deity, accurate constellations, the sun as a holy figure, the attire of the worshipping people. Or perhaps it was the opposite—maybe it had been this picture that shaped the Meso-American culture. No one had all the answers yet, and there was a dark age of around ten thousand years which confounded scientists and anthropologists all around the globe.
Nick’s face must have betrayed some emotion.
“Find anything interesting?” Astrid’s voice crackled from the computer.
Nick turned the book to show him. “Just a painting,” he said. “More of an etching, really. This is the real deal.”
Astrid nodded. “Yes, I am glad your daring mission was not in vain. However, this picture is not what I am looking for. I want El Dorado.”
Nick tried not to snort and sipped coffee to keep his face from reacting to Astrid’s blatant lack of knowledge and respect. The man clearly had no idea what he had just made them steal.
Nick flipped the page, careful not to ruin the etching, and found himself looking at a table of contents. There still were no words, merely a set of depictions and corresponding Roman numbers. Nick was about to report his finding, when he felt something buzz in his head. At first he thought it was the caffeine finally doing its job, but this felt deeper, as if someone fired a taser gun inside his brain. And just like before, he felt connected to something beyond himself, with knowledge invading his mind until he began understanding what he was looking at. Nick felt as if he had been there when the ledger was being written, as if he had written the ledger himself.
With this new knowledge Nick began deciphering the contents of the book.
There were many icons drawn on the page, but they fell under three main categories: the coin, the sword, and the book.
The coin was the Order’s creed, explained in detail. Unlike other religious sects, it clearly stated its purposes and
sacrifices, prompting those who cannot understand or comply to leave. This was the first lesson given to all initiates.
The sword explained the mission of the Order. They were privy to knowledge about God and His many aspects. They understood the dichotomy between one and many, and only those who fully understood that concept were allowed to climb through the ranks. These higher ranked members were tasked with protecting the gifts of God and His children, even from themselves if necessary. They were taught how to fight using arms and armor, empty hands, and more often than not, only their tongues and wit. They were taught how to listen and observe, how to hide in plain sight, and how to manipulate the crowds. They were information-gatherers, philosophers, monks, spies, assassins, soldiers, and heroes.
They were whatever God required them to be.
The third icon, the book, was their most precious secret. It told tales and legends, and within each story was supposedly the location of one of His gifts. Absolute faith was required to fully comprehend these stories and grasp the meaning beneath. Most of these stories revealed the existence of the Select and their role to guide mankind.
Nick’s mind compared the Order to their successors, to the compound he grew up on. Somewhere along the line, they grew fearful, arming themselves to fight both mankind as well as any alien god that came back for their so-called gifts. Their methods hadn’t changed, merely the weaponry and equipment used. The Select were paraded around as the next stage of evolution and an order of holy warriors had devolved into a paranoid militia.
“What is it?” Astrid’s voice brought Nick back to reality.
Nick shot his head up, trying to jar himself back.
“I think I may have found the key to understanding the book,” he replied. His voice still sounded distant, forcing him to loudly clear his throat. “It should help us narrow down the pool of information, but I will need a couple of hours.”