by Rob Jones
Most alarming to him was how to keep such a thing secret from the world. His father had done it for forty years, and he had diligently continued in his footsteps. That was the business he was in, after all.
His father had done it in Greece during the war, and it was thanks to Major Otto Zaugg’s archaeological work in the Ionian Sea that his son Hugo had known the legend was real. Now it looked like he was about to finish what his father had started, and it was all thanks to Richard Eden’s hard work.
Far below in the valley, the town lights came on one by one as darkness approached and the storm built in power. With Christmas on the horizon the streets were festooned with fairy lights and bunting.
Sion was an expensive place to live – one of the most expensive in Switzerland, but its appeal was minimal to the elderly billionaire as he went about his life’s work. The closest he had come to the streets below was the occasional time when his private helicopter flew over it en route to his mansion’s helipad.
He swivelled his telescope and watched a young couple struggling against the wind to get back to their apartment from a car which was parked in the snowy street outside. Zaugg studied their progress as he might watch a line of ants marching along a garden path. Sometimes life bored him.
But not tonight.
Zaugg turned to face his team. He was a short man, in an expensive gray suit with a navy blue tie and silk polka dot pocket square emerging somewhat flamboyantly from his breast pocket. He had a smooth, shaved head and a salt and pepper goatee beard trimmed to perfection. He smiled at them coldly.
His team of personal assistants and business associates watched him in silence for a long time before one of them spoke, fearful of Zaugg’s response.
“It was a mistake letting that woman get away,” the man said in French. “Who knows how much she told Eden before she was silenced? If this ever gets out the world as we know it will be over. Yet perhaps Eden doesn’t know what he has.”
“You think Sir Richard Eden doesn’t realize what was almost in his grasp?” Zaugg said, still looking through the window. He was speaking in French. “He spent two years and five million dollars funding that excavation. He knows what he has.”
“But we have the only translation,” said another man in German, excitedly. It was Dietmar Grobel, Zaugg’s number two. “How it will enlighten us! It is so precious.”
“Indeed,” Zaugg purred, this time in German. Yes, the original Ionian Texts and their translation were precious, but nowhere near as precious as what they would lead him to, he thought.
He considered Professor Fleetwood’s full translation in the context of the documents handed to him by his father. They whispered to him from the deep past: Those Who Seek His Power, Will Find It Buried In His Kingdom. He smiled and rolled the words over his tongue: Only Then Shall Divine Illumination Be Granted...
Zaugg closed his eyes. Poseidon and Amphitrite would lead him to their ultimate power, and Sir Richard Eden and his ragtag army of nobodies could not stop him.
“Their power will be mine,” he said. “It is merely a case of locating the vase in question and then we shall be given the next step in our long quest.”
“A glorious moment in history, sir,” Grobel said.
“But we must neutralize the Eden Group,” said the woman.
“Leave that to me,” Zaugg said in a whisper.
“But we must do it now...”
“I said leave it to me,” Zaugg repeated, his tone indicating that was the end of the matter.
“Are you sure you can keep something of this magnitude quiet?” said a thin man, swallowing anxiously at the end of his sentence. “Surely not even someone as powerful as you could keep something like this secret. What if Eden leaks it? If we hand everything over to the United Nations, perhaps...”
“What you say is madness!” said the woman.
Zaugg stopped his pacing and began to study the pattern of the snowfall as it raced past his enormous window wall. More snowflakes than stars in the universe, he thought. “The world is not ready for this and neither is Eden. Only I have what it takes to control such a power.”
“I concur,” said Grobel. “And we have invested too much for this to become public. We will lose everything. Eden will not reveal anything to the public. He understands its significance.”
“Herr Grobel is right,” continued the woman. “If this becomes public knowledge everything we aspire to will be in grave jeopardy.”
Zaugg walked to the leather swivel chair behind his expansive mahogany desk and gently sat down. He turned slowly once again to face his team.
They were a good lineup – the best that money could buy – archaeologists, geologists, historians, and experts in folklore and mythology. They knew what they were talking about, and they also knew the value of keeping him happy. Zaugg happened to agree with the majority opinion in the room – the world was not ready for such a find, the import of which would be truly earth-shattering if he got his way.
But it was not without precedent.
It was true that he already had one piece of the puzzle – discovered by his father in Greece during the war which he then smuggled into Switzerland under a false identity when the Allies occupied Germany.
Without that evidence he would never have believed the legend. But without the Ionian Texts it revealed nothing. The texts, recently found by Sir Richard Eden, his great rival, had proven without a doubt that the legend was real and that the vault was true and could be located.
Zaugg had never doubted. And others were equally keen to find the truth. There were people in the world beside him who dedicated their lives to finding the truth. There had even been attempts to steal the document handed down to him by his father, but the punishment he meted out to the thieves was not in exact alignment with the Swiss judicial code.
But now the Ionian Texts were found and translated, he would be able to locate the vault of Poseidon and take control of the ultimate power on earth.
“So what shall we do, Herr Zaugg?” asked the woman. “Are you prepared to take responsibility for what this discovery will do to the world, or are you going to guard it for more enlightened generations?”
“I am confident Richard Eden will not release the details of his discovery to the press and the matter will not be spoken of again. I trust you know me well enough by now to know how reckless it would be to defy me. The world will know of this soon enough and at a time of my choosing.”
A murmur of concern rippled around the warm room, but another withering look from Zaugg brought about an immediate change of heart.
“This is the right choice,” said the historian.
“I concur,” said the geologist.
“I still think the world should be told now,” said the archaeologist. “This changes everything! If the legends turn out to be true – and in the light of this discovery I see no further reason to doubt them – we’re talking about something very dangerous indeed – the whole of human history will be rewritten. We are playing with fire.”
“You think I have made the wrong decision?” Zaugg said, suddenly darkly serious.
The archaeologist fell silent for a moment. He looked at the carpet, and then spoke up. “Of course not, sir. It’s just that...”
“Excellent,” snapped Zaugg. “Then we are all agreed. A discovery like this is too explosive for the average man or woman on the street. They are occupied with the mundane, with the humdrum. We must not burden them with such a heavy load. This is why Sir Richard Eden will not go to his superiors about this – that really would be suicide – or should I say genocide?”
A low rumble of grim, forced laughter emanated from the small group.
Zaugg got up from his chair and walked silently to the window wall. It was almost totally dark now, and as he stared through the glass he no longer saw the little town below his mountain estate, but his own reflection – old, proud, scared.
“The legend says they were buried together...” he said quie
tly. His voice was thinner now, almost a whisper, as if his mind was drifting to some other place where he would much rather be. “If the Ionian Texts give us what I expect them to, then we will soon be in possesson of the vault of Poseidon and its terrifying secrets.” He sighed and closed his eyes. He raised his wrinkled hands and placed them gently on the glass in front of him. “We will change the course of the entire world... and my destiny.”
He breathed in deeply and let the air out in a slow, restful exhalation. He was calm again, happy, expectant. No, the world was not ready for such a thing, but he was.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Hello, again,” said Sir Richard Eden. The English politician was sitting behind an old, worn desk in the study of his townhouse just a few streets from the British Museum. His crisp white shirt was still covered in blood from the earlier attack, and his face seemed to have aged several years in the short time since Hawke had last seen him.
Through the window they could still hear the sounds of the sirens as the emergency services dealt with the aftershock back at the museum. Eden rubbed his shoulder and winced before speaking: “Apparently you’ve already met, but please allow me formally to introduce you to Lea Donovan – she’s the head of my personal security.”
He gestured to Lea who was now standing beside his desk. She had changed and was now dressed in a black sweater and tight blue jeans, and her blonde hair was tied back less formally. They shook hands again.
“No disrespect, but maybe you should change your head of security?” Hawke said.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Lea asked sharply.
“Sir Richard nearly got killed today, is what I mean.”
“You were the one supposed to be running security at the museum. If you’d done your job properly the shooter wouldn’t have even been inside the building.”
“And if you’d briefed me about Sir Richard’s psychotic enemies I might have run tighter security.”
“If you must know,” Eden said, “Lea didn’t know anything like this could happen.”
“And what did happen?” Hawke asked.
Eden seemed torn between a reluctance to speak and the urge to request their help. For a long time he was silent, staring at the middle distance outside his window. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you,” he said, turning to Lea. “Even you.”
Hawke and Lea shared a concerned glance. “You’re going to have to tell us more than that, Richard,” Lea said.
“Bloody right you are,” Hawke said flatly. “A woman you claim you know walks into the British Museum in broad daylight in the middle of a major exhibition, rambles incoherently about the ultimate power of Greek gods and gets shot dead right in front of the cream of the crop. I think you owe us an explanation.”
Eden stared at both of them for a few moments before speaking. “Yes, I did know the woman – that much is perfectly true. Her name was Lucy Fleetwood and she was an academic working here in London.”
“An academic?”
“That’s right. She was a professor of ancient languages just up the road at University College London.”
“And how did you know her?” Lea asked. “You should have told me about this.”
“She was working for me.”
“If you want us to help you, we need the whole story, Richard,” said Hawke. “Spit it out.”
Eden fixed his eyes on Hawke and seemed to acquiesce.
“Of course. As you may know, I run a highly covert section of the intelligence services, but my lifelong passion is archaeology. A few weeks ago my team found something potentially of very great value to the archaeological world – and perhaps to the wider world as well. I’m talking about the Ionian Texts.” He looked at them hoping to see a flicker of recognition, but neither showed any.
“What’s the significance of these texts?” Hawke asked.
“Until recently most people simply refused to believe they existed, and dismissed them as a fanciful legend and nothing more. A few of us, however, never stopped believing that one day they would be found. I have spent my life searching for them.”
“Yeah, but..” Hawke was growing impatient. “What’s their significance?”
Again, Eden’s face was a tortured mix of reticence and desperation. Finally he spoke: “They are supposed to refer to the location of the vault of Poseidon.”
“The what?” Hawke’s voice was sceptical.
Lea’s eyes narrowed with doubt as she looked at her boss.
“It’s like a tomb,” continued Eden reluctantly, “only it’s supposed to contain not only the sarcophagus of Poseidon but also an enormous hoard of treasure, both his personal wealth but also that offered to him as a tribute by his worshippers.”
“Sorry?” asked Hawke, perplexed. “I might not have had the best education in the world but even I know Poseidon was a god. How does a god have a tomb?”
This time the fight on Eden’s face between reluctance and desperation for help went the other way: “There are some things I just cannot explain to you at this time about the nature of the tomb and its contents, and you’ll just have to live with it.”
Hawke was used to being cut-off – it was part of life in the marines, but he realized that this was different. “Come off it, Richard.”
Eden sighed. “You were a very accomplished Special Forces soldier for many years and you served on a great deal of top secret missions. We both know you would not have been aware of the strategic significance of many of them, and we both know you were able to work with that. You can consider this the same thing.”
Hawke was hoping to hate Sir Richard Eden, but already the old man was making it difficult for him. He appreciated frank, honest talk, and it looked like Eden did too. “I can live with that – for now, at least.”
“Good. I was impressed with how you handled yourself today, with the exception of that little stunt with the tour bus – we’ve already had the Japanese Embassy on the phone to the Home Office by the way, so thanks for that – and if you want to see your little jaunt it was recorded by dozens of tourists and it’s all over YouTube.”
“It was my only play...”
Eden sighed. “And as for the destruction of a police helicopter over the Thames in broad daylight, let’s just say Prime Minister’s Question Time is going to be a bloody nightmare this week.”
“Like I said, we had no choice.”
“If you say so, but either way I need someone I can trust to get to the bottom of this. I’ve known you all your life, Lea, and I trust you totally. Hawke – I’ve run a check on you and you seem like a solid type. I’m sure the two of you can work together on this.”
“As one door closes...” Hawke muttered.
“We don’t have much to go on,” Eden said, “but thanks to the quick-thinking of Professor Fleetwood we do have something – both her translation regarding the ultimate power being buried in some kind of kingdom, and also her reference to New York and the amphorae.”
“Which isn't much, let’s face it,” Hawke said. “And oh yeah – what the hell is an amphorae?”
“What the hell are amphorae – it’s plural. They’re vases.”
“Vases?” Lea asked.
“Ancient Greek vases.”
“That’s still not what I would call a lot to go on.”
“But it’s a start,” Eden said coolly, regaining a little of his infamous composure. “The Ionian Texts are supposed to confirm not only the existence of the vault but also its location. According to legend, a daring raid was made on the tomb thousands of years ago by unknown forces.”
Hawke was starting to wonder what the old man was smoking, but kept his thoughts to himself.
“Afterwards the keeper of the vault – a worshipper of Poseidon whose name was lost to history, but we know he was a potter and we refer to him as the Vienna Painter – hid all traces of its location.”
“Why?”
“It’s possible that the tomb could guard one of the greatest secrets known to ma
n.”
“And what would that be?” Hawke asked, eyes fixed on Eden.
“For now, that will have to remain classified.”
“Oh, come on...”
Eden was not moved. “The potter left only one small inscription to reveal the tomb, and according to legend he hid it inside a vase. We thought the Ionian Texts would confirm this and it looks like they have, at least if Professor Fleetwood was right.”
Lea nodded. “So that’s where we need to start. Finding these inscriptions.”
“And I suggest you get moving. Professor Fleetwood’s killers are clearly very serious about getting their hands on the vault and everything in it, and I just can’t let that happen.”
“Do you have any idea who’s behind this?” said Hawke.
Eden nodded. “A few days ago a man named Hugo Zaugg was released from a prison in Zurich where he had been serving a two year sentence for perjury and perverting the course of justice during a famous tax evasion trial in Switzerland.”
“Sounds like a charmer,” said Lea.
“He is a recluse and the world knows very little about him, except for the fact he has practically limitless wealth, very powerful connections in international agencies like the IMF, and also...”
“And what?” Hawke asked, sensing yet more reluctance on Eden’s part.
“His father was Otto Zaugg.”
Hawke shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
“Unsurprising, but you would have had you lived in Greece during the Axis occupation in World War Two. He was a ruthless SS tank commander and went on to be a very high-ranking member of the Nazi Party before fleeing to Switzerland at the end of the war where he lived out his life in search of...”
“Let me guess – the vault of Poseidon?”
“Exactly.”
Hawke studied Eden’s lined face. “But what interest would a man like that have in an archaeological find? Sounds like a mystery to me.”
Eden looked away from his desk. “Quite, yes.”