by Rob Jones
“Get on with it, Rupert,” Hawke said. “Unless you want a knuckle sandwich.”
“Oh you do know what a metaphor is, good. Anyway, in other words, as time passed the absolute certainty that she was a real goddess – breathing, and walking on earth – was slowly diminished in gradations until today we see her as a myth. Shit! I’m really good at researching this ancient Greek stuff.”
“A myth like Jesus, you mean?” Hawke said, ignoring the hubris.
“Many high-profile atheists believe Jesus was a real man who walked the earth, even if they dispute he was the son of god. Why is it possible for so many of us to accept Jesus was really on earth, and also a god, but not for us to believe that the ancient gods of earlier cultures were also real, and had a physical presence here on earth?”
“Because there’s no evidence of it.”
“In the last few minutes I’ve been to more than one website which claims there is solid evidence of it.”
“You mean tin foil hat websites?”
“Not necessarily, no.”
“So why has no one ever heard of this evidence then?” Hawke asked.
“I’d imagine there aren’t many people willing to risk their careers for the truth. It’s probably almost impossible to prove, I’d bet. Either the cultures in question are so old they have turned to dust, or the authorities work hard to suppress the truth in order to keep control of the current narrative.”
“You mean the history we all know?” Hawke asked.
“The history you think you know, yes,” Ryan said with a smile.
Hawke turned to Lea. “I know you said this guy was a bit of conspiracy theorist but you never said he was a total nutcase.”
“Excuse me,” Ryan objected, “but evidence of antediluvian civilizations is probably out there for those who care to look. The scientific community regard some believers as conspiracy nuts and maybe that’s their loss – or perhaps their discrediting of those people is more than a simple dismissal of the unlikely – we may never know.”
Hawke thought things through for a second. He felt like his mind was melting. “So where do we find this Vase of Poseidon?”
“The Met,” Ryan said.
*
Under the pretext of grabbing a coke from the vending machine, Hawke took a walk and put a call through to Nightingale. He was still concerned about whatever it was Sir Richard Eden was keeping from him.
“It’s this trident that’s bothering me,’ he said to her. “What can you tell me about that?”
Nightingale worked fast and was soon hacking through secret government documents. “The legend says that the trident was pretty much the most powerful weapon possessed by any god. Apparently it had some kind of power that enabled Poseidon to cause earthquakes and tsunamis at his command anywhere in the world at any time… but there’s some other stuff in here about the contents of the vault.”
“And?”
“And it’s blocked.”
“I thought you hacked it?”
“Sure did, but this is a PDF of a scanned letter, and someone’s blocked out a few lines with a black pen. Whatever it is, they don’t want anyone to know about it. I guess that explains why Langley is keeping an eye on this.”
“Langley believes this crap?”
“Joe, the US Government is heavily invested in the esoteric – MK Ultra, teleportation experiments, telepathy experiments, you name it. If they thought there was even the slightest possibility that something like the trident really existed, believe me, they would want it.”
“This just gets worse.”
“As for the stuff that’s blacked out… who knows? Back when I worked for them there was even a rumor they took the Ark of the Covenant from the Nazis way back in World War Two and hid it in a giant storage facility, but none of us ever bought that one – some things are just too ridiculous to believe, you know?”
“Yeah, that is ridiculous.” Hawke’s mind raced with ideas. “So let me get this straight – you’re saying that Poseidon’s trident really exists and is a weapon of mass destruction and that a Swiss megalomaniac is trying to get his hands on it and that there’s stuff even worse than that because it’s blacked out?”
“Pretty much.”
At times like this, he missed the Special Forces. Life seemed somehow simpler back then. Less nuance and more black and white back in the old SBS.
The SBS were the Royal Navy’s equivalent to the British Army’s SAS, just as highly trained but much less comfortable in the public eye. Not being as well-known as the SAS didn’t bother the men in this elite unit – it was a small band of soldiers of less than two hundred, and they lived by their motto: By Strength and Guile.
They were especially proud of the fact they had the only Victoria Cross in the Special Forces, won in 1945 by Anders Lassen who led a daring attack in the north of Italy at the end of the war.
But recently, the section had suffered a hammering to their reputation after a failed attempt to rescue hostages held by jihadi terrorists in Nigeria. Some had argued the SAS should have been used, but Hawke knew the situation would have been the same whoever was handling it. He had served in M Squadron, the Maritime Counter Terrorism sub-unit, and life there was unpredictable and dangerous.
But that was then and this was now. Like it or not.
Hawke thanked Nightingale and returned to the room. He put the cokes on the table. Ryan had packed up the MacBook and was flicking through the TV channels.
“We didn’t pay for the porn option, sorry Rupert,” Hawke said.
“Very funny.”
“Listen,” Lea said, rubbing her temples. “I’m going to grab a quick shower before we head over to the museum.”
Hawke thought the two of them looked like they had been arguing.
“Do you need any help?” Ryan said, cockily.
“Those days are over, Ryan. You stay here with Joe and work on this.”
Hawke watched Lea pull out her hair-tie and close the door behind her.
CHAPTER SIX
Lea closed the door of her room and turned on the shower. Steam filled the bathroom as she took off her clothes and wrapped herself in a towel.
She hadn’t stopped since the shooter had killed Lucy Fleetwood back at the British Museum, and since then she’d been on a chase across London in a bus of terrified tourists and up the Thames on a speedboat. Avoiding talking to Ryan by pretending to be asleep for a few hours on the flight to New York was the last straw, and all she wanted to do now was relax for a while and freshen up.
She stepped into the steamy bathroom and dropped the towel from around her naked body to the floor. She felt the warm steam on her body, and while part of her knew it was good to be actually doing something besides guarding the old man, another part of her wished she was back in her flat in London just watching television and drinking wine.
Inside the shower she tried to wind down, but her mind raced with the events of the last few hours. She hadn’t seen Ryan for several months and had wondered if maybe he might have changed, but as soon as she saw him she knew he was the same person she had divorced, and with good reason. Was it the perils of marrying someone younger, she wondered, or had it really been all her fault?
As for the other guy – she had no idea what to make of him. He seemed to walk the walk, but between the jokes and the bravado she recognized the type from her days in the Irish Army. No, she wouldn’t go there, either. “Why is my life such a damned mess?” she whispered to herself, gently taking the shower gel from the shelf.
The soap ran through her hair and down her face. She closed her eyes tight to stop the suds from getting in and stinging, and that was when she thought she heard the hotel room door open and click shut again. Did she lock the door? Securing a room was an old habit, but she was just so out of shape these days, not to mention exhausted.
Then, the door to the bathroom opened, and she spun around to see the figure of a tall man entering the room. The soap stung her eyes, and she tr
ied to rub it away while simultaneously tracking the path of the man as he approached through the steam.
He swung open the door and lunged at her. Dressed in black, stubble. Not Ryan or Hawke. She reacted fast, but slipped on the water and fell over backwards, almost knocking herself out.
The man pulled a knife from his belt and thrust it forward. Lea screamed and lashed out, landing a solid kick in the man’s groin.
He doubled over reaching instinctively to protect his balls, but Lea’s army training kicked in and she grabbed the shower gel bottle and rammed it into his face, splitting his lip and ramming hard into the columella of his nose. Blood sprayed out into the tiny cubicle and over her naked body.
The man lurched back now reaching for his lip, cursing. He waved the knife blindly in the steam as she slipped out of the shower and into the hotel room. She tried to open the door but the man grabbed her arm and yanked her back onto the bed.
She screamed and punched the man in the throat.
He gasped and strained to suck air into his lungs.
She screamed again, and tried to bring her knee up into the man’s groin a second time, but this time he was ready, grabbing her knee and almost crushing it as he forced it to her side.
He gripped the knife and pushed it towards her throat.
Then the door smashed open. It was Hawke.
He grabbed the assailant by the shoulders and pulled him away from her, spinning him around and landing an eye-watering punch in his nose which gave away like papier-maché under the force of his heavy fist.
Lea scrambled to cover herself with the nearest thing to hand – the duvet.
The man staggered back until he struck the windowsill.
Hawke stormed forward, pulled his hands away from his broken nose, and hit him again, this time breaking his cheekbone. “Who sent you, you bastard?” he shouted. The man didn't reply.
So Hawke opened the door and pushed him onto the balcony.
The man, still in a daze from the vicious assault was helpless as Hawke picked him up in a fireman’s lift and then dangled him over the balcony. He screamed and flailed about like a rag doll in the cold wind.
“Who sent you?” Hawke shouted. “That right there is the last time I ask before dropping you on the street down there and turning you into a puddle of gravy, get what I’m saying?”
The man stared at the ant-like people and tiny toy cars driving along the street fifteen storeys below and got what Hawke was saying: “Vetsch. His name is Vetsch. Please don’t kill me, man. Not this way, man, please.”
“Who and where is Vetsch?”
“All I know is the name, Kaspar Vetsch – that’s it, I swear. I never met him, and I never saw him. He paid me to kill you all. That’s all I know.”
“You’re not very good at your job, are you?” Lea called out from inside the room.
Hawke pulled the man off the balcony and threw him back in the room. He scrambled to his feet and Lea thought he was going to run, but instead he picked up the knife a second time and made another move towards her, pulling the duvet off and lunging at her with the knife.
Hawke sighed, and stepped into the fight, tossing Lea a hand towel to cover herself and disarming the man in a second with a hefty downwards chop on his forearm. They struggled and ended up crashing into the bathroom where Lea could hear various grunts and punches and then the sound of breaking glass. She got up. Ryan stepped cautiously into the room.
“What’s going on?” he whispered. “When Hawke heard you screaming he told me to stay in the other room. I wanted to come, honestly.”
“Save it, you weasel.”
Hawke emerged from the bathroom rubbing his fist.
“Are you all right?” Lea asked.
“You should see the other guy,” Hawke joked.
“I could have taken him, by the way. You should have let me finish the job.”
“Sure,” Hawke said doubtfully.
“I guess this means we’re on the right track, at least,” Ryan said.
They peered in the bathroom. The assassin lay unconscious, face down in the shower, with the hot water running the blood from his broken nose down into the drain. “I guess his career as an assassin is all washed up,” Hawke said.
Lea ignored it. “So would you two just get out of here please! If you hadn’t noticed I’m actually completely naked apart from this ridiculous hand towel.”
“I noticed,” Ryan said keenly.
“Out!”
*
They took East Sixty-Fourth Street until Central Park and then turned right on Fifth Avenue which they followed all the way to the Museum Mile and then the Metropolitan Museum of Art itself, set in the east side of the park. A light snow shower began to fall and they started to wish they’d taken one of the many famous yellow cabs, but it was a short walk taking less than twenty minutes.
All the same, they were grateful to step off the cold street and into the heated building. “So this is where we start?” Hawke asked, casting a skeptical eye over the sheer size of the place.
“It’s our best chance,” Ryan said. “If we knew why these people wanted to find Poseidon’s tomb in the first place it would make things a hell of a lot easier.”
They explained to a security guard what they were doing and moments later Hawke saw someone approaching. “This must be our babysitter,” he said.
The young man walked across the imposing Great Hall with a spring in his step.
“Welcome to the Met,” he said cheerily, shaking their hands. “You must be the Eden Group?”
Hawke frowned. “I’ve never been called that before.”
“I’m Mitch McKay and I’m one of the curators here.”
“Nice to meet you, Mitch,” Hawke said, disappointed with the limp handshake – always a bad sign.
“I must say we were surprised to get a call from your Government but we’re only too happy to help in any way we can – especially if there is any kind of threat to one of our pieces.”
“Looks like an amazing place.” Lea looked at the vaulted ceiling high above them.
“Sure is,” Mitch said, beaming. “This was all built in 1902 and is some of the finest neoclassical design in the entire world. The façade is all limestone, you know. All absolutely priceless, naturally.”
Hawke nodded. “Naturally.”
“The department you want is on the first floor.”
“You mean ground floor,” Ryan said chippily.
“He means first floor, Ryan,” Lea said. “And stop being such a fool.”
“If it's on the ground level then it's the ground floor.”
“In America,” Mitch chimed in with a warm smile, “we call the ground level the first floor.”
“Yes, but that’s not logical because...”
“Enough, Ryan.” Lea elbowed him gently in the ribs.
Mitch steered them to the left and talked more about the history of the museum with so much personal pride Hawke wondered if he thought he owned the place.
“Well, here we are,” Mitch said at last. “This is the Greek and Roman Art section right here, and what you want is up on the mezzanine – up there. Please, follow me.”
They stepped into the large atrium and wondered among the many statues from the various ancient Greek and Roman periods. Mitch nodded his head in appreciation as if they were his children.
“Upstairs here is the mezzanine, and that’s where we keep the vases. Do you know which one to look for?”
“Yes. It’s one of a pair created in around 400 BC, we think. Poseidon and...”
“Poseidon and Amphitrite,” Mitch said. “I know it well. It’s one of my favorites.” He turned to Lea and lowered his voice, suddenly all business. “You know, what I wouldn’t give for the other half of that pair!”
“And where is the other half?” Hawke asked.
“Athens. National Archaeological Museum. A damned shame, if you pardon my French.”
“Consider yourself pardoned,” th
e Englishman mumbled.
They reached the top of the stairs and walked along the mezzanine. It was lined with six foot-high glass cases filled with ancient artifacts from plates and bowls to flasks and vases. Some even contained jewellery and weapons, and all lit by tiny ceiling lamps which shone bright white lights on everything.
“Here it is,” Mitch said.
The Poseidon Vase.
“Is that what all the fuss is about?” Hawke said dismissively.
The vase was less than a foot high, and not dissimilar from all the others in the room. It was a simple black and orange-red vase depicting a figure holding a fishing rod in the ocean.
Mitch said: “It's unusual because it’s rather late for the black-figure style.”
Hawke stepped forward. “Eh?”
“I’m sure you noticed,” Mitch began, “that some of the vases depict red figures on a black background, while others depict black figures on a red background.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lea said. “We noticed that.”
Mitch gave her a withering glance.
“This is what we call the bilingual painting style because of the red and orange. The red-figure style started around the fifth century BC through to the second century BC, while black figure was much earlier. This vase is black-figure, but dates to the fourth century BC. We have no idea why the Vienna Painter did it this way.”
“Fascinating.” Hawke looked at his watch. “Can we look at it now?”
“You are looking at it,” Mitch said.
“I mean really look at it. Hold it.”
Mitch looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure...”
“Open the case, Mitch,” Lea said, stroking his forearm. “For me.”
Behind Mitch’s back, Hawke rolled his eyes at Lea.
Mitch opened the case and handed Lea the vase.
She looked at the vase and handed it to Hawke. It was light in his hands and painted in a simple style to depict a black Poseidon sitting on a rock holding a fishing line which dangled into a black ocean.
“So this was one of a pair discovered on Crete in the eighteenth century?”