The Twelfth Ring

by Sam Clarke

  A part of me wanted to come clean, but I was undeniably keen to have a good snoop around. Something on his bed caught my eye. Sticking out from under a pillow was the same fat phone that Viggo was holding when Knut rang. I picked it up – dark, bigger than normal, with thick buttons and a retractable antenna. ‘Is it charged?’ asked Isabelle expectantly. ‘I’m nearly out of credit and my father won’t top me up.’

  I pressed a few buttons. ‘Completely flat. What’s so special about it?’

  ‘It’s an Iridium.’ In her world brand names were self-explanatory. Apple, Calvin Klein, Iridium, McDonalds… I was none the wiser. She enjoyed her moment of superiority. ‘Noah Larsson, you truly are clueless.’

  ‘We only have fifteen minutes. Can you skip the insults and get straight to the explanation?’

  She spoke slowly, as if I was a complete idiot, which she probably thought I was. ‘An Iridium is a satellite phone. It’s much sturdier than the average smartphone and can be used pretty much everywhere because it uses satellites, instead of phone masts, to get a signal. There are four handsets on Valhalla and whenever they ring, it’s some sort of emergency.’

  ‘Are they more secure than standard smartphones?’

  ‘The Valhalla ones are. They’ve been programmed to bounce over a number of satellites, making them very hard to trace, but you haven’t heard it from me. By the way, they don’t float. Last month your father threw one overboard in a fit of rage and it sank like a stone.’ She squinted her eyes and focused on the wall behind me. ‘That’s curious, my dad has the exact same picture hanging in his study.’ She walked up to the photo of our fathers and the horse. ‘It was taken in Jordan. They look quite young, don’t you think?’

  ‘There’s a date stamp at the bottom.’

  She peered at the tiny orange print. ‘Oh yes, 15th August. Can’t read the year.’

  She giggled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

  ‘Your father picked the hottest, most torrid time of the year to go to Jordan.’

  ‘Maybe your father picked it.’

  She gave me a knowing smile. ‘C’mon Noah, by now you’ve figured out that Magnus is the one calling the shots.’

  I had indeed figured out an unofficial hierarchy. Knut was top dog and my father was reporting directly to him. Miguel ranked slightly below dad and Viggo answered to everyone – including the door and the phone. I couldn’t place Ariel, he seemed to be his own agent.

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered what the hell is going on with our fathers,’ she continued in a provoking tone.

  Our friendship hadn’t made it past the trial period yet, so I took the defensive route – fight a question with a question. ‘Have you?’

  She didn’t answer, too busy pulling the wall apart. ‘How cute, baby Noah with mummy and daddy. Hey, you never said your mum was pretty!’

  ‘I never knew she was,’ I muttered.

  She handed me a battered picture that I had never seen before. Mum was smiling, properly, and my father was holding a tiny version of me in his arms. I had hardly seen any pictures of the first two years of my life. Mum and I had moved back to England soon after the divorce and the removal company had conveniently misplaced the computer containing our photo files which, inexplicably, she had failed to back-up.

  ‘There’s something on the back,’ said Isabelle. I turned the image over. She read the smudged one-liner aloud. ‘“Noah’s second birthday – Happy Times.”’

  My response was full of bile. ‘Yeah, very happy! That’s the year they divorced!’

  I plonked myself on the corner of the bed, eyes glued to the picture. I simply couldn’t comprehend how we could be a happy family in December and two completely separate entities less than seven months later. Isabelle sat next to me and studied the image. ‘If you like it, you should keep it,’ she said, as if it was hers to give away. ‘I won’t tell.’

  ‘Was it under many layers?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t take it personally. I think they’re in some sort of chronological order. If you keep digging, you’ll find Magnus on his first day at school.’

  I looked her in the eye. ‘Thank you.’

  She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She usually did it when she was embarrassed. ‘For what?’

  ‘Trying to cheer me up.’

  She pushed more hair behind her ears and got to her feet. ‘Let’s pick a different cabin, this one’s a nightmare.’

  I nodded and slipped the photo into my pocket. I doubted my father would notice it was gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Valhalla’s new surveillance system had to be up and running by the end of the day. The security experts – nine ex-militaries vetted by Ariel in person – were fighting against time. Judging by their collection of scars and missing digits, they had met worse enemies. With Ariel busy supervising the security upgrade, Isabelle and I had been left to our own devices. As a result, our social media pages were updated in real-time. Ironically, not being in school seemed to have made me more popular. People who had routinely ignored me in the past were suddenly keen to be friends with someone who lived on a cool frigate. Cressida had commented on one of my photos and suggested we should catch up when I got back to London. My heart skipped a few beats. I immediately made a beeline for the mirror. The daily physical training had added some definition to my body. I was nowhere near Viggo’s sculpted appearance, but I was fitter than I’d ever been. I also had a half-decent tan, but my sun-bleached hair was in desperate need of a cut. All in all, I wasn’t totally dissatisfied with my appearance. I didn’t look like the pasty schoolboy who had left London two weeks before. I was just as lost, but at least there had been a mild improvement in the looks department.

  Valhalla was swarming with security experts, but we decided not to cancel our diving lesson. Our first confined dive was two days away and we desperately needed to revise. Hope had reserved the pool of a nearby hotel and, as far as I was concerned, the dive couldn’t have come fast enough. Viggo was itching for it too – with Isabelle and I fully submerged, he would get to enjoy Hope’s undivided attention for a couple of hours. I was learning about BCDs (Buoyancy Control Device) and SPGs (Submersible Pressure Gauge) when his I-pad pinged. He removed his sunglasses, concentrated on the message and scrunched his face. He gave Hope a longing look and jumped off the gunwale. If something could tear him away from my diving instructor, it had to be pretty amazing. I earmarked the paragraph I was studying and trotted after him to my father’s cabin. Dad, eyes closed, was sitting on the floor in the Lotus position. He hadn’t cracked a smile since our confrontation, but had been forced to address me on a couple of occasions and had been civil enough. Viggo cleared his throat. The Lotus opened a suspicious eye.

  ‘Carbon dating,’ said Viggo, ‘the results are back.’ He handed over his tablet. ‘Not what we expected.’

  My father threw me a fleeting glance, focused on the screen and frowned. ‘It can’t be! Do you trust your source?’

  ‘Completely,’ said Viggo. ‘It’s Miguel’s research team back in Paris. They ran the test twice just in case, but it produced the same result.’

  I was filled with curiosity from my toes to my scalp. ‘What is it?’

  My father handed me the I-pad. A brief email from the Sorbonne University stated that the map strip they had analysed dated back to 1315 AD. A full report was attached. ‘It’s medieval,’ I said.

  ‘It is,’ said my father pensively.

  Viggo continued. ‘The less conclusive tests we ordered agree with the dating provided by Miguel’s team. We’re still waiting on palaeography, but I wouldn’t expect any major revelations, there wasn’t much to work on.’

  I briefly wondered if they had switched to Swedish. ‘Palaeo-what?’

  ‘Palaeography,’ said my father. ‘It’s a technique which can be used to date historical documents. It’s more of an art than a science, but I like it. It consists of analysing handwriting while taking into account the
writing methods and cultural context. It ultimately relies on the ability of the expert, so it’s very subjective. Who did you contact?’

  ‘Professor Madison, at the Smithsonian,’ replied Viggo.

  ‘Professor Linda Madison?’ asked my father.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Viggo. ‘She came highly recommended, but she’s taking her time.’

  Dad sighed. ‘We’ll be at the bottom of her pile. I stood her up on Valentine’s Day two years ago to investigate the sighting of a sea serpent and she hasn’t spoken to me since. Anyway, where were we? Ah, yes 1315 AD…’

  I was mystified by their lack of enthusiasm. ‘I thought the scroll being authentic would be good news,’ I said.

  ‘It is,’ replied my father. ‘Pity it precedes the sinking of our ship by a few hundred years. According to official records the Nuestra Señora de Begoña sunk in 1605.’

  He intertwined his hands behind his head and searched the ceiling for divine inspiration. Or cobwebs. ‘What do you think, Noah? How can someone draw the resting location of a ship which hasn’t yet sunk?’

  It was the first time he had ever asked for my opinion. For a nanosecond, I felt like a man. I cleared my throat and hoped not make a fool of myself. ‘Well, it boils down to two options. Either the map is a good hoax drawn on an old parchment, or there are two Nuestra Señora de Begoña.’

  He nodded in agreement. ‘We need to start over. We were hunting for a very specific Nuestra Señora de Begoña, now we must do some digging for her older sister. Viggo, show Noah how to run a basic search. He’s part of this treasure hunt, he should start helping out.’

  I gaped. Given my earlier outburst, I had assumed that my days on Valhalla were numbered. ‘Seriously? Am I still in?’

  ‘I made you a promise, didn’t I?’

  ‘And you’ll stick to it? Even if I bit your head off?’

  He sank his blue eyes into mine. ‘I never break a promise, Noah. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you’ll get to know me.’

  I wanted to hug him, but it didn’t strike me as a manly thing to do, so I settled for an idiotic grin that would have made the hug utterly dignified.

  CHAPTER 12

  Viggo and I set up our workstation in one of the empty cabins and began our hunt for the 1315 Nuestra Señora de Begoña. So far, we had agreed that she had to be Spanish and guessed that her voyage must have started from somewhere in Europe – the Americas hadn’t been discovered until much later. The Ship Wreck Registry website was a dead-end and Viggo was contacting similar organisations in the hope that their archives would offer better leads. I was going through a list of major medieval Spanish ports, but very few were able to provide records of the vessels which had moored there in the distant past. At first, we had refused Isabelle’s demands to join our project, but she had unleashed a tantrum of epic proportions. In the end, we had to cave in for her own safety: her outburst had pushed Ariel to the limit and he had threatened to throw her overboard. On the jetty side. Her victorious smile disappeared the moment she walked into our cabin – she would be expected to work and I already occupied the seat next to Viggo. He handed her a list of minor Spanish ports. She was supposed to call them and find out if they were operational in medieval times. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said three minutes into her tedious task. And huffed. And puffed. Viggo and I exchanged resigned looks. Our boring but peaceful haven had been forever shattered.

  My father barged in without knocking. He and mum had something in common after all. ‘Any developments?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Viggo.

  ‘You’re hopeless.’

  Viggo glared at him. ‘We’re going as fast as we can, but it’s kind of hard when you don’t know where to look.’

  Dad chuckled. ‘Sorry, bad joke. I couldn’t resist. I meant that Hope has left. She asked about your star sign, but couldn’t have cared less about mine. Anything going on between you two?’

  Viggo gave him a cheeky grin. ‘Not yet.’

  Isabelle wasn’t strong enough to snap her pencil in half, but she came scarily close. My father surveyed our work area and sighed. ‘This is taking too long. Let’s try something bolder.’

  Given the last twenty-four hours, I wasn’t sure there was any boldness left within me, but I leaned back and waited for him to announce his master plan. He rubbed his hands together, eyes glinting with excitement. ‘How do you feel about going to a monastery?’

  As a single teenage boy, utterly devastated, but I forced myself to see the bright side: I still hadn’t found the right time to ask him about Knut and the dreariness of a monastery could have provided the perfect opportunity. Viggo’s voice derailed my train of thought. ‘You mean the monastery where the map was found? It isn’t exactly around the corner.’

  ‘I know,’ said my father, flicking through my list of medieval ports, ‘but it beats ringing every harbour master in Spain.’

  I stared at him in total disbelief. ‘You actually know where the scroll comes from?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Buying black-market items without enquiring about their provenance would be utterly idiotic.’ He sat on the corner of the desk and started re-braiding his beard. ‘The map was recovered in the library of an ancient monastery, hidden inside a medieval book. Given the mix-up with the dating, I would like to take a better look at it. I have already spoken to Brother Felipe—’

  Isabelle frowned. ‘Brother who?’

  ‘Brother Felipe,’ replied my father. ‘The monastery’s abbot.’

  Viggo winced. ‘I know the intermediary tried to rip you off, but approaching sellers directly is a serious breach of black market etiquette. If word gets out, your reputation will be tarnished.’

  ‘One more stain won’t kill me,’ said my father, matter-of-factly. ‘Anyway, Brother Felipe claims that the intermediary acted alone. He never authorised him to double-cross us.’

  ‘And you believe him?’ I asked.

  ‘Not sure. He was reluctant to discuss anything over the phone, but he has agreed to meet us in person and show us the book.’ He handed Viggo a Post-It note. ‘Here’s Brother Felipe’s number. Make the travel arrangements and call him to confirm a time. We’re too many for one car and I want us to travel together. Get a people carrier.’

  #

  Three hours later, we climbed into our newly rented minivan. My father adjusted the position of the driving seat and frowned at the dashboard. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Viggo. ‘I did ask for a people carrier with a cassette player, but they don’t make them anymore.’

  Dad sighed, crestfallen. ‘It’s fine, as long as we don’t play Placido Domingo.’

  Miguel quietly returned his Placido Domingo CD to the front pocket of his backpack. My father turned the key in the ignition. The minivan was a big upgrade from his truck and even had working air-con. The movement made me drowsy and I slid into a dreamless sleep. When I woke up, the outline of a small hangar stood out against the horizon. We drove through a guarded barrier and parked in front of a Learjet 75. My jaw dropped, was the eight-seater plane our ride? I would have pinched my arm, but Isabelle had already done it for me. ‘I’m so telling my friends about this!’ she gushed, before pinching me again, which was totally unnecessary.

  We clipped into our seats, the pilot carried out his safety checks and, flight plan in hand, came to my father. ‘Is the destination unchanged?’ he asked. ‘I’d rather know now than in mid-air.’

  ‘No changes,’ confirmed my father.

  The pilot nodded. ‘We’ll be leaving shortly. All phones and electronic devices must be switched off during take-off and landing.’

  There was a flurry of gadgets. My father retrieved his phone from the side pocket of his seat. I was right next to him and couldn’t resist a quick peek at the screen. My blood ran cold – twenty missed calls from Knut. He showed it to Viggo, muttered something in Swedish and powered it off. The pilot returned to his cabin and taxied the Learjet to the take-off strip.

  CHAPTER 13

&nbs
p; I had never expected the monastery to be in another country. After a short flight, we touched down in a small airport in the Yucatán Peninsula. Mexico was either very welcoming or very lax, because no-one came on-board to check our papers. A non-branded airport car met us on the landing strip and whisked us off to a waiting minivan, similar to the one that we had rented in the Bahamas, and also lacking a cassette player. Viggo took the wheel and typed some coordinates in the navigator. We were off to San Alejandro, an old catholic monastery on the outskirts of San Juan. ‘When will Brother Felipe see us?’ I asked, glancing at the stars outside my windows.

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ said my father, putting his phone on silent and chucking it in the glove compartment. ‘We’ll spend the night at El Castillo, San Juan’s finest hotel, and head for San Alejandro after breakfast. Viggo got us a great last-minute deal.’

  Learjets and finest hotels? I spent the rest of the journey feeling like the premiership footballer that I would never be. And then we reached El Castillo. I groaned inwardly, Isabelle outwardly. San Juan’s finest hotel was shabby and dated. Its walls seemed infected by a deadly virus which forced them to shed their own paint and it was hard to tell if the reception desk had been left temporarily unattended or permanently abandoned. Isabelle pushed past me and made for the bell sitting on the counter. Her manicured hand hit it a couple of times. ‘Garçon?’

  Great, we were in a dump in San Juan and she behaved as if she was at The Ritz in Paris. Her haughty command went unanswered. She attacked the bell again, relentlessly. A creaky door announced the arrival of our receptionist, who didn’t even bother to greet us. Either her parents wanted a boy or she was wearing someone else’s badge because her name tag said “Manolo.” She sat behind the check-in desk and threw some registration cards in our direction. They were stained with overlapping coffee circles. Viggo reached for a chewed pencil and began completing the proxy-coasters. ‘We have a reservation under Magnus Larsson,’ he said. ‘Three adjoining rooms with bathroom.’