Herculean (Cerberus Group Book 1)

by Jeremy Robinson

  Fiona recognized what lay beyond from their visit earlier in the day, a gallery of sculptures, some of the pieces life-sized and dating from the late Hellenistic and early Roman periods. The sculpted likenesses of gods and mythical heroes represented the tail-end of Crete’s history, at least as far as archaeologists like Pierce were concerned. The museum contained antiquities dating back more than seven thousand years, to the Neolithic period, long before the rise of Classical Greek civilization.

  Most of the collection in the twenty-one exhibition rooms of the Heraklion Museum was dedicated to the Minoan culture, which had not only dominated the island of Crete but much of the Mediterranean up until about 1200 BC. Then their society vanished so completely that, by the time of Alexander the Great, the Minoans were remembered only in myths, a forgotten kingdom. One contributing factor had been the catastrophic eruption of a volcano on the nearby island of Thera—the largest volcanic event in recorded history, an order of magnitude greater than the eruption of Krakatoa in 1883. Many scholars believed that the Minoan culture had been the inspiration for the legendary Atlantis, described in the dialogues of Plato as a highly advanced but arrogant civilization, wiped out by angry gods in a single day.

  Although later civilizations had occupied the site of the ancient Minoan capital, it remained buried until 1878, when the ruins of the ancient palace of Knossos were found, just three miles from the site of modern day Heraklion. More than a century later, archaeological excavations continued to shed new light on the Minoan culture, and it was one such discovery that had attracted the attention of the Herculean Society.

  Fiona knew much of this from her own studies, but strolling the galleries with Pierce that morning, he had been unable to resist the urge to lecture, and he had filled in the gaps. He was silent now, communicating only with hand signals. He pointed to an opening in the center of the far wall. Fiona nodded and crept through the gallery to the arch that led into the adjoining room. She edged out, looking and listening for any signs of the roaming watchman. When she detected nothing, she turned back and signaled a thumbs-up to Pierce, who was checking out the doorway in the opposite corner. He returned the signal and then motioned for her to join him.

  The room beyond the doorway contained relics recovered from the ruins of Phaistos, a Minoan palace thirty miles away on the south shore of the island. The artifacts were arranged in simple glass display cases, with very little supplemental interpretive information. Most of the pieces were simple—bits of pottery, tools and jewelry. Irreplaceable items to be sure, but with very little intrinsic value, which no doubt accounted for the sparse security measures. But there was one artifact in the room that was truly unique. The reason for their after-hours ‘visit.’

  The Phaistos Disc was mounted in a circular metal bracket that reminded Fiona of a two-sided swivel mirror, secured behind panes of glass in a free-standing display case, in the center of the room. The artifact was a pancake-flat circle of glazed and kiln-fired clay, almost six inches in diameter, decorated on both sides with a series of symbols that spiraled from the center.

  Almost from the moment of its discovery in 1908, in the basement of the Phaistos palace complex, the Disc became one of the greatest mysteries in archaeology and language studies. The symbols, forty-five distinctive pictograms, arranged into different ‘word’ combinations, were the source of the mystery. The pictograms, which were very similar to Egyptian hieroglyphs and depicted the shapes of people, animals, plants, tools and weapons, formed a message of some kind. Some believed it was an ancient zodiac horoscope or a child’s board game. Some even believed it was of Atlantean origin.

  For more than a century, all attempts to decipher the message had been unsuccessful. There was no way to know for sure if the images on the Disc even represented a real language. The meaning of the symbols was so perplexing that a few embittered researchers believed that the Disc was a twentieth century hoax. But in late 2014, a team of scholars led by Gareth Owens, a linguist working at the Technological Educational Institute of Crete, announced that they had cracked the code, using the Minoan Linear A script along with Mycenaean Linear B to identify several keywords. The working hypothesis was that the Disc contained a prayer to a Minoan mother goddess.

  Yet while the mystery of the message had been solved, what could not be explained was the uniqueness of the symbols themselves. Each of the pictograms had been stamped into the soft clay using carved seals, one of the earliest known instances of typographic printing. Some ancient craftsman had carved the forty-five seals, used them to create the Disc, and then evidently destroyed them so they could never be used again. The symbols on the Phaistos Disc were unique, appearing there and nowhere else.

  Or so it was believed.

  Fiona knew differently.

  They closed in on the display, and Pierce shone his red light on the keyhole of a cabinet lock, which was partially concealed in the base of the display. Fiona selected the appropriate tools from the pick kit and went to work on the lock. It took less than two minutes for her to defeat the simple mechanism, and this time she double-checked for an alarm before opening the case.

  Pierce moved the beam of his light to the shadowy interior of the display, illuminating the Phaistos Disc. It looked so ordinary, a slightly irregular pat of clay, like a grade school art project stamped with what looked like decorative images. It was hard to believe that something so ordinary could be so mysterious, and potentially dangerous.

  Fiona reached a hand in and grasped the Disc between thumb and forefinger. She eased it from the bracket and brought it out. Pierce took the artifact from her, and then proffered something with his other hand: an exact replica, created using 3-D molecular printing technology, precise down to the microscopic level. A scientific analysis of this duplicate disc might reveal it to be a fake—or it might not. The technology at the Herculean Society’s disposal was truly that good—but because such a test had never been conducted on the real McCoy, no one would suspect that a substitution had been made. The assumption would be that the infamous Phaistos Disc had been a hoax all along.

  With equal caution, Fiona reached back into the case and placed the duplicate where the original had been. She made one final adjustment, rotating the bogus disc a degree or two, then closed the display while Pierce slipped the authentic Disc into a cloth pouch, which he then stowed in a small satchel slung over one shoulder.

  Behind her black ski-mask, Fiona allowed herself a satisfied smile. They had done it. Now all they needed to do was relock the display case and get out without—

  Her smile died along with the hopeful sentiment as she caught a glint of white light, reflected in the glass pane. She looked up just as the source of the light, a flashlight in the hands of a uniformed man, appeared in the doorway. Then it shone right into her eyes.

  3

  Pierce gave the end of his MagTac a quick twist to remove the red filter cap and aimed the naked light directly into the face of the startled watchman. The man flinched, throwing his hands up and looking away, too late to prevent temporary blindness. The high intensity LED bulb would leave him seeing bright green spots for the next few minutes.

  Pierce grabbed Fiona’s shoulder. “Run.”

  He sensed her hesitation, so he gave her a shake to snap her out of her paralysis. “Remember the plan.”

  The exhortation broke the spell. She whirled around and bolted for the exit. Pierce was just a few steps behind her, but as they reached the door, he slowed and glanced back at the guard. Despite being unable to see, the man stumbled through the maze of display cases, intent on pursuing them. Pierce checked to make sure that Fiona was still moving toward the door, and then he turned back toward the night watchman, sweeping the room with the beam of the MagTac to make sure he had the man’s attention.

  The ‘plan’ Pierce had spoken of, which had been worked out in detail during their earlier reconnaissance, was simple. In the event that they were discovered, they would split up and leave the museum by differe
nt routes to confound pursuit. Because she had no experience with such things, Fiona accepted the plan without protest. This break-in was, after all, her baptism by fire. It was her first taste of what being an agent of the Herculean Society really meant.

  As missions went, this one was pretty tame, but even so, allowing Fiona to accompany him and get her feet wet had been a tough decision for Pierce. She was an adult now, in both the legal and literal sense of the word. Old enough to vote and enlist in the military, old enough, as she all too often reminded him, to make long-term life decisions for herself. Nevertheless, she was still young and immature, and more importantly, she was Pierce’s responsibility, which meant that if anything happened to her—if she was caught and arrested, or God forbid, injured—it would be on his head. The fear of what might go wrong hadn’t been enough for him to leave her behind, though, especially since she was eager to take on greater responsibility. But that did not mean Pierce would throw all caution to the wind.

  Some discreet inquiries had revealed that the museum utilized only one watchman for the night shift. He walked the galleries and manned a security station at the locked front entrance. Because there was no way to completely eliminate the possibility that the guard might stumble upon them, they had rehearsed several egress routes. The escape plan hinged on giving the guard two targets to pursue, each going in a different direction. Pierce, however, had not told Fiona the whole plan—specifically, his part of the plan. After splitting up, it was his intention to draw the guard after him, to give Fiona the best possible chance for a clean getaway. Unfortunately, he was the one with the Phaistos Disc, which meant that if he was caught, there would be hell to pay.

  He definitely had the watchman’s full attention. The man cursed loudly as he collided with a display case, rattling pieces of three-thousand-year-old pottery off their shelves, but he managed to keep his flashlight trained in Pierce’s general direction. Pierce moved along the wall of the gallery, toward the opening in the corner that led to another room, but he didn’t turn and run until he was certain the guard would follow.

  The next room contained artifacts from other major Minoan palace sites, but Pierce kept his focus on the spaces where there were no relics on display. There was an arched opening to his left, and the archway ahead led to the gallery where treasures from the Stone Age were exhibited. Beyond that room lay the entry foyer and one possible exit from the museum.

  He glanced back and glimpsed the dancing beam of the watchman’s flashlight only ten steps away.

  Okay, maybe this part of the plan is working a little too well, Pierce thought, returning his gaze forward. No more fooling around.

  He flicked off his light and sprinted toward the lobby. The museum was not pitch black, but the abrupt absence of illumination from the MagTac made it seem that way. Pierce knew that there were no obstacles ahead but he had to fight an almost primitive urge to slow down and grope in the darkness like a blind man.

  Once he reached the relative openness of the lobby, he hooked left, away from the main entrance, which was too close to Fiona’s exit. He darted through another gallery full of Minoan antiquities, making a beeline for the stairwell on the other side of the room.

  He risked a glance back as he veered toward the stairs and saw that his lead on the security guard had shrunk to just a few steps.

  This isn’t working, he thought. Change of plans.

  As he ducked into the stairwell, Pierce grasped the central handrail and vaulted over it like an Olympic gymnast. He felt an abrupt strain in his forearm as his forward momentum stretched the limb, but then like the business end of a bullwhip, he was flung around 180 degrees, right into the path of the watchman.

  At the instant of collision, Pierce curled into a fetal ball, protecting his head and vital organs. His shoulder caught the unsuspecting guard squarely in the chest, and the man was driven back as if hit by a wrecking ball. The impact sent Pierce flying as well, but because he was prepared for it, he recovered quickly, regaining his feet and whirling around to mount the stairs.

  Beneath the knit weave of his ski-mask, Pierce was grinning like an idiot.

  Growing up, he had not exactly struck an ideal balance between intellectual and physical pursuits. While the dream of being a two-fisted adventurer like his hero, Indiana Jones, had set him on the path to a career in archaeology, he had avoided athletic pursuits and focused on academic excellence, which had made him a top-notch professor but a piss-poor action hero.

  Fortunately, since taking the directorship of the Herculean Society, he had been working to correct that deficiency, with a regimen of exercise and mixed-martial arts training. It was slow going, but evidently it was possible for an old dog to learn a few new tricks.

  He bounded up the stairs, shaking out the mild pain in his shoulder. As he rounded the landing, he saw no sign of pursuit. The watchman was either still recovering or knocked out cold. Pierce’s elation faltered a little as he considered the possibility that he might have seriously injured the man.

  Nothing you can do about it now, he told himself. Focus on the mission.

  The mission.

  Burglary and brawling weren’t the only new tricks he’d had to learn since taking on his new role as the leader of the Herculean Society.

  As an archaeologist and a historian, he had been committed to advancing the cause of knowledge. Only by learning about the past could mankind chart the course to a better future. Or so he had always believed. But experience had taught him a lesson that no textbook ever could. Some secrets needed to stay buried.

  Six years earlier, this point had been driven home when the truth he had wanted so badly to discover had nearly cost him his humanity.

  Ultimately, only the intervention of the Herculean Society had saved him. Alexander Diotrephes had pulled him from the brink. Only later would Pierce learn another astonishing secret: Diotrephes was the immortal Hercules, and he’d created the vast organization, which had literally rewritten history over the course of thousands of years. Pierce had made a career of uncovering history, but it had now become his job, his mission, to conceal it. The old saying about being doomed to repeat history if you didn’t know it, wasn’t always true. Sometimes the only way to not repeat history was to have no idea it had ever existed.

  The second floor of the museum was laid out in a sideways H-shape. The gallery where Pierce now found himself formed one side of the H, with stairs at either end. Two parallel rooms bisected the exhibit hall and provided access to the rooms that comprised the other side of the H. There was an emergency door in the far corner of one of those rooms. The only problem was the door alarm. He could use the induction field generator—his black box—to fool it, but that would take time.

  The alarm!

  Pierce’s guts twisted into a knot of dread as he realized that Fiona would be facing a similar problem, and without the black box to help her. He imagined her standing in front of the door through which they had entered, wondering what to do. This was something that had not come up during their rehearsal.

  Damn it. I screwed up.

  He briefly considered trying to send Fiona a text message, acknowledging the problem, but it occurred to him that there was a more direct way of communicating with her. He just hoped she would be able to interpret the message.

  He ran headlong through the galleries, following the illuminated signs to the emergency door, but he did not take out the black box. Nor did he slow down. Instead, he hit the door at a full run.

  A piercing siren shattered the deceptive stillness. A moment later, a second alarm joined the shrieking symphony.

  Fiona had received the message: Screw the alarm. Just go for it.

  Now it was time for him to do the same.

  Ignoring the commotion, Pierce flipped on his flashlight and scanned the corridor in which he now found himself. An illuminated arrow on an overhead ‘Exit’ sign pointed the way to a door marked in both Greek and English with the words: Fire Stairs.

  He weig
hed his options. The fire stairs would be the most direct path to freedom, but that also made it a dangerous choice. Would the guard be waiting for him to emerge? Were the police already on their way?

  Too risky, he decided. But maybe there was another way out of the building. He dashed down the corridor, checking each door until he found one marked with the word:

  Roof.

  Perfect.

  He twisted the doorknob but it refused to turn. Locked.

  Damn. Not perfect.

  Fiona still had his pick set, though even if he’d brought a spare, there probably would not have been time for him to mess around with the lock. There was a reason he had allowed her to use the picks earlier, and it wasn’t to give her more experience. She was a natural with locks, faster and smoother than he would ever be.

  Fine, he thought. There were other ways to deal with locked doors.

  He drew back a step, lowered his shoulder and started to charge…but then stopped short. Bashing down doors always looked easy in movies, but something told him that real life might not be so accommodating. A second look at the door revealed three sets of hinges; the door opened toward him. He could have thrown himself against it all night long and the only thing he would have to show for it would be a bruised shoulder.

  He glanced back down the corridor. The stairs were starting to seem like a much better idea.

  Okay, if I can’t pick the lock and I can’t break it down…what can I do?

  There was a sliver-thin gap between the door and its frame. With a blade, or even a credit card, it might be possible to jimmy the lock open, but he had neither.

  Note to self. In the future, always carry a knife.

  What he did have was the black box device, and that was almost as good as a blade. He took it out and placed it against the door, between the knob and the strike plate, and then hit the button to activate the induction field. There was a click as the electromagnet engaged and pulled the device tight against the metal. Something moved against his shoulder, and before he could even think to be surprised, he felt something strike the back of his hand.