The Song of Eleusis

by Phil Swann

  The Counsel was against it, saying it was too risky. They weren’t wrong, but it was a risk that had to be taken. The fate of Europe was at stake. Besides, she refused to spend the rest of her life hiding under a bed. “No,” she told them, “I will not be rendered impotent.” She was going to do the job she’d been chosen to do, the job she knew she could do better than anyone else. “Was sein wird, wird,” she said. “What will be, will be.”

  But as headstrong as Isabella was, she was also not a fool. She had doubled her usual security team. She had even gone so far as to hire her own private security from one of the most prestigious firms in Brussels. Day and night, twenty-four hours a day, more than a dozen armed professionals were within milliseconds of her heartbeat. Her daily itinerary was a closely guarded secret. All food preparation was performed by long-trusted chefs. Only confidants with whom she had long-standing relationships got instant meetings—all others had to be fully vetted and then vetted again by her private security. As it stood, Isabella was certain she was one of the most protected humans on Earth.

  And tonight’s flight was no different. The Gulfstream G650 was the safest and most advanced private business jet in the air; it was also the fastest. The two powerful Rolls-Royce engines were designed to hurl its passengers across the sky at nearly the speed of sound. This model, specifically chosen by Isabella herself, was outfitted with the most advanced aeronautical technology in aviation. It had enhanced vision systems including heads-up displays and a synthetic vision flight display. Its cockpit was equipped with a Triplex Flight Management System, an automatic emergency descent mode, 3-D weather radar, and advanced flight controls. In short, the private business jet was very nearly an F-16 fighter without the weaponry. And that was exactly what Isabella had in mind when she approved its purchase four months ago.

  As the aircraft climbed through ten thousand feet, Isabella reclined in her seat and looked out the window. It was a clear, moonless night. The lights of the beautiful city below sparkled like glitter on a quiet lake. The cabin was silent except for the hum of the engines and the occasional exchanging of words by the two bodyguards seated behind her. Everything is going to be okay, I can do this, she told herself. Then Isabella closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  At zero-hundred-fifteen GMT, flight 00-LFG departed Belgium National airport. At zero-hundred-thirty GMT, it reached its cruising altitude of forty-one thousand feet. Belgocontrol tracked the aircraft’s route out of Belgium airspace and over the English Channel until handing it off to the Flight Information Region at Prestwick Centre in Ayrshire, Scotland. The Gander Oceanic Control Centre in Newfoundland picked up 00-LFG at zero-one-hundred-twenty GMT. A few minutes later the flight control center at Gander radioed flight 00-LFG that it was losing altitude. At zero-one-hundred-twenty-six GMT, flight 00-LFG disappeared off the radar somewhere over the North Atlantic. The wreckage has yet to be found.

  »»•««

  Nasarawa State, Nigeria

  Eighteen months after the assassination

  It was a sight not uncommon to the ancient land: trenches dug in vertical rows, twine laid out in perfectly symmetrical grids, tents, shovels and sifters scattered everywhere; it was a typical archeological dig. Typical, except the only sign of life was a rusty ’88 blue Land Rover and a solitary figure sitting in a trench digging frantically.

  The floppy canvas hat holding Dr. Ellie Scotes’ dark auburn hair off her shoulders was drenched in sweat, as was the red bandana covering her mouth and nose. All that was visible of Ellie’s face were her eyes—large, deep green, and filled with determination as she brushed away thousands of years of time covering the artifact buried deep in the earth. The six weeks she and her team had spent on this cliffside had already yielded remarkable results. Ceremonial drums, gongs, and wind instruments from the lost Nok civilization had been collected in record numbers. Initial carbon dating of plant matter embedded in the instruments set the age of the site possibly as far back as 1500 BC. That alone was a revelation, confirming the Noks were a far more mature civilization than anyone had previously posited. But her team had also unearthed nine iron furnaces, which flew directly in the face of established science that said iron smelting this far south of the Sahara wouldn't exist for another eight hundred years. Ellie knew if the initial tests held up, this would be the oldest complex sub-Saharan civilization ever found. She also understood it would firmly establish her as the go-to girl when it came to music archaeology, a moniker most ethnomusicologists would savor. For Ellie, however, it was only a moniker. It didn’t make the hot air any cooler or the digging any easier.

  Ellie glanced at her watch and saw almost two hours had passed since she had ordered her team off the mountain. Word had come that rebel forces were quickly moving across the savanna and into the central hill region. The capital was on the verge of collapse, and the evacuation of all westerners was strongly recommended. Ellie wasted no time in getting her team out, insisting that she alone would stay behind to shut down the dig and secure the site for future excavation. Risk was part of the job, exposing that risk to a bunch of kids working for college credit was another story. It's not that she thought of herself as a female Indiana Jones, she didn't. In fact, she deplored the stereotype. She held strongly to the belief that archeology was a methodical science, and a professional never puts a dig above the safety of herself or the team. But as was often the case, archeologists did find themselves in parts of the world where safety was an issue, and safety was indeed an issue in this part of the world. Nigeria was an amazing country. But for more than half a century it had been plagued with chaos, corruption, and brutal violence, a fact Ellie clearly understood when she embarked on the expedition.

  Ellie stopped digging and pulled down her bandana. She reached for her canteen and took a long drink. This is going to be big, she thought, gazing out over the savanna. But it was, of all things, frozen yogurt she was thinking about when she noticed a small cloud of dust billowing in the distance. She grabbed her binoculars and focused them on the anomaly. Trucks were fast approaching. “Bloody hell!” Ellie said, throwing down the binoculars. She returned to her specimen and began brushing faster, but after a few moments, she realized what she had to do. Ellie dropped the brush, stood up, and grabbed a shovel. “Forgive me,” she said, digging into the ground. The dirt moved, and the object lifted like a cork. She reached into the hole and placed her hands beneath the artifact. Dirt fell away as she pulled it from the ground. “What the—” Ellie mumbled, wiping away the loose dirt. It was nearly seventeen centimeters high from its body to its end. It had two arms, curved outward and connected near the top by a crossbar. A remnant of its original gold color was still partially visible through the dirt. Ellie knew exactly what it was. What she couldn’t comprehend was why it was in Nigeria. And, even more baffling, how was it so perfectly preserved.

  There was no time to consider the matter further as gunshots from AK47s echoed across the savanna. Ellie looked through her binoculars again. The dust cloud was getting bigger. Her immediate concern had to be getting off the mountain. She wasn't sure if the rebels would kill her on sight or just take her hostage, but either way she had no interest in sticking around to find out. She hurriedly wrapped the artifact in bubble wrap, secured it with duct tape, and then gently placed it in the passenger seat of the Rover, fastening the seatbelt around it as if it were a toddler.

  The old Land Rover rattled like a bag of spoons as it lurched down the mountain and over the rocks rutting the dried-out riverbed. Ellie jerked the shifter, causing the battered gearbox to grind before settling on an appropriate cog. “Damn it!” she yelled as the front wheels plowed into a crater, slinging her to one side and ripping the steering wheel from her grip. She reached for the object, making sure it had stayed put. It had. Without stopping, she repositioned herself in the driver’s seat and retook hold of the wheel. She stomped on the clutch and threw the 3.5-liter V8 into second. The old SUV whined but eventually bolted out of the ditch. Ellie wheeled th
e vehicle behind a crag and into a gully, out of view of the rebels. She waited to see if they would pass. They didn't.

  Ellie threw the car into gear and spun out onto the open savanna. Gunshots instantly blasted from behind. She looked in her rearview mirror and saw a small Toyota truck on her tail. Armed men stood upright in the bed taking aim over the cab. Before she could steer out of their sights, the rear window of the Land Rover exploded. Ellie ducked as shattered glass spewed into the backseat. She jerked the steering wheel hard left and then to the right, attempting to be a more challenging target. It worked. The gunfire continued, but none hit its mark. Then she saw it. A thousand meters to her left was the A234, the main artery leading to Abuja, Nigeria's capital city. If she could make it to the paved road, she might have a chance. The Land Rover was old, but it still had more horses under its bonnet than the rebels had in their Toyota.

  Ellie turned the wheel and made a beeline for the road. Her heart sank when she saw another truck off her right flank on an intercept course. They had her. She had seconds to make a decision: barrel on and take her chances through a barrage of semi-automatic gunfire, or surrender and pray they wouldn't kill her, or something worse, and she knew without a doubt there was a something worse.

  Just as she was about to slam the accelerator to the floor, she noticed the rebels in the vehicle behind her were now firing on the converging truck. “What the hell?” Ellie muttered. Then it came to her. These weren't anti-government rebels. They were bandits. Highwaymen. Two rival gangs vying for a hostage. A white woman alone on the savanna was most likely employed by one of the big oil giants from the west. In their minds that meant a payday, but to get that payday, they would need to show proof of life. That meant killing her was the last thing they wanted to do. That had to be true. At least, that's what she hoped was true.

  Ellie veered the Rover toward the converging vehicle, putting everybody on a collision course. It was a dangerous game of chicken, but Ellie knew it was her only chance. Gunfire whizzed by her, the two gangs shooting past Ellie and at each other now. She was the monkey in the middle, and her belief that they wouldn't want to kill their meal ticket didn't take into account that these idiots might do it by accident. The shoulder of the A234 was only a few meters away. She glanced in the rearview again and saw the Toyota behind her was slowing, steam billowing from its hood. She suspected its radiator was Swiss cheese. One down, one to go, she said to herself.

  She slowed as she neared the shoulder of the highway, eventually coming to a stop on its soft edge. She didn't move a muscle as the other truck rolled up on her. The bandits were so close she could see their faces. “Not yet, not yet,” she whispered as the Toyota came to a stop. The men in the truck bed lowered their weapons, convinced their prey was totally disabled.

  Ellie seized the opportunity. She turned the wheel hard to the right and floored it. The Land Rover's rear tires spun, producing a wall of burnt rubber and throwing dirt and gravel into her would-be abductors’ faces. The stunned bandits lifted their rifles to fire, but their driver floored it as well, resulting in throwing the shooters completely out of the truck. Ellie watched in her rearview mirror as men tumbled onto the asphalt, cursing at the driver. A few errant shots were fired in Ellie's direction, but they didn't even come close. By the time the attackers could reposition and take aim, Ellie was long down the road and well out of range.

  »»•««

  A large black man stepped from the passenger side of the Toyota and watched the SUV disappear over the horizon. He removed a cell phone from his shirt pocket and pushed the call button. “She has it and she is safe,” he said, wiping away the sweat from his forehead as he listened. “My pleasure,” he replied with a toothy grin. “You know I’m always here for you.” He shut off the cell phone and turned to the other men milling around the road. “Well done, boys. Beer's on me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ben sat on the floor and stared blankly into space. It was all gone. The exquisite second floor study was now just an attic again; no leather chairs, no expensive crystal decanters, no first edition books on the shelves, or fine art on the walls. Even the Steinway and vintage guitars were gone. All that was left was a lamp and a few errant audio cables strewn about where recording gear once sat. Beyond that it was, as the rest of the house, empty. Much like Ben himself.

  This would make one hell of a country song, Ben thought, draining the last bit of liquor from a bottle of Jack Daniels. He set the whiskey down and stretched out on the floor. “Maybe it’s finally over,” he said. “God, let it please be over.” He closed his eyes and considered the last year and a half of his life. It had all been a blur of one insane event after another, a blur that had left him a hundred years older and broke. Completely broke. The legal costs had been beyond anything he could have imagined. Surprisingly, protecting himself when it came to the FBI investigation had been the least of it. What really wiped him out was the endless string of civil suits that followed. Groups with names like Americans for Justice, and Republicans in Remembrance, lined up to extract their pound of flesh from the man they believed responsible for their president’s death. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that “their president” was “the man’s” brother, and that perhaps, just perhaps, he felt the loss on a level they couldn’t even imagine. The suits were completely without merit but had to be defended against nonetheless. Then, when news leaked about the notorious party and how D.J. had arranged to keep his name out of it, it was game over. A whole new batch of lawsuits came at him. These suits were not so erroneous, and his legal team strongly advised him to settle. And so he did, the last one agreeing to money and terms two hours ago. But at least maybe now the nightmare was finally over.

  Ben’s cell phone chirped, pulling him out of his thoughts. He sat up and looked at the caller ID. As he expected, it was Paul making his customary check-in call. Ben silenced the phone, letting it go to voice mail. Good ol’ Paul, he thought. If there was ever a walking definition of the word mench, it was Paul Welker. His friend had been the only person throughout the entire ordeal who never wavered with his support. Even when everybody on The Row was telling him to drop Ben Lambros like a bad habit, Paul ignored them. “As long as I got a job, you got a job,” Paul assured him more than once. Eventually, however, Ben knew what he had to do even if Paul didn’t. He wasn’t taking his best friend down with him. When he asked to be let out of his contract, Paul wouldn’t hear of it. “We got into this together, and we’ll go out together.” He only convinced him otherwise by telling him he needed to be out of his contract because of all the lawsuits coming at him. “Otherwise,” he told Paul, “they’ll go after my copyrights.” It wasn’t true, but it worked, and Paul begrudgingly agreed to let him out of his deal. That might be the most decent thing I’ve ever done, Ben told himself.

  Ben grabbed the bottle of Jack for another swig and was reminded it was empty. “Well, this won’t do at all,” he said, sliding the bottle across the cavernous room like a hockey puck. Three minutes later, he was out the door and in the car.

  Gone was the Porsche. Instead, Ben now rolled down Old Hickory Road in a 2002 forest green Honda Accord. It was a far cry from the 911, but it did have its advantages. One, it didn’t require a second mortgage to service, and two, perhaps its biggest asset, as far as Ben was concerned, was that it was about as showy as wallpaper paste. When everything went crazy, the press and paparazzi were on him day and night. He couldn’t go anywhere without looking in his rearview and seeing a motorcade of vermin following him like he was a steak dinner. It didn’t take long before Ben had had enough and decided he needed to be a bit more incognito in his means of transport. It didn’t get more incognito than an old Honda Accord, and that made it perfect. The nine hundred bucks the kid on Craigslist was asking for it didn’t hurt either. Ben offered the youngster fifteen hundred if he promised to keep his mouth shut about whom he sold it too. The kid promised and, as far as Ben could tell, had kept his word.

  Ben turned into
Ray’s Carryout and turned off the engine. He glanced in his mirror just as he opened the car door, and then stopped. Wasn’t the car pulling in behind him the one he saw on the side of the road at the bottom of his driveway? As he watched the car pull into a parking space on the other side of the lot, he considered the possibility he was being paranoid. If he was, then he needed a drink more than he thought. If he wasn’t, it meant some lowlife pap was following him again. He waited to see if anyone got out of the car. They didn’t. He waited a bit longer, but still no one got out. He knew that could mean anything. Maybe the driver pulled over for a rest. Or it was a couple engrossed in a deep conversation. Or maybe someone needed to stop and return a text or call. Or it could be a slimy photographer wanting a picture of the once great songwriter turned murder suspect, Ben Lambros, buying a bottle of booze. He knew there was only one way to know for sure.

  Ben started the car, pulled out, and headed back down the road at a steady speed. Less than a mile later, the car was behind him again. “Okay, asshole, one last benefit of the doubt,” Ben said, sitting up straight and positioning both hands on the wheel.

  He knew the back roads of Nashville like a simple C scale. He knew, for instance, a couple of miles ahead was a service road the Army Corp of Engineers had built to have easy access to the levies around the Harpeth River. Ben also knew the road led to nowhere. If the car followed him down that road, he would know for sure he was being tailed. He had also decided what he was going to do if that turned out to be the case. Enough was enough.