Skeletons in the Closet (Phantom Rising Book 2)

by Davyne DeSye

  “There is no reason to modify our plans, I presume?” the Persian asked.

  “None. This is why I did not tell you of her visit before we departed. I knew we would have time to discuss this en route, if you thought it necessary, and did not wish for delay. Also, I did not perceive of any immediate danger to you, friend. I hope you agree.”

  The Persian contemplated and said, “I may wish to change residences upon our return, which is unfortunate after my years of comfort, but is no matter of importance.”

  “I am sorry, Faraz,” Erik answered.

  “You did not purposely draw the little Sultana to my home,” the Persian answered. He pulled the satchel of maps from the floor beside his feet, withdrew a roll from within, and spread it upon his lap. “I do not suppose you have changed your decision to go through the Bosphorus Strait and Constantinople?” he asked. He did not seem to wait for Erik’s answer, but began looking to the map of the Russian Empire beyond the Black Sea.

  Erik and the Persian reviewed their travel plans in detail on the journey to Marseille. Having met the Sultana and now more fully understanding the danger to his mother from such an evil woman, Petter listened all the more intently to the plans. Even the cities they passed en route to Marseille – Dijon, Lyon, Avignon – cities which, with his earlier sense of adventure, he had longed to see – no longer intrigued him. For the first time, he appreciated his father’s need to get to Mazenderan with all possible haste. His father’s earlier statements of the dangerous nature of the person holding his mother did far less to persuade Petter – who could not comprehend such things – than mere minutes in the presence of the Sultana had done.

  Once in Marseille, they proceeded to the docks, and received a comprehensive tour of the ship Erik had purchased. Erik praised the crew for their thorough preparations, and granted them all leave to go about town for the next several days. He even declined the offer – a wise offer to Petter’s thinking – to have several of the men remain to guard the ship and its inventory.

  “We shall stay on the ship ourselves,” Erik answered, quite to Petter’s dismay, for he had thought they would either embark immediately, or, should delay be necessary, to take a room in town with all the pleasant amenities it might offer.

  “We have work to do,” Erik said as the last of the crew departed, apparently reading Petter’s disappointment on his face. “Gather my tools, if you would.”

  That night and the following day were filled with strenuous labor. Petter was glad of the strength and stamina he had earned through his work as a stonemason, although in the instant case, they worked only with wood. He assisted his father in creating invisible trap doors from one cabin to another, from the floor of a cabin to the hold below, and in two cases, crafting storage boxes so that they appeared full of linens and other sundries but contained a space under the linens in which a person might hide.

  “Why…?” Petter began as they started work on another trap door.

  “Give me no whys or wherefores, Petter. Time is short, and we must away,” his father answered, huffing as he drew a short saw through a plank.

  Petter broached the subject again with the Persian when he paused for a meal. “Mr. Akhtar, why is Father…?”

  “Constantinople,” the Persian answered. “He tells me I worry for no reason, and yet takes these precautions.” The Persian barked a short laugh.

  “Perhaps he takes precautions so that there will be no reason to worry,” Petter answered, partially in defense of his father, and partially because this was very likely his father’s reasoning. He asked no more questions.

  They were soon underway, the crew unaware of the various modifications Erik had made to the ship.

  Once at sea, Erik began what looked to be a rough architectural rendition of a large and complex building. Petter thought it to be a distraction, an activity in which his father engaged to pass the time. Several of the dimensions were intriguing, and Petter bent over the sheet.

  “What are you drawing?” Petter asked, thinking to engage his father into a further distracting conversation.

  “The palace in which I believe your mother is being held,” Erik answered. Petter’s eyebrows raised, but he said nothing. Erik lifted the top plan to show a different floor. “This is the dungeon level,” Erik flipped the page on which he had been working back to its place, and said, “but I am attempting a re-creation of the entire palace plans, as I may have need…” His voice trailed off as he tilted his head and examined what he had drawn, then erased several lines and redrew them.

  “You designed this?” Petter said. “You built this?”

  “Yes,” Erik answered.

  “A palace,” Petter murmured in awe. He examined the plans he had thought a creative fantasy, and tried to imagine creating something of similar scope – and even more, of re-creating such plans from memory after an absence of decades. He examined the placement and proportions of the rooms and of the great halls and hallways, and then too, of what were obviously secret passages interspersed so as to give no indication from within the various rooms or hallways that such passages existed. After long minutes, Petter sighed and moved to sit on a bench at some small distance from where his father worked.

  Petter had been trained in his craft by his father, and had come to believe that he knew enough of the craft to be both artist and technician, that he would someday create amazing structures. He was a novice, despite all the praise of Mr. Evans and even Lord Pendleton, and would never achieve his father’s talent. He said as much to his father, although he was not sure, with Erik’s concentration, that he was heard.

  Erik pulled the straightedge further along the line he had been drawing, and continued the line. He dropped his pencil to the table, and placing his hands at the small of his back, stretched backward.

  “Nonsense,” Erik said, straightening again, a frown furrowing his brow. “Come, you will spot certain mistakes I made.” Disconsolate, Petter roused himself, and moved toward his father.

  “Here,” Erik said, pointing. “What would you have done here?” Petter examined the plans and, to his amazement, did see the error his father indicated. He explained the simple correction that would economize the lines and spaces.

  “Yes, and tell me what else you see.”

  Petter bent to scrutinize the plans, and saw again to his amazement – now that he was critically examining the grandiose plans – that there were several other areas in which he could suggest improvements.

  “But, Father,” he said, ashamed to find that he did feel somewhat bolstered by the discovery of small errors to the plans, “I could never have designed all this to begin with, so it is of no consequence…”

  “Again, nonsense!” Erik answered. “It is simply that the English do not have this level of imagination, not that you couldn’t exercise your own should the situation require. The Persian Shahs and Sultans think on a grander scale. Honestly, what could you do with unlimited funds in unlimited space, under a demand that you build to the fullest extent that your talent and poetic sense could create?” Erik looked back to the plans and said, “You would not have made the mistakes I made when I was your age.”

  Petter stood, wanting nothing more than to embrace his father for the praise, but hesitating to interrupt the man who again was leaning over the unfinished plans. He was not at all convinced that his father’s praise was deserved, but he cherished it, nonetheless. He spent the rest of the evening memorizing all he could of the plans his father painstaking reconstructed, knowing he may well need the information for his mother’s rescue. He slept that night, dreaming of fantastic palaces that included all manner of spaces and opulence and frivolity.

  ***

  It was not until the ship had traversed the Dardanelles and entered the small sea of Marmara and they were surrounded by the Ottoman Empire that anything occurred of more import than eating, sleeping and studying the plans. Erik and the Persian argued over whether the Persian should take to hiding once they began entry
of the Bosphorus Strait. (Petter thought it ironic that the argument was over whether the Persian should hide after all the dire warnings that it was Erik himself who would be in danger traveling through Constantinople.) The Persian conceded once Erik recalled Naheed’s admonishment. There was no knowing what obstacles the Sultana might have placed in the way of the Persian’s passage through the Empire. The crew would state without hesitation that the ship contained an all-French crew and three French nationals as traders, and while this was true, the Persian would be too readily recognized from any description the Sultana might have provided.

  “And if we are searched?” Faraz asked. “How is it that you and Petter will divide yourselves to become three? Or have you a crewman ready to pose with you?”

  Erik laughed, and said, “You must trust me, Faraz. I tell you, there will be no danger.”

  “You and your need for mischief,” Faraz answered.

  Thereafter, Faraz sequestered himself in his cabin, prepared – although not without some complaining – to lock himself into the bottom of the disguised box of linens.

  Petter’s curiosity and worry brought the inevitable question. “What shall we do if we are searched?” he asked Erik.

  “We have all the necessary paperwork describing you as Pierre Nouveau, myself as your father, Erik Nouveau, and our companion as Jacques Martin.”

  “And who shall play the part of Jacques Martin?” Petter asked.

  “Do not worry yourself. You will recognize Monsieur Martin, should the need arise.”

  Petter grimaced at his father’s amused look and knew he would obtain no further information. He decided to put the puzzle out of his mind. He was convinced, given the quiet nature of their voyage thus far, that there would be no trouble in passing by Constantinople. For this reason, he was quite alarmed when the cry went out that a ship was approaching from Constantinople, and even more alarmed when it became obvious they were to be boarded.

  “Father, what shall we do?” Petter asked, when Erik returned from assisting the Persian into his box.

  “Everything will be fine. Do not become alarmed when I become ill and retire to my cabin,” Erik answered.

  “Are you ill?” Petter asked, but his father winked, and seated his mask at the neck where it entered his shirt.

  “Come with me to greet our boarders,” Erik said, and led the way to the deck.

  Several Persian soldiers stood on the deck, armed, but not yet wielding their arms. One soldier stood speaking to the Captain, but with little effect, as the Persian did not speak French, and the Captain did not speak Persian. Petter was not surprised when Erik feigned ignorance of the language. There was some delay as a young soldier who spoke French was brought from the Persian ship. The translator explained that they were searching for rebels – members of the “Young Turks” threatening to overthrow the Sultanate – and that all ships passing through Constantinople were being thus searched.

  Erik stepped forward weakly and announced himself the lead merchant of the expedition. he wiped his brow several times and brought his hand to his mouth to deliver a wet belch – a sound Petter had never heard from his father in all their years together. Erik apologized to the translator, saying that he was feeling quite ill. He bowed to the leader of the soldiers, and presented their papers. When this did not calm the air of suspicion that enfolded the Persian leader, he bowed again and invited the men to search the ship. Erik and Petter both led the way to the lower level, which contained the sleeping quarters, accompanied by several soldiers and the translator. All the while, Erik pressed at his stomach, and wiped at his brow, and again, bringing his hand to his mouth, apologized for his illness.

  Petter’s knees became weak in their sockets when Erik led them to the Persian’s cabin. Erik entered, saying, “This is my cabin.” He went to a small wardrobe and flung the doors open and opened the box in which the Persian lay buried. He rushed for the water bowl, and gave such a convincing demonstration of vomiting that Petter wondered if his father had somehow poisoned himself to achieve the result. The soldiers and the translator gave only the most cursory look about the cabin before excusing themselves.

  “Go with them Pierre,” Erik said, standing and wiping at his mouth. “See that they have everything they need.”

  “Yes, Father,” Petter answered. As he closed the door, he heard again the sound of his father’s quite convincing sickness. He led the men to his own cabin, that being the next in line. He stood aside as it, too, was searched. When they left his cabin, the sounds of illness could still be heard from the first.

  Not knowing what to expect, and finding his own brow covered with perspiration, Petter went to the door of Erik’s cabin and knocked.

  “Come in!” came a deep timbered voice from within. After a brief hesitation during which Petter’s mouth opened and closed again, he opened the door.

  There, in a mask Petter recognized from his father’s packing case, sat Erik. Petter was too stunned to say anything, but stepped into the room to permit the entry of the Persians.

  “What is meaning of this?” Erik asked.

  Petter hesitated before answering. “These men are searching for Turkish rebels,” Petter answered, adding belatedly, “Monsieur Martin.”

  “Rebels?” Erik answered. “Good gracious.” Standing and puffing his chest out, he said, “We are hiding no rebels here. We are a trading vessel. Surely this was explained to you.”

  The translator stepped forward, and looking at the papers he still held in his hand, he said, “You are… Jacques Martin?” He pronounced the sibilant at the end of the first name.

  “Indeed,” answered Erik, puffing himself up to even greater proportions.

  “We will be just a moment more, Monsieur,” the translator added, clearly intimidated by the loud man he faced. “We have no wish to disturb you in your mission, Sir.”

  Erik maintained his ground, looking irritated as his room was searched.

  The translator turned to Petter and said, “We need only search the men’s berth and your hold.”

  “I will lead you,” Petter answered.

  “Be certain nothing is taken, Pierre!” Erik bellowed to his retreating back.

  In the cramped hallway, Petter again heard the sound of vomiting from the Persian’s room.

  “Your father is quite ill,” the translator said, as his eyes darted toward the far cabin. He looked green with sympathy.

  “Yes, apparently so,” Petter answered. He stifled the nervous laugh that threatened to escape as the sound of another bout of illness came from behind the small door. Petter smelled a faint odor of illness in the hall and wondered if his father’s mystifying illusion extended to scent, or if it was just his imagination. Petter did not envy the guard stationed to maintain watch in the hallway, for between the sound and the odor – imagined or not – Petter’s stomach churned in discomfort.

  The men completed their quick but thorough search. Erik, in the person of a pale and still weak Erik Nouveau emerged from his cabin, and stood with Petter to oversee the disembarkation of the soldiers. Petter supported his father as they went below deck. He fought the irrational concern that his father was truly ill, so convincing was the act, and only overcame his concern by reminding himself that in the disguise of Jacques Martin, he had been quite well.

  Once below deck, Erik said, voice still weak with illness, “We must see to Faraz.” Petter led the way to the Persian’s room, as his father followed, supporting himself against one wall of the corridor. Once inside the room, Petter locked the door, and turned to watch his father lower himself into a chair.

  “Father?” Petter asked, approaching with a rising level of alarm.

  “A moment, son,” Erik answered, and then shook himself as a dog might shake water from his pelt. Inhaling, he stood, smiled, and said, “I believe I was rather convincing.” In two strong strides he was at the linen locker, lifting out linens and pulling at the latch that would reveal the hidden Faraz. Petter watched without help
ing, amazed at the illusion of the two very different men presented by his father in the space of two moments.

  Faraz emerged, bending his neck to and fro as if to relieve a crick and brushing with some irritation at his suit pants.

  “The boarding party is gone, I presume?” he asked. He moved his hand to his head as if to adjust a cap that was not there, and then smoothed at his sparse hair.

  Erik smiled his triumph.

  “Mr. Akhtar, you would not believe what father did,” Petter started. He heard his own amazement and admiration in his voice.

  “I would believe anything of this incorrigible man,” the Persian answered, his irritation at his confinement still coloring his tone. “I can see from his self-satisfaction that he enjoyed another of his mischievous pranks.”

  Erik laughed, and patted the Persian on the shoulder before seating himself on the bunk. “Yes, yes. I was quite the genius,” Erik said, eyes twinkling with merriment. Sitting forward and regaining a level of seriousness, he continued. “Faraz, my friend, we shall soon conclude our travels and arrive in Mazenderan. There the true danger arises. I do not believe Naheed will have alerted the Shah to my imminent arrival – it would spoil her plans – but may have alerted him to yours. Are you certain you do not wish to give me what information you can, perhaps the names of people you can trust to be of some assistance, and then abandon this journey?”

  The Persian maintained his sour grimace, and then his face softened. “No, Erik. I will not abandon you – nor Christine. I have come this far. My country beckons in my memory, and,” the Persian brushed at his coat front and straightened to stand as tall as he might, “my honor demands I assist the plight of even the most frivolous of my friends.”

  Erik laughed again, and this time the Persian joined in the laughter. The laughter was reprised that evening at dinner when Petter was permitted the opportunity to tell of Erik’s diversion of the soldiers.