Midas Code (3 page)

FOUR

T
yler liked the sense of duty, purpose, and camaraderie of the military, but he could do without the threat-of-death part, which was one of the reasons he’d left for civilian life. He took calculated risks, as when he raced cars or worked with explosives on a demolition project, but that was because he was in control. This situation was definitely not under his control.

“I’m back,” the man on the other end of the phone said. “Had other business to attend to. You there, Locke?”

“I’m here,” Tyler said as he descended the ferry’s stairs to the vehicle deck. “Why do you want me to disarm a bomb
you
put on the ferry?”

“I need someone with your skills for a special job, but before we get started, I need to make sure you can handle it.”

“A job?” Tyler said. “Why didn’t you just hire me?”

“Consider this task your interview. The clock is ticking, so you better get moving. Before you go to the truck, put the keys in the glove box of that little red sports car of yours. Leave it unlocked.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, and I’m the one with the bomb. Just do it.”

“I’m on my way,” Tyler said. “So if we’re going to be talking to each other on this job, what should I call you?”

“You might be getting ahead of yourself. We could be working together for just the next twenty-two minutes.”

Tyler set his watch to synchronize with the time he had left. “I’m the confident type,” he said, though he felt anything but. Bombs were tricky in the best of conditions. Tyler didn’t know what this guy’s game was, but he didn’t sound stupid.

“I think you’re more cocky than confident,” the man said. “You’ll know what to call me as soon as you get in the truck.”

I already have some ideas about what to call you, Tyler thought. Why do I attract all the crazy people?

He reached the vehicle deck and went to his Viper, tucking the keys in the glove box as ordered. Looking forward from his position at the stern, he could make out several trucks, which were usually boarded first. He trotted in that direction.

Tyler saw the truck marked
SILVERLAKE TRANSPORT
and angled toward it.

“So what do I have to do?” he asked.

“The instructions are taped to the fridge. It’s all written down for you. Well, not you, but you’ll see what I mean. And remember, no police. I have my eyes and ears on you, and I’ve got a remote detonator, so get busy and behave yourself. Ferry goes boom if SWAT arrives or life rafts start popping over the side.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll know if you’re successful. If you are, I’ll give you a call back. If not, you’ll go down with the ship.”

The man hung up.

Tyler reached the back of the truck and ran his hand under the left wheel well. The key was there, just as the guy had said it was.

He looked around, but apart from an elderly woman walking her dog he was alone.

The key fit the padlock, and Tyler slid the door up carefully. He didn’t think the guy was planning to have the bomb triggered by this, but he checked just in case. Nothing.

Tyler pushed the door just high enough to squeeze in. If there really was a bomb in here, he didn’t want one of the deckhands to see it and sound the alarm.

He thought he was going to have to leave the door open for light, but two lanterns were lashed to the sides of the interior. He switched them both on and closed the door.

Boxes were piled on a sofa, a couple of chairs, and a table. In the middle sat an icebox, one of the old models with a latch. A manila envelope was taped to the front of the door. Tyler examined it and, when he was sure it was safe, tore it away and ripped it open.

The envelope held one page. Tyler pulled it out expecting instructions on what to do next.

The sheet may have had instructions, but they weren’t much help. The numbered paragraphs weren’t written in English. Although Tyler couldn’t read the words, he recognized the letters immediately. He had never been in a fraternity, but he’d used all the letters in equations while earning his engineering degrees.

The page was written in Greek.

Tyler scanned the text to see if there was any hidden code or some other message for him. He searched for a formula, something that would help him defuse the bomb, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. Given how much the guy on the phone knew about Tyler, he would have learned that foreign languages weren’t exactly Tyler’s strength. He could order a beer and ask where the bathroom was in French and Spanish, but even that was pushing it.

The man had mentioned that the instructions weren’t written for him.
Then who were they written for?

He racked his brain trying to come up with someone he could call to translate the document, but he was interrupted when the truck echoed with the sound of pounding on the rear door. Tyler froze.

“Is someone inside?” he heard a woman’s voice say.

“I’m okay,” Tyler said, thinking that a crew member was checking on him. “I’m just repacking some items that came loose.”

“Open the door.”

Twenty minutes left. He didn’t have time for this, but ignoring her would just bring more attention than he wanted. He’d get rid of her quickly and focus on how to get the document translated.

He pulled the door up expecting to see someone dressed in the crew’s crisp blue uniform. Instead, he saw a petite woman in her thirties dressed in a black leather jacket, jeans, and stylish but functional boots. Shoulder-length blond hair framed her face, and light makeup accentuated high cheekbones and pillowy lips. It was a no-nonsense, attractive look.

Tyler recognized her immediately. Stacy Benedict, host of the television show
Chasing the Past.

He didn’t know where to begin, other than to say, “What are you doing here?”

The woman had been appraising Tyler as much as he had been studying her, and his abrupt demand made her pause. “A man told me someone would be waiting inside this truck for me.”

“Did he have a gravelly voice?”

“That’s him. But he didn’t mention it would be you.” So she remembered Tyler from his appearance on her show. No need for introductions.

The instructions are taped to the fridge
, the man on the phone had said.
It’s all written down for you. Well, not you, but you’ll see what I mean.

“You don’t happen to read Greek, do you?” Tyler asked.

Stacy’s look told him that the question sounded as ridiculous to her as it did to him, but her answer made it clear that it seemed ridiculous for another reason.

“I have a PhD in Classics,” she said. “Of course I know Greek. Why?”

He gave her the piece of paper. “That’s why.”

As she read it, Tyler could see the blood drain from her face. But she didn’t panic. No screaming. No crying. Instead, her face contorted with barely contained fury.

She looked up from the page and said, “Where’s the bomb?”

FIVE

S
tacy boosted herself into the truck. As Tyler closed the door behind her, she read the first line on the sheet again. It was typewritten in modern Greek with awkward phrasing, as though it had been translated from another language by a free Web service. But she got the gist of it.

There is a bomb in the truck. Work with this man to deactivate it. If you don’t accomplish your task, both you and your sister will die.

Only an hour before, she’d been packing for her morning flight back to New York when she received a call from an unidentified man claiming to have kidnapped her baby sister, Carol. Upon seeing the video of Carol bound and gagged, Stacy unleashed a tirade of obscenities so withering that the caller had to calm her down just to tell her what he wanted her to do.

His only command had been to board the 8:30 ferry to Bremerton as a walk-on and wait for further instructions. She’d allowed herself five minutes to react after he’d hung up, but all that came was a fit of shaking. She wasn’t a crier. Neither was her sister. Except for her parents’ funerals, the last time she could recall real tears was when their dog, Sparky, died. She was fourteen and Carol was twelve. Stacy supposed their fortitude had something to do with growing up as the only children on a working Iowa farm.

But that toughness didn’t mean she was a loner. At least now she had a partner in this mess, even if it was a man she barely knew.

Stacy had met Tyler Locke only once, nine months ago, when she had interviewed him for her show that investigated ancient mysteries around the world. He was a big get after his rumored involvement in finding Noah’s Ark. Before the interview, he made it clear that he wasn’t happy being in the spotlight, explaining that his boss had arranged the appearance over Tyler’s objections. In spite of his reluctance, Tyler was naturally engaging when he talked about the engineering of centuries-old mechanisms and could have been a regular if she had been able to persuade him to return.

He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, which made him perfect for TV. His tan face showed just a bit of weathering, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, but he didn’t have any deep lines on his forehead, so he wasn’t into his forties yet. He was over six feet tall, brown hair, blue eyes, with a jagged scar down the left side of his neck. The wind-breaker, khakis, and hiking boots were professional but casual.

“What does it say?” Tyler asked. “We have less than twenty minutes.”

Stacy examined the paper. The first four lines were in modern Greek, but the rest was in ancient Greek. Not too dissimilar from the modern form, but the punctuation and all caps made it harder to read.

“The refrigerator door has a trap,” she said. “To disable it, flip the switch on the lower part of the door.”

Tyler knelt and ran his hand under the door. “Got it.”

“You should be able to open the door.”

He pulled the latch and inched the fridge open.

All the shelves had been removed from the interior. A clear plastic barrel filled with a grayish powder took up the bottom two-thirds of the interior. The barrel was topped by something covered in canvas, and a drawstring pouch hung on a hook next to it. An LCD timer stuck to the front of the barrel counted down. Nineteen minutes were left.

Wires from the timer snaked into the barrel. They terminated at a device nestled into the powder. Another set of wires disappeared into the covered object.

“I’ve never seen a bomb like this on TV,” Stacy said. Her heart was hammering, but her voice was even. Going to pieces wasn’t going to help her sister.

“There’s a detonator in the powder,” Tyler said. “The powder is a binary explosive.”

“Could it be a fake?” She remembered his credentials from the interview because they were so unusual. He had been a captain in an Army combat-engineering unit, and one of their responsibilities had been to dispose of IEDs.

“Can’t be sure, but I don’t think so,” Tyler said. “And if it’s real, there’s enough to blow a car-sized hole in the deck.”

“So that’s bad? You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.”

He gave her a wan grin. “Seemed like you could handle it.”

She forced a smile in return. “I’ll freak out later.”

“I’ll join you. What’s next?”

She read the third item on the sheet. “Carefully remove the canvas covering.”

The canvas was tied at the bottom with twine. Tyler loosened it and pulled the cover off to reveal a gleaming bronze box one foot tall and six inches wide.

Stacy moved closer to get a better look. The box had two dials on the front, but it wasn’t a clock. As far as she could see, the hands weren’t moving and the dials were ringed with Greek lettering, not numbers. Each dial was divided into twelve segments and labeled with words spelling out signs of the zodiac. Two small control knobs were attached to its left side.

The object looked brand-new, although its design was definitely not modern. The box was clearly the endpoint of the wires, but she had no earthly idea why it was connected to a bomb.

“What the hell is that?” Stacy said to herself. She was surprised when Tyler answered.

“It’s a replica of a device designed by Archimedes. It’s called a geolabe. Like an astrolabe, but for terrestrial instead of astronomical use.” She could tell that he wasn’t guessing. He plainly recognized it.

She gaped at him. “How do you know that?”

He fixed her with a grim stare. “Because I’m the one who built it.”

SIX

T
he parking spot along the beach in West Seattle provided a beautiful view of Puget Sound. Jordan Orr would be able to watch the ferry until it turned past Bainbridge Island for the final leg into Bremerton. If the ship made it that far. The bomb was set to go off long before then.

In the passenger seat of their rented SUV, Peter Crenshaw trained binoculars on the ferry, now visible as it passed the north tip of West Seattle.

“If Locke doesn’t disarm the bomb in time,” Orr said, “you won’t need those to know.”

“I’m just checking the deck for unusual activity. Making sure he hasn’t sounded the alarm.”

“He won’t. By now he knows that I meant everything I said.” A jogger approached, and Orr couldn’t tell if she was watching them because she was wearing sunglasses. “Put those down before someone notices. No one’s going to think we’re bird-watching.”

Crenshaw put the binoculars on the seat next to him and went back to monitoring the two video feeds on his laptop. The first was from the camera hidden in the visor of the truck.

The second feed was from the back of the truck. Orr watched Stacy Benedict reading the instructions he’d created while Tyler Locke removed the drawstring pouch, opened it, and poured out the contents: fourteen pieces of a puzzle created more than two thousand years ago.

“How did he sound?” Crenshaw asked in an irritating whine. “Think he can do it?”

“I have faith in Locke,” Orr said. “He’s the best at what he does, and he’s the only one who can help us accomplish our mission.”

“And if he can’t?”

“Then Washington’s going to need a new ferry.”

Orr leaned over to check the GPS tracker and saw that it was operational. It showed the truck in the middle of Puget Sound, right where it was supposed to be.

He caught a whiff of body odor from Crenshaw and rolled down his window. Crenshaw was a skilled bomb designer, but his personal hygiene was atrocious. Given his scruffy beard and greasy hair, Orr wouldn’t be surprised if the pig hadn’t showered in a week. His belly protruded as if he were smuggling a beach ball under his T-shirt, and flecks of powdered doughnut dusted his chin. The man disgusted Orr, but the alliance was necessary.

Orr had trolled Internet sites for months disguised as an anti-tax radical until he met Crenshaw in an underground chat room devoted to rants about the US government. Crenshaw was an electrical whiz whose penchant for building sophisticated pipe bombs got him kicked out of college. He escaped prison on a technicality, but his social inadequacies made him unemployable. Crenshaw still lived in the basement of his mother’s home in Omaha, nursing his hatred of Uncle Sam.

Orr and Crenshaw had started sending private messages about what they could do to strike a blow for the common man. After he’d gained Crenshaw’s trust, Orr suggested that they get together at some property Orr had rented in upstate New York. Orr even paid for Crenshaw to fly out. Together, they shot guns, and Crenshaw showed off by building bombs with materials Orr provided. Shortly after that, Orr had presented his plan to Crenshaw, who readily agreed to participate. The two million dollars Orr promised him had made the decision easy.

As Crenshaw grabbed his sixth doughnut, Orr shuddered at the man’s lack of self-control. Orr couldn’t understand how someone could let himself go like that. Crenshaw had never lacked for food or shelter or a comfortable lifestyle, no matter how much he belly-ached about the government screwing him over. Orr had been through hardship Crenshaw couldn’t imagine, but he didn’t dwell on it. There was only one person he could rely on, and that was himself.

Ever since his parents died when he was ten, Orr had been on his own. Until then, his parents had lived lavishly and spoiled their only son. He’d had everything he could possibly want: a huge house, any toy he asked for, private school, vacations to Europe and Hawaii. But one night his father, an investment banker, crashed into a bridge abutment near their home in Connecticut, killing both himself and Orr’s mother instantly.

The police found no skid marks and his father’s foot was jammed against the accelerator, so the deaths were ruled a murder-suicide. The life-insurance company paid nothing on his father’s policy, and his mother, a housewife, had none. Orr didn’t believe the coroner’s finding until he learned that his father had not only been fired two months before the crash but had also been blackballed by every firm on Wall Street for whistle-blowing on an embezzlement scheme. With their lavish lifestyle, the family had been living a hand-to-mouth existence, spending every dollar his father brought in and more, so the firing left them deeply in debt. Whether the car crash was accidental or intentional, the result was the same. Orr was left penniless.

He was placed in foster care, and went through a succession of low-life guardians who either were hosting him to collect the welfare checks or wanted a kid who could act as a live-in servant. He got back at the world by stealing from his neighbors. At first it was just a buck or two to buy some candy or a comic book, but the amount grew until he was bringing in serious cash. He got caught only once, when he broke into a house not realizing that the husband had come home unexpectedly with his mistress, and the time he spent in juvenile detention made him vow never to let that happen again. When he was sixteen, Orr ran away and started working construction by lying about his age.

For the next ten years, he bounced around the US, taking legitimate or illegitimate jobs, whatever paid. Then, during a bank renovation, one of his co-workers approached him and asked if he wanted to make some easy money. The guy planned to rob the bank, but he was too clever to attempt a daytime heist.

Instead, they sabotaged the wiring for the security equipment and made off with a hundred thousand dollars that night. But Orr had inherited his father’s free-spending ways and blew through most of his share in two months. It was the end of his construction career and the beginning of the more high-risk, high-reward career as a thief.

He absorbed everything he could about the art of breaking into secure facilities, educating himself by reading and working with better burglars than he until he had mastered the profession. The jobs kept getting bigger, with Orr planning the heists down to the most minute detail and assembling crews that could be trusted to do their jobs, but the money never lasted.

For years he lived the high life two months at a time, until the tip about the Archimedes Codex presented the opportunity to find one of the most valuable treasures in history. If the trail really did lead to the lost tomb of King Midas and the fortune he was buried with, Orr could live the rest of his life in the style that had been stolen from him so long ago and at the same time exact his pound of flesh. His dream was within his grasp, and Stacy Benedict and Tyler Locke were going to find it for him or die trying.

Orr reflexively reached for his backpack and felt the codex still inside. He kept it with him at all times.

Crenshaw stuffed the rest of his doughnut into his mouth and nodded at the computer screen. “They’re having a little trouble with the Stomachion.”

Crenshaw’s mispronunciation of the puzzle created by Archimedes grated on Orr. Despite dropping out of high school, he was a voracious reader and considered himself an educated man. It wasn’t “Stuh-muh-CHEE-on,” as Crenshaw pronounced the word. It was “Stoh-MAH-keeon.” Orr sighed but didn’t correct him. “I have faith in them.”

The video feed showed Benedict and Locke going back and forth between the instructions and the puzzle pieces. There were fourteen—eleven triangles, one four-sided piece, and two five-sided pieces—and when the pieces were fitted together properly, they formed a square. According to Orr’s research, the puzzle was originally created by Archimedes to demonstrate some kind of mathematical principle. The version of the puzzle drawn in Orr’s codex had a different purpose: it was a code. The pieces were covered with Greek letters. The only problem was that Orr couldn’t figure out how to solve the puzzle.

Somehow the letters on the Stomachion corresponded to the signs of the zodiac on the face of the bronze geolabe, the ancient device Orr had linked to the bomb. If the puzzle were solved correctly, it would tell you how to use the geolabe, and the geolabe was the key in the search for Midas’s hoard of gold. But Orr had only five days left to locate the treasure, and Locke was his last hope for deciphering how to operate the geolabe.

Crenshaw pointed to his countdown timer, which was synchronized with the one on the bomb. It was down to nine minutes.

“They’re not going to make it,” he said.

“Maybe not,” Orr said. “Archimedes was a clever guy. The puzzle doesn’t have just one solution.”

Crenshaw looked at him in surprise. “How many does it have?”

Orr smiled. “More than seventeen thousand.”