The Minoan Cipher (A Matinicus “Matt” Hawkins Adventure Book 2) (16 page)

“
What
prestige? The Greek archaeological establishment is the laughing stock of Europe.”

An angry murmur came from the half dozen ministry bureaucrats gathered in the conference room at the Greek Archaeological Museum in Athens. It was no secret that the country’s debt crisis was crippling their archaeological reputation.

A threatened strike of security guards almost shut down the Acropolis. The ministry had lopped thousands of people from the payroll, closed monuments and museums and cut back hours at others. Even the country’s archeological jewel, the museum they were sitting in, was operating with a third of its staff.

Kalliste’s own position hung by a thread. Yet, she would never consider pandering to Papadokalos.

When he said, “As you can see, your intemperate remarks have upset your colleagues,” she lost it.

“Their anger is misplaced, and should be directed at ministers who are allowing foreign investors to build hotels and roads that are destroying our heritage.”

He lowered his chin into the flesh around his neck. His eyes narrowed in a tight squint.

“Are you implying that I am responsible for this desecration?”

Kalliste knew Papadokalos was stuffing his Swiss bank accounts with kickbacks earned for approving the fast-tracking of construction projects on ancient sites.

“I am implying nothing of the sort, Mr. Minister. I am
accusing
you and your government cronies of cultural vandalism that surpasses even the worst acts of that English bastard Lord Elgin, who vandalized the Parthenon. Consider this my resignation.”

She stood and pushed her chair back, then marched for the door and slammed it behind her. Her heart thumped like a pile driver as she strode through the museum corridors. She emerged into the Athenian heat and noise. Hailing a taxi, she barked out the address then sat back in her seat and stared out the window, fighting to get her emotions under control.

How did I ever get into this crazy archaeology business
? She fumed. Stupid question. She knew exactly how. Her grandfather. He worked the land, producing delicious olive oil from his grove on the northeast side of Crete. It was in those olive groves that he unearthed the ancient artifacts that had fascinated her as a little girl and led to her insatiable quest for knowledge of long dead civilizations.

Recalling the startled look on the minister’s pink face at her accusations, she began to calm down. By the time the taxi dropped her off at her apartment complex in the fashionable neighborhood of Kolonaki, Kalliste felt like herself again. Her sixth floor apartment had a view of Lykabettus Hill. Kalliste would miss her work, but she wouldn’t starve to death. Her parents, both successful professionals, had left her a sizable inheritance, and her late husband had made sure she was well taken care of in his Will.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. When her tears stopped she poured herself a healthy shot of Metaxa brandy. She had drained half the glass when she got a text message on her phone from Hawkins. He was trying to Skype her.

She powered up her computer and Hawkins’s face appeared on the monitor.

“Glad I found you at home,” Hawkins said. “I’ve got some interesting news.”

Kalliste was eager to tell Hawkins about her resignation, but she was curious about the serious expression on his face. “Me, too. But you go first, Matt.”

“I’m calling you from a boat on its way back to Cadiz. Captain Santiago took us out to the wreck site. We were able to put an ROV in the water.”

“That’s more than interesting, my friend. What did you see?”

Hawkins described the holes punched in the hull of the
Sancho Panza
, and Calvin’s theory of a missile strike. “We found
Falstaff
not far from the salvage boat. The sub was in pretty good shape. Then we took another look at the ship, itself. The object near the stern is definitely an antique diving bell.”

“I’m stunned. That’s truly amazing.”

“Even more amazing are the objects we found near the bell. Dive gear that goes back centuries. Helmets and pressure suits, indicating multiple dives made on the wreck. It appears that none of the divers made it back alive.”

“That would suggest that the wreck’s location was passed along for hundreds of years.”

“Exactly my take on it. Someone knew about the ship long before we did.”

“I can’t wait to see the photos and video.”

“I’ll send the footage along to you for analysis.”

“Wonderful!” She clapped her hands. “This couldn’t have come at a better time. I just quit my job. This is the material I need to persuade the television network to fund a full-fledged expedition to salvage the wreck. I’ll call Lily Porter immediately.”

“I wouldn’t do that just yet,” Hawkins said.

Hawkins told her about the attack helicopters.

Kalliste was almost numb with grief. “You’re sure everything was destroyed?” she said, looking for a ray of hope.

“The barrage was pretty intense,” he said. “It’s not all bad news. Minnie brought us back a present. It was in a water-tight bronze chest we found on the ship.”

He held the artifact up in front of the camera, and rotated it slowly to give Kalliste a full view of the other side. She gulped down the rest of the Metaxa, excused herself, and went to the bar. She poured out a double shot of brandy and carried it back to her computer table.

“Please show the object again,” she said. When he went through the display, she said, “Do you have any idea what you are holding?”

“You’re the expert. I was hoping you would know.”

“I would have to see the actual artifact. But my first impression is that you have recovered a version of the Antikythera mechanism—the ancient astronomical computer found in a shipwreck near Crete.”

“I thought of the Antikythera device, too.”

“As you know, the computer had gears and dials that could compute the position of the sun, moon and stars. It would have been invaluable in navigating the seas.”

“This has dials inscribed with pictographs and letters.”

“This wonderful machine could have been used in navigating an entirely
different
type of sea. I’d like you to talk to someone, Matt. His name is Professor Vasilios Vedrakis. He’s an expert on Minoan script who works out of the Heraklion museum. He has written extensively on the Phaistos disk.”

“I’d be glad to talk to him.”

“Good. Then we will make arrangements to get together as soon as possible.”

Kalliste hung up and emptied her brandy glass. She thought she was going to faint from excitement. Forcing herself to rise from her chair, she walked to a wall safe located behind a stunning painting of the Acropolis. She punched out the combination, opened the door and reached inside for a metal jewelry box, which she placed on her desk.

Taking a key from her desk drawer, she opened the box, flipped the top back and removed a leather pouch. Her trembling fingers undid the drawstring and removed the vellum scroll inside, which she then unrolled on the desktop. It was about ten inches wide and when unrolled, was around three feet in length.

The vellum was covered with line after line of ancient Minoan script known as Linear A. The mysterious language had defied all attempts at decipherment, yet she had been a young girl when her grandfather showed her the script for the first time. Growing up, she had taken every opportunity to study the scroll. More than anything she could think of, it was the scroll she held in her hands that drew her to the study of archaeology. She had dreamed of the day it would be deciphered. But she never imagined that she would be the one to do it.

Papadokalos was in his office going over a doubtful resume, wondering where he was going to put all the relatives who needed government jobs. The latest application was from a cousin of a cousin. He stroked his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He suspected family members were selling jobs to friends and passing them off as family. Well, two can play that game. He would hire the so-called cousins, or uncles, or whatever they may be, but it would cost them dearly.

He was jotting down payback calculations when he got a phone call from the woman whose resignation had saved him the trouble of firing her. Kalliste’s insult had gone over his head, even though he would never state that out loud. He actually had no idea who this Elgin person was, but he was happy because her exit would open up another job needed by family.

“How nice to hear from you, Dr. Kalchis. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“As you may recall, you had some doubts as to the worth of my Minoan expedition.”

“No offense meant, Dr. Kalchis. I’m a numbers man. Some of your colleagues in the archaeological ministry suggested that line of inquiry.”

“In that case, would you kindly distribute the photos I’ve emailed you for their inspection? Tell them that they can direct their queries to Professor Vedrakis. I have designated the professor as the first one to have access to this remarkable artifact. Thank you.”

She hung up. Papadokalos shrugged and turned to his computer. The email from Kalliste had an attachment that included several photos of an ugly disk-shaped object. He pondered the images, thinking about his lucrative sideline. Months before, an anonymous caller asked him to forward news of any Minoan discoveries. He had given it a try, and with each tidbit, a substantial amount of money had been deposited into his bank account.

He had no intention of doing what Kalliste suggested, but her photos meant a new injection of Euros for little or no work done. Hitting ‘Forward’ then ‘Send,’ with a great sigh, he turned back to the resumes piled on his desk.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The black Citroen limousine pulled up to the front gate of the imposing mansion set on a tree-lined street off one of the exclusive Second Empire avenues in the Chaillot quarter of Paris. Built in the 19
^th
century for an opera singer, the mansard-roof house had been the scene of many glittering gatherings, where Paris artists mingled with the wealthiest residents of the city.

After the original owner died, the mansard was converted into a sanatorium where the well-to-do could stash family members with mental illnesses or infirmities. The wealthy called them
imbeciles
, a term that referred to any mental condition that could embarrass a prominent family.

Medical care was secondary to incarceration. The straitjacket was the main method of treatment. The sign on the cast-iron gate,
Maison de Bonheur
, was a lie. Under no circumstances could the two-story structure that housed the schizophrenic, paranoid or mentally challenged be considered a “house of happiness.”

The mansion was now owned by a dummy corporation. The sign still hung from the gate, but there was only one patient in the house, surrounded by medical attendants and guarded closely by hard-faced security men. Two of them occupied a guardhouse at the gate. They were tall and wore black uniforms and berets. Machine pistols hung from their shoulders. While one guard walked over to the car to check for identification, the other kept his pistol aimed, ready to fire at the least sign of danger. The ID checked out, the gate was raised and the limo drove up a long curving driveway.

The house, surrounded by trees, was largely invisible from the street. The Citroen pulled up to the entrance where a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform, loose white smock and slacks, awaited. A figure shrouded in a black hooded cloak got out of the car and approached the nurse.

“She knows I’m here?” she said.

“She’s waiting for you,” the nurse said. “We notified her as soon as you called from the plane.”

“What’s her condition?”

“Deteriorating. But still in command. She ordered us to move her from her bed to the throne room. It’s not as comfortable, but being there seems to give her new strength.”

“Take me to her.”

The nurse led the way into the house, through a grand entryway, and into an elevator. The hooded figure got into the elevator alone and pressed a button. Seconds later the door opened and she stepped out into a windowless chamber. A blast of cold air penetrated her cloak. The recessed ceiling lights illuminated walls decorated with gryphons—creatures with the bodies of an animal and the head of a plumed bird.

The room was carpeted in red and devoid of furnishings, except for a throne-like chair that had a high, scalloped back and thick armrests.

The figure seated in the chair was small and bent over, head held low and resting on the chest. The top of the face was hidden behind a black veil. The ankle-length black ruffled skirt identified the shrunken figure as female. She was linked to an intensive care monitor; the blinking screen provided a constant picture of her faint heartbeat and low blood pressure. An intravenous feeding bag hung from a mobile stand. Plastic tubes from a portable oxygen generator led up, under the veil. Despite the ventilation, the air was heavy with the odor of decay.