by C. M. Palov
“Lovett knew the risks when he uncovered that mass grave.” Sinclair punctuated the callous remark with an unconcerned shrug. “What can I say? A fool and his gold.”
Are soon parted. Or dearly departed as the case may be.
Lengthening his stride, Caedmon came abreast of their guide. “According to Dr. Lovett, the treasure consists of a fortune in gold bouillon. Covetous, he might have been, but the man was no fool.”
This time, Tonto Sinclair actually swiveled his head in their direction. For what seemed like an interminable length of time, he silently scrutinized them. While Edie knew it was impossible, it felt like the Indian was peering into her very soul.
“There is no gold bouillon.”
Hearing that, Edie’s jaw dropped. “So why did you purposefully mislead Jason Lovett into thinking there was a monetary treasure trove buried in Arcadia?”
The question got their guide’s attention. Sinclair came to a complete standstill.
“For five hundred years the white man has fucked my people.” The Indian’s voice lowered to a guttural rumble. “I needed the scrawny shit to help me find Yawgoog’s treasure. It’s called payback.”
There was no gold, but there was a treasure.
Edie turned to Caedmon, bewildered. “Am I missing something?”
“Indeed, Mister Sinclair’s remark begs the question, what exactly is Yawgoog’s treasure?”
The begged question elicited another drawn-out silence.
“Yawgoog entrusted my people with his sacred stone,” Sinclair said at last. “That’s the treasure.”
What? Edie shook her head, wondering if she had heard correctly.
“A stone . . . how curious.” Caedmon didn’t seem the least bit surprised. Or even disappointed for that matter.
“Earlier today we found a carved stone with a Templar Beauséant,” Edie said, still grappling with the notion that someone just tried to kill them because of a rock. “I thought that was Yawgoog’s Stone.”
Sinclair shook his head. “That’s what I told Jason Lovett, but that’s not Yawgoog’s sacred stone. Before Yawgoog died, he entrusted his sacred stone to the Narragansett. And we did a pretty damned good job of minding the store—until the white man showed up and stole it from us.”
Given the way Tonto glared at them, Edie had the unnerving feeling that he was personally holding them accountable for the centuries-old theft.
“You know, a description of this stone would be nice,” she shot back, peeved. “Are we talking about your garden-variety rock? Or some kind of polished pebble?”
“According to the legends of my people, the sacred stone is the size of a flat grinding mortar.” Moving his hands slightly, Tonto indicated dimensions comparable to a large dictionary.
Which meant that Yawgoog’s Stone would have perfectly fit into the empty niche that she and Caedmon discovered in the Templar sanctuary.
“Because we failed to keep our promise to Yawgoog, the Narragansett paid with their blood. And will continue to pay until the sacred stone is returned to us.” Sinclair took a menacing step in their direction, his scowl deepening. “So I’m only going to ask you this one time: Did you find the sacred stone?”
The air fairly crackled with hostile intent. Edie fearfully glanced at Caedmon, wondering if he was aware that the finger emblazoned with a blue O now hovered over the trigger.
“We did not find the sacred stone. Although you may be interested to know that we discovered Yawgoog’s cave, the entrance of which is located behind the falls that course over the stone bridge. The cave, however, was empty,” Caedmon quickly clarified. “That said, do exercise caution if you’re of a mind to explore. There are deadly traps concealed throughout.”
“Thanks for the update. Guess that means I won’t be shooting the two of you in the head and burying the bodies in a shallow grave.” One side of Sinclair’s mouth twitched. The ghost of a very sick smile. Turning his back on them, he continued walking.
“Disappointed does not even begin to explain how I feel right now,” Edie hissed in a lowered voice. “In the last two minutes, we’ve gone from a treasure worth a hundred billion dollars to a simple stone.”
“A sacred stone,” Caedmon quietly emphasized. “And I doubt there is anything simple about it. Several hundred Templar descendants were massacred on account of this stone. Moreover, the sacred stone may have led to their forbears’ demise at the hands of the Inquisition.”
“Do you think Rico Suave knows that the fabled Templar treasure trove is just an old stone?”
“A sacred stone,” he again reiterated. “And I have no idea what our assailant knows or doesn’t know.”
“You keep using the word sacred. Do you mean sacred like the Ten Commandments?” she asked, wondering why he kept harping on that particular attribute.
“Possibly.” No sooner did he say it than Caedmon shook his head. “While the Ten Commandments were carved onto stone tablets, Sinclair is adamant that Yawgoog had only one stone, not two.”
“And what about Sir Walter Ralegh? Still convinced he took Yawgoog’s Stone to London?”
“Oh, yes,” he quietly avowed, blue eyes glimmering.
“I noticed you didn’t volunteer that tidbit to our gun-toting guide.”
“While the purpose of Yawgoog’s sacred stone is still a mystery, any number of men have killed to possess it.”
A dire thought. One that she preferred not to dwell on. Luckily, they had strict gun laws in the United Kingdom.
Up ahead, Edie caught sight of a beat-up truck. The blue jalopy had to have been at least thirty years old. And, no surprise, there was a gun rack mounted to the back window.
Caedmon caught up to their guide. “Our vehicle is parked near the eastern border of the wilderness area,” he said, diplomatically requesting a lift.
“Somebody slashed the tires on your little piece of Japanese crap.”
Edie groaned. She had a pretty good idea who wielded the knife.
“Not entirely unexpected,” Caedmon said calmly, taking the news in stride. “I’ll need to get some items out of the boot.” He cleared his throat, giving Sinclair ample opportunity to offer them a ride. When no invitation was forthcoming, Caedmon, a tight smile on his lips, said, “Would it be too much of an inconvenience to drive Miss Miller and me to the airport at Providence?”
Sinclair pulled his car keys out his pocket. “You paying for the gas?”
CHAPTER 40
Kologameio!
A total butt-fuck!
Sobbing, barely able to pull breath into his lungs, Saviour collapsed on the ground, the tinder-dry foliage crunching beneath him.
Deeply humiliated, he hugged his knees and rocked back and forth. Still able to smell the smoldering nylon jacket that he’d flung aside. Uncomprehending. He’d been on the verge of taking down his quarry when the wounded animal reared up and . . . and the boutso gliftie, the cocksucker, nearly set him ablaze. And while he flapped about like a bird on fire, the Brit and his woman escaped. The two of them jumping into the river.
Angry tears scorching his cheeks, Saviour gave vent to his rage. Kologameio! He pounded the leaf-strewn soil with his balled fist. A moment later, he gulped a deep breath. Then another.
Focus.
He needed to check his emotions at the door and focus.
Christos! There is no door! He was in the dark forest. A forest that reeked of cedar and wild olives. No! That was another forest. On the island of Panos. He’d been so scared. So certain that once Evangelos Danielides’s arrow-riddled body was discovered, the servants would set the Argentine mastiffs loose on him. Terrified, he ran from the archery range and took refuge in the forest that bordered the villa. He hiked through the cedar and wild olive groves to the service dock on the far side of the island. Where the supplies were weekly delivered on a motor launch from the mainland. Evangelos’s Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes. Crates of Ouzo. Feta. Tomatoes. Fresh octopus and slabs of tuna. A godsend! He could sneak on boar
d. He didn’t care where the vessel was headed. It didn’t matter. Somehow he would find his way to Thessaloniki.
It took a week of blow jobs and picking pockets on the docks of Piraeus before he could purchase a train ticket.
Afraid he would be hunted for Evangelos Danielides’s murder, he’d kept to the shadows. He became so skittish that he’d physically lurch when he heard a siren or a police whistle. Even a barking dog. To his surprise, there was no mention of the murder in the Greek newspapers. Although he read that an elaborate funeral was held in Athens, the cause of death officially reported as cardiac arrest. A cover-up. He didn’t even shoot the bastard in the heart. Obviously, the powerful Danielides family didn’t want their son’s predilections made public. Nonetheless, he feared that same powerful family would seek revenge for the murder of their only son.
Like a fugitive on the run, Saviour spent his nights roaming the Leoforos Nikis for quick pickups and hiding out in Thessaloniki’s churches during the daylight hours. The last place the guns hired by the Danielides family would look for him. As though it were fated, at the Agía Sophía, the Church of Holy Wisdom, he met his savior, the man who would alter the course of his life in a profound and wondrous way.
A beautiful memory.
Revived somewhat, he used his sweater sleeve to dry his face. He had to get a grip. Another American phrase. Shoving himself upright, he walked over to the stone slab where the English boutso gliftie and his bitch had held court before the attack. In a hurry to escape, they left one of their packs. As well as a small laptop computer.
What are they doing with a computer? he wondered, struck by the oddity of seeing a high-tech device in the middle of the dark forest. He picked up the computer and, with the tap of a finger, took it out of hibernation mode.
Christos!
There on the screen was a reservation confirmation: airline tickets for two to London, including a three-night stay at the St. Martin’s Lane Hotel.
Overjoyed, he threw back his head and merrily laughed aloud.
Truly a gift from the gods.
CHAPTER 41
When you have one of the first brains of Europe against you, and all the powers of darkness at his back, there are infinite possibilities.
“A first brain! The Englishman is vlakas, I tell you! An archimalakas! The chief of assholes!”
While Mercurius could not say whether Caedmon Aisquith merited the damning praise that Sherlock Holmes had heaped upon his nemesis, Professor Moriarty, it was obvious that the man was no idiot. Far from it.
“Do you want me to go to London?”
“And confront the powers of darkness?” he countered, injecting a touch of humor into his voice.
“You often tell me to look to the Light.”
“So I do,” he murmured.
You must always remember, little one, that you were named for the Bringer of the Light.
Do not fear the Light, Merkür. For it will lead you to your life’s purpose.
Faced with a conundrum, Mercurius said, “Let me think on this, amoretto. I will call you back in a few minutes.”
Hanging up the telephone, Mercurius wandered into the kitchen.
For sixty years, he’d been haunted by the parting remarks of his father, Osman de Léon, and his milk brother, Moshe Benaroya. And because he’d been haunted, when he was sixty-five years of age, he finally returned to the city of his birth, Thessaloniki. To confront the horror of that spring night when the Nazis loaded the two men onto a train bound for Auschwitz.
From the grungy window of the airport taxi, he’d caught his first glimpse of the city, disappointed to see that it had changed greatly in the intervening years. Where once there had been graceful cypress trees, there were now garish billboards that advertised everything from yogurt to motorcycles. And blocks of hideous postwar apartment buildings. To someone who’d grown up with the lavish architecture of the fin de siècle, it seemed relentlessly dreary.
Although once he arrived in the city, there were familiar sights and sounds. Modiano Market with tables piled high with oranges, figs, tomatoes, and fresh-cut flowers. The bouzouki music that emanated from the tavernas. The clusters of men with their newspapers and clacking worry beads.
The first two nights he stayed at a downtown hotel where he endured the constant roar of traffic outside his window. Needing his sleep, he checked out of the pricey hotel and headed for the old Turkish quarter near the Byzantine walls. There, he rented an unadorned flat in a whitewashed building. He slept blissfully that night, awaking the next morning to a breakfast of feta cheese, olives, and crusty bread. Refreshed of mind and body, he set off to find the house where he’d lived the first seven years of his life.
He found it easily enough, taken aback to see a crone mopping the marble stoop. Black shawl. Black hose. Black shoes. White hair. So much like their old housekeeper, Cybele, that he nearly called out her name. Instead, he respectfully doffed his beret—an affectation he’d adopted as a much younger man—and introduced himself, explaining that his family once owned the house.
The crone eyed him suspiciously, then said curtly, “Did you know the Jew named Moshe Benaroya?”
If she’d asked if he’d known Atatürk, he would not have been more surprised. Now his turn to be suspicious, he warily nodded his head.
“Perimenete!” she ordered, gesturing for him to wait outside while she scurried into the house. A few minutes later she appeared, carrying what looked to be a loose-leaf manuscript of several hundred pages bound with string. “We found this under the floorboards in one of the bedrooms.” She thrust the bundle at him before impatiently shooing him on his way. “Fighe!”
He took no offense at her brusque manner, too stunned to be insulted.
By all that was holy . . . she’d just handed him a treasure trove.
One week later, he went to Agía Sophía, a magnificent Orthodox church that had been constructed in the eighth century, to photograph the ceiling mosaics. He’d just finished photographing the famous ascension mosaic in the central dome. Not yet acclimated to the heat, he sat down in a wooden chair.
No more than a few moments had passed when a shadow fell over him.
He glanced up, taken aback to see a young man standing beside his chair. There was a halo of light surrounding the youth’s dark head. He blinked several times. Noticed the small details. That the young man wore tight jeans and too much cologne. But, oh, that face . . .
Suddenly, he was very much aware of being a mature man in a tailored wool suit.
Without asking permission, the young man sat in the chair next to him.
Leery, Mercurius clutched his soft-sided attaché to his chest. Afraid that a thief might make off with the incredible manuscript, he’d taken to carrying it with him. He learned his lesson years earlier at the Archaeology Museum in Amman.
Oblivious to the sanctity of the church, the young man nonchalantly said, “Would you like to fuck me up the ass? For you, I’ll give a discount.”
Mercurius didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He relaxed the tight hold on his attaché. “No, but I would like to take you to the patisserie on the other side of the square.” In truth, he feared a church priest might overhear the profane young man.
The beautiful youth accepted the invitation with a bored shrug. Together, they walked across Agía Sophía Square.
“The Christians held a thanksgiving service in this square when the Allies liberated the city from the Germans,” he remarked. The comment elicited another bored shrug.
Although it was a hot day, they sat outside at a bistro table, shaded by a colorful umbrella. Possessed of a ravenous appetite, Saviour ate not one, but two, slices of almond cake piled high with chocolate shavings. Mercurius refrained—doctor’s orders—and, instead, sipped unsweetened coffee from a demitasse. No sooner did Saviour wipe the plate clean than he suggested they leave. Intrigued by the young man, Mercurius led him to the old section of town.
As they approached the towering Byza
ntine walls, the streets became narrow, more precipitous, the old district set on a hillside that overlooked the harbor. Inexplicably animated, he pointed to a waterless fountain. “When I was a young boy, I once saw the ghost of a whirling dervish twirling in that fountain, arms spread to the heavens as water spewed between his lips.” A moment later, he gestured to a row of shops. “Before the war, that used to be an olive grove. Until the Italians mistook it for a military target and bombed it.”
“The Italians can’t hit porcelain when they piss,” the young man contemptuously sneered.
Standing in the shadow cast by the ancient walls that had once fortified the Byzantine city, he showed Saviour several places in the wall that had been repaired with marble tombstones from the desecrated Sephardi cemetery. Removed from the necropolis when the Greeks went on a wild rampage searching for Jewish treasure.
Whether it was the burst of melancholy induced by that somber reminder of the past or the fact that he’d given up jogging years ago, Mercurius came to a sudden halt. Breathless, his sixty-five-year-old heart wildly raced.
“We must rest,” his companion abruptly declared, taking hold of Mercurius’s elbow as he ushered him to a marble stoop.
They sat side by side on the steps, the air fragranced with the scent of honeysuckle and mimosa.
“Tell me, why did you leave Thessaloniki? I left once. I couldn’t wait to return.” As he spoke, Saviour bent down to pet a stray cat that had impudently rubbed against his lower leg. When the cat began to lick the same fingers that Saviour had earlier licked at the patisserie, the young man smiled, clearly enjoying the feline’s antics.
Mercurius found himself, again, breathless. This time for a wholly different reason.
Hit with a sudden impulse to make a connection with the youth, he proceeded to tell Saviour about the remarkable friendship between a Muslim Ma’min and a Jewish Kabbalist. To his surprise, the youth listened to the tale with rapt attention.
“As soon as the war ended, my family moved to America. None of us knew about the hidden manuscript.”
