The Midas Code tl-2

by Boyd Morrison

  “I know. That’s what bothers me.”

  “Because the hand is so old or because it looks so real?”

  “Both.”

  “Like I said before, I don’t have a scientific background, but it did look pretty convincing.”

  “However it was made, there was nothing magical about the transformation.” Tyler simply refused to believe that a magical power could perform alchemy in violation of every known chemical law.

  “Would you bet our families’ lives on that?” Stacy asked.

  Tyler didn’t answer, because it didn’t matter what he believed. His mission was to find the map left by Archimedes so that he could get his father back.

  They were silent for the rest of the drive. When they reached the gates of the estate thirty minutes later, Tyler pressed the buzzer.

  “What is your business?” a man said in a thick Italian accent.

  “My name is Tyler Locke. We have an appointment.”

  “Yes. Drive to the house.”

  The ten-foot-tall gates slowly drew apart. Tyler wheeled the Range Rover along a winding brick driveway toward a gray stone mansion a half mile away.

  As they got closer, he realized how immense the home really was. The front façade alone was at least a hundred feet long. He could picture the original owner reigning over a vast estate of feudal vassals.

  Several cars were parked in front of the mansion, but only one caught his eye. It was a red Ferrari 458 Italia, with a top speed of more than two hundred miles per hour. Tyler was a connoisseur, regularly driving loaners when Gordian tested them for auto and insurance companies at its track in Phoenix, but he hadn’t yet driven an Italia.

  He parked the Range Rover next to it and got out to take a closer look before they knocked on the door. For just a moment, he imagined himself hearing the roar of the car’s mid-engine V8 behind his head.

  The clop-clop of approaching hooves made him turn around.

  A chestnut horse trotted toward them. Tyler instinctively backed away.

  “What’s the matter?” Stacy said.

  “I don’t like horses,” Tyler said, eyeing it warily.

  Stacy looked at him as if he’d said he hated rainbows. “Who doesn’t like horses?”

  “Me.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re big and they’re unpredictable.”

  “They’re friendly.”

  “I forgot. You grew up on a farm.”

  “I practically lived on my horse, Chanter, when I was a teenager. Have you ever ridden one?”

  “Yes,” Tyler said, but he didn’t elaborate.

  The rider pulled on the reins and expertly guided the horse to a stop. She was a striking woman in her thirties, dressed in impeccable traditional English riding togs and helmet. A black ponytail flicked back and forth every time she moved her head.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” the woman said to Tyler, her Italian accent softer than the security guard’s. “I saw you looking at her.”

  Assuming that the woman was either the home’s owner or related to the owner, Tyler didn’t want to kick off his introduction by insulting her.

  He nodded cautiously and said, “Definitely. What breed is she?”

  “Breed?” She looked down at the horse and laughed with a throaty roar. “You must not be much of a rider.” She patted the horse’s neck. “This is Giuseppe, and he’s a male. An Arabian. The beauty I meant was my Ferrari.”

  Tyler joined in the laughter at his gaffe.

  “Prancing horses I know,” he said, meaning Ferrari’s logo. “Five hundred and sixty horsepower, in the case of this lovely lady. She must be a treat to drive.”

  The Italian looked Tyler up and down, almost as if he were a horse she was considering purchasing.

  “She is. Maybe I’ll take you for a spin later.”

  Her inflection left no doubt that the double entendre was on purpose.

  The woman dismounted and led Giuseppe toward them. Tyler willed himself to stand his ground. Stacy, on the other hand, held out her hand and stroked the horse’s nose. In return, Giuseppe nuzzled her palm.

  “See?” she said to Tyler. “He’s a sweetheart.”

  Tyler wondered what it was about women and horses.

  “He doesn’t care for our equine friends?” the woman said.

  “I’m more of a mechanical type,” Tyler said. He held out his hand. “I’m Tyler Locke, and this is Stacy Benedict. We called earlier today.”

  The woman took his hand in a strong grip, and then shook Stacy’s.

  “When I heard what you wanted to talk about, I couldn’t resist meeting you,” she said. “Welcome to my home. I am Gia Cavano.”

  Stacy stifled a tiny gasp too late at hearing the name Gia. Tyler held his own amazement in check. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the woman who owned the next key in Archimedes’ puzzle had the same name as someone they’d heard about the day before from Orr, who had told them two things about his childhood friend Gia.

  One, that Orr had discovered the Midas chamber while exploring the tunnels of Naples with her. And two, that if Gia found out that they were also searching for it after all these years, she would kill them.

  TWENTY

  As he exited the train at Holborn tube station, Grant wasn’t swept along with the crush of rush-hour passengers, one of the benefits of being a big man. Instead, the mass of people flowed around him or stepped aside when he approached. He strode briskly along the station’s platform trying to make up for lost time, a backpack containing the Archimedes translation slung over his shoulder.

  The trip on the Underground had taken longer than he’d expected, so he had only fifteen minutes until his appointment with Dr. Lumley. Grant stopped at streets only long enough to remember to look right instead of left so that he wouldn’t be run over. He hadn’t been to England in years and would have loved to explore the neighborhoods and see how much things had changed since his last visit, but that would have to wait for next time.

  Despite Tyler’s determined optimism, Grant knew that his friend was worried about his father. Tyler and his dad had their icy patches, but Grant had perceived some thawing lately. The two had started speaking again, even if it was sporadic. But when someone threatened your own blood, it didn’t matter how close the two of you were.

  Grant and Tyler weren’t blood, but they might as well have been, and if Grant could help his friend by solving this crazy riddle, he would do whatever he had to.

  In another five minutes, he walked through the front courtyard of the British Museum and into the entryway. Though admission was free, a small display asked for a donation to enter the museum. Grant hadn’t had a chance to get any British currency, so he took out a twenty-dollar bill and tucked it into the slot before heading into the Great Court.

  The soaring ceiling made the space feel airy despite being packed with tourists wandering around the beige marble floor in search of antiquities like the famed Rosetta Stone. Steel latticework supported the impressive glass skylight that wrapped around the central reading room.

  Grant waited at the information desk until the confused American in front of him could be convinced that the museum did not have a display of Harry Potter’s Quidditch broom.

  “I’m looking for the office of an archaeologist named Oswald Lumley,” he said.

  After a quick call, a curatorial assistant arrived to guide Grant down to see Dr. Lumley. She led him through a maze of halls and stairs before showing him into a cramped office stacked high with books on every surface. So much for the modern paperless office.

  A short balding man in his sixties circled from behind the desk as the assistant made her exit. His striped dress shirt had seen better days and was stretched by a slight paunch. Like most archaeologists, Lumley wasn’t likely to be cracking any bullwhips.

  “Dr. Lumley,” Grant said.

  “And you must be Grant Westfield,” Lumley said. He didn’t say it, but his arched eyebrows made it clear that a br
awny ex-wrestler was not what he’d been expecting. “I’m happy that you sought me out.”

  “And I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Not at all. Not at all. After I saw the sample from your manuscript, I was eager to hear more.”

  When he had first called the museum, Grant had used his connection to Stacy, hoping her reputation would get him an audience with someone. He claimed that he was a consultant for the TV show Chasing the Past, which was researching an ancient manuscript owned by a private collector. After being routed to several different archaeologists, his call was taken by Lumley.

  To make sure he got Lumley’s attention, Grant had faxed one sheet of the original Greek codex from the section he needed the archaeologist to examine. There was no mention of Archimedes or Midas, just the allusion to Herakles and Aphrodite. Since the Archimedes Codex had been stolen before the auction house could catalog it in detail, there was no way Lumley might suspect that Grant’s manuscript was the stolen one.

  Lumley waved to a chair. “Please sit down.”

  They each took a seat, and Grant gave Lumley an abbreviated rundown of his interest in the codex, especially the reference to the seat of Herakles and the feet of Aphrodite. Then he showed Lumley the full section of the translated codex. Lumley spent ten minutes reading it, gasping in astonishment every few paragraphs.

  Finally, he looked up and said, “Remarkable.”

  “Can you help us decipher it?”

  “I think I might. Or, at least, part of it. But I’d like to review the Marbles in person before I draw any conclusions.”

  “Great,” Grant said as he stood. “Let’s take a look.”

  Lumley held up a finger. “Forgive me, but I must make one call before my colleague leaves for the day.”

  “No problem. I can go on ahead.”

  “Perfect. If you return by the route you took to arrive at my office, you’ll see signs leading you directly to the display containing the Elgin Marbles. I shall join you momentarily.”

  Buoyed by the prospect of new information in their quest, Grant took the stairs back up two at a time. He was eager to see what clue the Elgin Marbles held. He just hoped the archaeologist wouldn’t take long.

  * * *

  When Grant Westfield was safely out of earshot, Lumley took out his cell phone. He didn’t want the call to go through the museum’s central switchboard. He chose the contact listing that had no name, just the number he’d been given if any ancient Greek documents relating to the Parthenon came to his attention. As a senior archaeologist in the museum, he had been able to wrest Westfield’s original inquiry away from a more junior staff member.

  Lumley’s call was answered on the second ring. He didn’t need to say who it was. His voice quavered as he spoke.

  “I think I’ve found what you’ve been looking for.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  If Tyler thought he had any other choice, he and Stacy would be long gone from Gia Cavano’s estate instead of sitting in the study of her mansion. The wood-paneled room at the rear of the house had a spectacular view of the stables and the hundreds of acres of pastureland beyond. Flames in the brick fireplace warded off any chill the drafty windows let in.

  A tanned and muscled “assistant” with enough gel in his hair to rival a major oil spill had escorted them to their waiting spot while Gia Cavano excused herself to take her horse back to the stables and change into fresh clothes. The door to the study was closed behind them, but Tyler had no doubt that the man was standing guard. It was also quite possible someone was listening to them.

  “Do you think Orr knew his old friend Gia Cavano had the tablet?” Stacy said in a whisper. She leaned so close to Tyler that her lips brushed his ear. He felt goose bumps on his arms in response to the light touch.

  “No, but we should have anticipated it,” he whispered in reply. “VXN Industries.”

  “Of course. Vixen. Orr called her the Fox. That must be her nickname.” A vixen is a female fox, and Cavano had shortened it to VXN. They had simply never considered that his nemesis would be holding one of the important clues that they needed.

  “Do you think she knows why we’re here?” Stacy asked.

  “If she doesn’t, we’ll get a look at the tablet and then get out of here.”

  “And if she does?”

  Tyler raised an eyebrow. “Then we’re in trouble.”

  Not only did he not like the coincidence of running into the one person Orr had warned them about; his first impression of Cavano reminded him of the Cheshire Cat, the smile and purr hiding mischief just beneath the surface.

  The door opened behind them. They both stood while Cavano swept in, now dressed in a stylish gray pantsuit tailored for her curvaceous figure. Her raven hair draped across her shoulders, framing sculpted cheekbones and mahogany brown eyes.

  As she glided to her desk, Cavano never took her gaze off Tyler.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” she said, “but I’m feeling much refreshed.” She took a seat and indicated for Tyler and Stacy to do the same.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” Tyler said.

  “I understand this has to do with an ancient tablet I purchased a year ago. May I ask what your interest in it is?”

  Before Tyler could respond, Stacy cleared her throat. “I’m the host of a television show called Chasing the Past, and we’re interested in featuring it in an upcoming episode.” Not bad. Using her position as a TV personality just might work. Even though Tyler didn’t understand the craving for fame, he knew that most people would do anything for their fifteen minutes.

  “And you are the producer?” Cavano said to Tyler.

  “I’m an adviser to the show,” he said.

  “And what is your interest in the tablet, Ms. Benedict?”

  “We believe it may represent a significant highlight of Greek culture from the time during the Second Punic Wars, which would be of great interest to my viewers.”

  “I see. So you are an archaeologist?”

  “A classicist specializing in Greek culture, with a PhD from Duke.”

  “Impressive. And you want to film my tablet?”

  “Not today. We just want to inspect it to see if it’s the piece we think it is.”

  “I don’t think that should be a problem. In fact, it is in this very room.” Cavano pulled out a drawer and pressed a button. Two panels in the wall slid apart, revealing a glass case displaying several ancient objects, including two illuminated manuscripts, a bronze short sword, and a wax tablet the size of two hardback novels.

  Stacy practically jumped out of her chair and reverently approached the display, followed by Tyler. Cavano joined them, putting her hand on Tyler’s arm. Subtlety wasn’t her strength.

  “I think it’s exquisite,” she said. “Can you read it?”

  “Yes,” Stacy said without hesitation. She concentrated on the tablet, which was hinged and separated into two halves. Exposed wood around the edges surrounded rectangles covered in beige beeswax. The Greek words were quite legible, as if they’d been written the week before instead of two thousand years ago. Despite their precarious situation, Tyler was agog at the sight. If Stacy’s suspicions were correct, he was now looking at the handwriting of Archimedes himself.

  “It says, ‘Whosoever desires truth shall divine the greatest treasure. Do not look outside of yourself, but within. The skies, the stars, the moon, the sun, and the planets will be forever yours. The Parthenon provides the key.’”

  Cavano clapped her hands. “Excellent. That is precisely how my own expert translated it, although it took him much longer than you did. Do you have any idea what it refers to?”

  Stacy glanced at Tyler and shook her head. “It’s quite mysterious. Just the kind of thing we like to feature on our show.”

  Cavano laughed and returned to her seat.

  “Please, Dr. Benedict. There’s no need to go on with this farce. If you’ll sit down, I have somethin
g to tell you that I think you’ll both find very interesting.”

  A flash of alarm crossed Stacy’s face. Tyler shared the sentiment. This wasn’t good. But they were committed now. Might as well hear what Cavano had to say. He and Stacy went back to their chairs.

  “You have seen a document that was stolen before I could buy it,” Cavano said. “A manuscript referring to a map that leads to the treasure of King Midas.”

  “What makes you think that?” Tyler said.

  “Because Dr. Benedict called to ask about a puzzle created by Archimedes. That is the only reason you would ask to see my tablet.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “Not at all.” Cavano took a deep breath. “When I was nine, a boy and I were exploring the basement of a condemned apartment building in my home city of Naples when we came across a hidden room that led into a network of tunnels. We heard two men speaking around a corner and crept forward until we could see them stacking bags of white powder into crates. We immediately realized that the room was being used to hide smuggled drugs where the police would never find them.”

  Cavano’s eyes glazed over as she recalled that night.

  “The men must have heard our whispers because they stopped talking and ran after us, one waving his crowbar, the other taking shots at us with a gun. We were cut off from our entrance, so the two men chased us into the tunnels, screaming that their boss would kill them if we escaped to tell his enemies where they were. In the mad scramble, we became lost, but we couldn’t elude the men. We ran for what seemed like miles until we saw a glow reflected in our flashlights. We thought it was daylight and charged ahead.”

  Tyler hadn’t realized until this moment that he was sitting on the edge of his chair. Cavano’s tale was much more detailed than Orr’s.

  “We skidded to a halt in a chamber made entirely of gold. You may think I’m exaggerating, but every single surface was covered in a yellow metallic sheen. In the center of the room was a golden pedestal, and lying on the pedestal was a life-size statue of a woman who was perfect in every detail except that her left hand was missing. At one end, a pool of water bubbled, drenching the chamber in a steamy fog. On a high terrace at the other end of the room was a golden coffin, the sarcophagus of King Midas.”