by Sam Clarke
‘You’re welcome,’ I muttered, noticing the empty tub of ice-cream at her feet. I don’t know if there are anthropological studies on the subject, but girls seem to mend broken hearts by eating copious amounts of ice-cream straight from the tub.
‘Are you in, then?’ she asked, hinting at our earlier conversation.
‘I thought I had until tomorrow to decide.’
‘It’s past midnight. It is tomorrow. And that idiot hasn’t come back yet.’
Ah! She was guarding the gangway to pulverise any chances of Viggo smuggling Hope on board. I bit into my sandwich, it was nice. I wished I still had the other half.
She did the heretic eyebrow trick again. ‘So? Are you in or out?’
‘I’m in, but we must call a proper truce on Cressida and you must promise that, if we get caught snooping around, you won’t blame everything on me.’
She rolled her eyes and made sure I could see her do it. ‘You’re as bad as your father. Fine, I promise.’
We shook hands.
‘I did some more research on the Templars’ symbols,’ she said with a troublesome smile. ‘One of their most famous seals depicts two men riding a single horse, just like—’
The screeching sound of braking tyres made us jump. A car door slammed. Could the Russians have bypassed the brand-new security system so soon? Incredibly, we began bickering about what to do. Before we could agree on a plan, hurried steps crossed the gangway. We had nowhere to run. We ducked behind the shark cage and covered ourselves as best as we could with Isabelle’s sheet. Someone jumped on deck and Isabelle chose that exact moment to sneeze, of all places, on my shoulder. The intruder heard her and was now moving with the stealth of a Ninja. I peered out from under the sheet, only to stare into the tip of a speargun. ‘One move and I’ll hook you like a tuna!’
I swallowed. Did that count as a move?
Isabelle immediately recognised her beloved’s voice and emerged from our canvas fort. ‘Put that thing down, Viggo. It’s just us.’
He stepped forward. The alarm in his eyes was replaced by sheer disappointment. He shot me an accusing stare which, I suppose, was better than being shot with the speargun. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ he yelled, lowering the weapon. ‘What are you doing back here at this time? Is that… a bed sheet? Actually, don’t answer, I don’t want to know. I don’t have time for this right now.’
Isabelle threw me a killer look, not that I had brought the sheet in the first place. A strange smell lingered in the air, I couldn’t place it, but it was kind of overpowering. Viggo strode towards the stern clutching the abhorrent pink cardigan in one hand and my father’s new fishing gun in the other. We trotted after him. ‘Did your date finish early?’ asked Isabelle, unable to hide her jubilation.
Viggo swung round to face her. ‘Yes, not that it’s any of your business.’
She wriggled her nose. Ah, he was the culprit! He must have used half a bottle of cheap aftershave. I was a few metres behind, but could have found him with my eyes closed. He resumed walking and she kept on cantering behind him. He reached my father’s cabin and began pounding on the door. ‘Magnus, open up, it’s important.’
‘It’d better be.’ My father’s sleepy voice was followed by the sound of a rusty key turning in a rusty lock. So much for the best security money can buy. He stood in the door frame in his pyjama bottoms, rubbing the sleep from his face and trying to focus on his visitors. ‘What on earth is this smell?’ he asked, suddenly awake.
Viggo groaned. ‘It’s my new aftershave.’
My father inhaled and blinked. ‘It’s making my eyes water. I have a meeting with someone I can’t stand tomorrow, can I borrow it?’
‘Sure, knock yourself out.’
‘Literally.’ My father inhaled again. ‘What’s the essence supposed to be?’
‘White musk.’
‘More like musk ox!’
‘It should have highlighted my uncompromising masculinity,’ said Viggo, aware that the aftershave had brutally failed to deliver.
‘It does, it does,’ said my father, trying to cheer up his deflated assistant, ‘in a primal sort of way. I picture a very sweaty warrior after a three-day battle in the scorching heat.’
Viggo was instantly more upbeat. He smelled his shirt without passing out. ‘You’re right, it’s primal!’
Isabelle pulled a face and kept on pinching her nose. The doors of the cuckoo clock sprang open and the mechanism shot out. There was no bird.
‘Can I come in?’ asked Viggo.
My father stood aside.
‘Can I come too?’ I asked, hoping that the aftershave fumes, the missing cuckoo and my father’s sleepiness would play in my favour.
‘The more, the merrier,’ he answered from the bottom of a yawn, totally missing Viggo’s stare which intimated the opposite. Viggo placed the cardigan on my father’s desk and babbled something in Swedish.
‘If it’s about the map, Noah can stay,’ replied my father in English. ‘Isabelle, go back to bed.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she protested. ‘If you want me out of this cabin, you’ll have to remove me by force.’
My father didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Do you prefer to be dragged or carried?’
I felt a bit sorry for her, but not enough to take her side. She huffed and stormed out. Viggo handed my father two folded pieces of paper. ‘They were hidden in the cardigan’s sleeves,’ he said, ‘they fell out when Hope tried it on.’
My father opened them up. They were covered in Arabic writing. I gulped. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘The monks must have made a copy of the Arabic pages,’ said Viggo. ‘The prior wanted them to forget about the book and move on, but Brother Cristobal couldn’t. He tried to help us, but we didn’t see it.’
I couldn’t believe our own stupidity. ‘The cardigan wasn’t just a ruse to give us the name of the book, it was a way to smuggle the pages out of the monastery.’
‘That’s right,’ said Viggo. ‘And Cristobal’s reference to the Gospel of Matthew wasn’t accidental either. I looked up the Sermon on the Mount. One of its most famous verses is Ask, and it will be given you. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and it will be opened for you.’
My father seemed too oblivious to our combined genius. He kept on staring at the Arabic writing, hypnotised. ‘How’s your Arabic?’ I said, trying to break the tension.
‘Not bad,’ he mumbled, without looking up.
My mouth fell open. ‘You speak Arabic?’
‘Yeah, when you were little I spent a year and a half between Jordan and Israel.’
It was yet another reminder of how disjointed our lives had been. I selfishly hoped that the pages made no sense. Knut would have to be informed and, whenever he came, I was likely to go. ‘What do they say?’
‘It’s a first-hand account by…’
He suddenly let out an eloquent expletive.
‘By whom?’ I asked, alarmed.
‘Arabic is complicated, I’ll need some time to translate this properly,’ he replied, even though it was perfectly clear that he had grasped more than he was letting on. He asked Viggo for some coffee.
‘Will those pages affect my being here?’ I asked. His failure to answer fuelled my fears. I didn’t want to go to boarding school, I had to fight my corner. ‘Whatever they say, the pages are linked to the map, and you promised that—’
He raised his hand to stop me. ‘I have never broken a promise and I don’t intend to start now. Trust me, I’ll work something out.’
#
Viggo levelled nine tablespoons of coffee and dropped them in the cafetiere. While it brewed, he quietly sent some texts. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who the recipient was. ‘So, how was your date?’ I asked.
He shook his head deliberately slowly. ‘Dude, it had so much potential, but everything, and I mean everything, went wrong.’
‘I’m a good listener,’ I offered. ‘And it will stay between us…
dudes.’
I felt utterly idiotic using that term, but Viggo appreciated the gesture. He pushed the plunger down and imprisoned the coffee granules at the bottom of the cafetiere. ‘I picked Hope up from the dive shop. Less than ten minutes into the drive she started to sneeze. It was too early for pollen season, but I rolled up the windows anyway and… things got worse.’
He was mortification personified. ‘The aftershave?’ I asked sympathetically.
‘It obviously over-highlighted my uncompromising masculinity. No girl should be allergic to that, right?’
‘Right,’ I said, painfully aware that his fragrance could knock out the dead.
‘Anyway, Hope’s a real sweet girl and didn’t want to ruin our date, so we stocked up on tissues and drove to the restaurant. We totally hit it off, dude! She was into me too because, at closing time, she suggested going to the Green Parrot for drinks. Did I mention that she lives right above the Green Parrot?’
‘No.’
‘Do you get where I’m going with this?’
‘To Hope’s flat.’
I’m ashamed to say I was a bit jealous. Not that I would have known what to do if she had invited me to her apartment in the middle of the night. He lowered his head, crestfallen. ‘I wish I had never given her the damned cardigan. When the pages came out, I immediately put two and two together. I explained that Magnus needed them urgently and that we had to take a rain check on the Green Parrot, but she thought I wanted to wriggle out of the date. She was mad, dude! I asked for the bill and tried to use my coupon, but the stupid manager insisted it wasn’t valid and charged me full price. The restaurant didn’t take credit cards and I hadn’t brought enough money, so I had to ask her to chip in. I offered to drive her home, but she got a taxi instead. Do you think I blew my chances?’
Like leaves in a gale! I struggled to formulate a response that wouldn’t dent his morale and he appreciated my silent honesty.
‘It’s OK, thanks for not lying to my face.’ He put the cafetiere on a tray and placed a mug next to it. ‘I’d better take this to Magnus before it gets cold. Looks like it’s going to be a long night. You should go to bed.’
For a while, I did, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt. Viggo was my friend and he was going through a bad patch, I shouldn’t have left him alone. I decided to check on him. The kitchen was deserted, but his still-warm empty mug was sitting on the counter, next to his I-pad and one of the sat-phones. I examined the screen: two missed calls from someone called Kostas. And that’s when I heard Viggo’s voice coming from the control room. Judging by the amount of begging, he had to be talking to either Hope or God. The sound of the sat-phone vibrating against the counter startled me – Kostas again. I picked it up with the honest intention of saying that Viggo wasn’t available, but hadn’t banked on Kostas firing words faster than a machine gun, without as much as a single breath in between.
‘Viggo, this is Kostas from the Legal Department.’ I tried to interrupt, but he wouldn’t let me. ‘I’m calling about Magnus’s trip request. My understanding is that he wants to include two young civilians in his team on the basis that a fully-fledged member should be allowed to choose his own crew. Moving minors across international borders is a complex issue, I need to ascertain parental responsibility. Can you confirm that, according to governing laws, Noah Joakim Larsson is his son and that Magnus has temporary custody?’
The prospect of coming clean faded into the background. Who the hell was this guy? Had my father found a way to keep me in his treasure hunt despite the recovery of the Arabic pages? ‘Yes,’ I said, before my better judgement had a chance to take over.
‘And I understand that the girl is Miguel Santiago de Castillo’s daughter and that he will also be involved in the operation. Correct?’ asked Kostas in a single breath.
His guess was as good as mine. ‘Um… yes.’
‘I see. As far as I can tell, his request isn’t in breach of any governing laws and is compliant with our rules, therefore the youngsters will be allowed to join his team on a temporary basis. Of course, the usual protocols will have to be followed. From a purely technical point of view, the minors can be regarded as adults, therefore standard procedures will apply.’
‘The minors can be regarded as adults?’ I echoed, wondering which rules he was talking about. ‘Seriously? As in… grown-ups?’
I couldn’t believe I had just said that, for a moment I thought I had blown my rickety cover. My mysterious caller, in typical lawyer fashion, seemed unperturbed by the stupidity of my question. Lawyers charge by the hour, stupid questions are an essential part of their livelihood. ‘Our rules were written in medieval times, back then fifteen-year-olds were of age. They could marry, rule countries and do everything in between.’
I shuddered at the idea of Isabelle ruling a country. The caller continued. ‘I’ll forward my findings to Operations. Unless there are objections from the higher levels, Magnus’s trip request should be approved within the next thirty minutes and he will be granted access to the necessary resources.’
‘And if there are objections?’
‘Then it’s up to Magnus. His request is most unusual, but if he wants to pursue it, he’s on solid ground. The rules are clearly in his favour.’ For the first time, he paused to breathe. His tone changed from cold efficiency to sincere worry. ‘I need you to give Magnus a message, strictly off the record.’
‘Sure.’
‘From what I can see there is no specific need for the minors to be involved. If anything happens to them, this whole thing would blow up in his face. He should choose wisely.’
I thanked him and hung up. It took my shaky fingers three attempts, but I managed to delete the two missed calls. Hopefully, since my father’s request was going to be approved, nobody would ever find out about my conversation with Kostas. I needed to speak to Isabelle, but I couldn’t risk being found in her cabin in the middle of the night. Viggo had been gracious enough not to tell my father about our supposedly romantic encounter behind the shark cage, not that there was much to tell, but I had pushed him far enough. I combed my hair and Skyped her from my bed. I filled her in on my call with Kostas and her eyes got as wide as my phone-screen. We were still messaging when my father barged in. He seemed surprised to find me awake, then saw my phone and broke into a knowing smile. ‘Girlfriend?’
‘Farming game.’
Not that it was something to be proud of, but I was turning into an excellent liar. ‘Pack your stuff,’ he said. ‘This time tomorrow you’ll be farming in Sicily.’
CHAPTER 27
The speed camera flashed. ‘Dad, you’ve triggered another one,’ I said. He slowed the car down. Marginally. We had flown to Sicily on a commercial flight and our rented people carrier was about to reach the outskirts of a town called Licata. My father had brought me up to speed with his translation of the Arabic pages. I was obviously being fed an abridged version: in 1318 a French knight called Godefroi de Carignan was travelling on the doomed Nuestra Señora ship when she had sunk off the coast of Sicily. Despite sustaining serious injuries, Godefroi had managed to reach the shores of Licata, which back then was called Limpiadum. The locals had rushed him to a monastery in Agrigento, where his wounds could be tended to. Unfortunately, infection had set in and it was only a matter of time before Godefroi would succumb to his fate. The knight was carrying the mysterious twelfth ring, a coveted item even in those years. To prevent it from falling into the wrong hands, he had embarked on a final journey to deliver the ring to a secure hiding place. Before setting off, he had marked his intended destination, the approximate position of the sunk Nuestra Señora and the towns of Licata and Agrigento on the map in our possession. Pity our map was incomplete and, as luck would have it, the ring’s hiding place happened to be drawn on the scroll’s missing part. My father couldn’t have cared less. Apparently, he and Miguel were good at cracking mysteries and they were certain that an in-depth study of Godefroi’s letter would have revealed clu
es to the ring’s location – they couldn’t believe that the knight would put all his eggs in one basket. I sincerely hoped their gut feeling was right. Knut, who was adamant to add the ring to his private collection, had hired my father’s company to retrieve it and was financing the expedition. I knew there had to be a lot more, but kept quiet and pretended to go along with it. Unsurprisingly, I also kept quiet about my conversation with Kostas.
The plan was to go to Sicily and retrace Godefroi’s steps. The knight’s only connection to Licata was to have been washed up on its shores, so our stay wouldn’t be long – enough to recover from the jet-lag and, hopefully, crack the letter. My father and I had never been on a long-haul trip before and he was determined to make it a bit special. He had pledged to spend an entire afternoon hanging around with me and had even hired a boat to explore the Sicilian coast. If I survived the drive, we would finally spend some quality time together.
#
We were booked into a private residence in an area known as Quartiere della Marina. We parked the people carrier and proceeded on foot through the narrow, winding streets. A bunch of prehistoric housewives took a break from their daily chores and studied us with unwelcome interest. Viggo’s passage was marked by a series of appreciative comments and a lady that could have passed for a mummified corpse blew him a kiss. We stopped in front of an arched, wooden door that faced directly into a tiny street. The building was three stories high and its pointy windows had a Middle-Eastern feel. There was no doorbell, no knocker and no post box: the worst nightmare of a door to door seller. My father knocked confidently, the spy hole opened and framed an inquisitive dark eye. ‘Open Sesame,’ commanded my father with a straight face.
I was too tired to laugh, we were in the middle of Licata and he was quoting a phrase from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Isabelle used her last reserves of energy to produce a couple of weary scoffs, which died down as the door creaked on its hinges. We entered a reception room furnished with oriental carpets, floor cushions and round low tables. The shabby exterior did the building no justice. ‘Your rooms are upstairs,’ said us our host, who hadn’t bothered asking who we were.
