by Attard, Ryan
He took the coffin out to sea, amidst the blue waves of his true home, the Caribbean. There, he sunk his coffin and returned to Jamaica where he bribed a government official to tamper with the records. As far as the books went, no boat was rented, no coffin purchased, and some lucky man simply happened to stumble upon ten pounds in silver.
Shortly thereafter, Finnegan and Tier settled down together in a small house by the countryside where she bore him a son—a son that would be the catalyst for events to come.
As for the coffin, Finnegan knew that the waves would carry it off until, eons later, it would end up in the precise spot it needed to be.
Until that moment in time, the coffin, with all its secrets, was destined to lie beneath sea, sand and sky, waiting for the one chosen to reclaim it.
PART 2
“All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible. This I did.”
— T.E. Lawrence
Chapter 13
Trinity College, June 2012.
Nick Solomon was late. Again.
He darted in and out of groups of students, bobbing and weaving like a boxer in a ring. People yelled out in surprise as he passed by, while others stared as he ran like a maniac towards his class—and on a Monday morning no less.
Coming at five feet seven, wearing a leather jacket, a shirt depicting his favorite electronic band, and jeans with a belt buckle of an All-Seeing-Eye inside a triangle which he’d gotten at a Tomb Raider expo, students had a hard time processing the fact that Nick Solomon was in fact a professor of archeology and history at Trinity.
On this particular day he had even chosen to keep his sunglasses indoors; not due to some fashion statement, but because he knew his eyes would implode if he dared take them off.
“Bad day for a hangover.”
It wasn’t the worst one he’d had. Compared to last month’s underground rave and the excruciating morning afterwards, this one was quite mild.
Professor Solomon had always gone the extra mile in showing that he did not abide by the rules.
If this had been any other member of the staff, they would have been kicked out as soon as the paperwork permitted, but he was Nick-freaking-Solomon.
He was shot to fame when he was just a doctoral candidate, after a discovery which started off as an expedition inside an ancient medieval burial site, but ended up in the discovery of a long lost city, where Nick stumbled upon the tomb of a certain monarch which centuries later would inspire the legend of King Arthur. Money and attention followed soon after, but Nick’s true love was in the adventure and mystery.
But discoveries like his were rare and every other expedition he went on yielded nothing.
Slowly he began falling into a depression, and in an effort to regain some control over his life, Nick sold all of his fancy possessions and moved into a small apartment, much like the one he lived in during his college years. He even went back to school, this time as a teacher, when not authenticating relics for museums on the side.
Given his age, fame, and charm, his classes had become increasingly popular over the years. Professor Solomon was perhaps not the best teacher around, but he taught with the upbeat charisma of a jazz musician. He told stories, jokes, and recounted adventures, some of which he asked the students never to repeat outside of the classroom walls.
In short, Professor Nick Solomon was making the best he could out of his life, all the while searching for his next big adventure.
“Rough night, Teach?”
Tyrone Wilson sat at his teacher’s desk with his usual smirk. As soon as Nick came in sight, Tyrone handed him a coffee cup and a folder of paper. Nick took a sip of coffee, freshly brewed from his favorite diner three blocks down, and slowly regained his ability to form coherent thoughts.
“Never, ever try to pick up twins at the same time,” he moaned.
Tyrone’s eyebrows shot up, trying his best to hide his smirk.
“It sounds like a good idea on paper,” Nick continued, “but in reality, it’s just twice the work. Which means twice the booze.”
Tyrone shook his head. “That’s why I stick to one girl at a time,” he said condescendingly.
“Probably a good idea,” Nick replied. “I got up to twelve Jagers before I gave up. And I’m pretty sure they couldn’t take a hint.”
“Maybe you just getting’ too old, Teach.”
Nick Solomon, aged thirty two, gave him a dark look. “Say that again and the next gravesite we visit will be yours.”
Tyrone held his hands up in mock surrender and both men burst out laughing. This was normal banter between them: they were colleagues and, more importantly, friends. Solomon saw in Tyrone the same fire he himself had when he first discovered the wonders of the past. And Nick needed to be around that passion to remind himself that he wasn’t alone—that he needed to work harder, not just for himself but for his students as well.
A few minutes and two cups of coffee later, Nick burst into the classroom with his usual swagger. The students were still chatting away until their teacher’s energy diverted their attention towards him.
“How are you guys doing?” he asked, scanning the dopey-faced classroom of twenty five students on a monday morning.
Without missing a beat he turned to a guy in the front row who had been chatting up the girl behind him. She wore a particularly disgusted look, one that Nick himself had been on the receiving end of more times than he could count.
“Dave,” Nick said with a grin. “She’s not gonna sleep with you. In fact, she’s about to go all restraining order on your ass so time to move on, buddy. Find a new victim.”
Dave, who had all the right qualities of a jock whose sole purpose at Trinity College was to party until his liver gave out, looked down, embarrassed for just a second. But then he gave the professor a sheepish smile, still thinking that he had a shot with the female population on campus without either good looks, brain cells or a steady supply of alcohol.
Nick winked at the girl whom he just saved from Dave’s harassment and gave her a cheesy smile. She rolled her eyes at him, scowling.
One in every class, Nick thought, as he shifted his focus on today’s lecture.
“Okay then. Mouths shut, eyes on the man of the hour—me, in case anyone can’t get a clue—and let’s get rolling.” Solomon opened the file Tyrone had prepared for him earlier, and spread the lesson plan in front of him without bothering to read its contents. He grabbed a piece of chalk and scribbled on the antique black board, which for some reason he was weirdly attached to; maybe because he saw it as a throwback to less technological times.
Nick put the chalk down, wiped his hands on his trousers and once more turned to face his class. “Today, we shall discuss the Golden Age of Piracy.”
Chapter 14
Class was finally over, and Nick was looking forward to wasting an hour on YouTube. Perhaps he’d even try to nap.
Most of his students had rushed out of class, eager to get to the good pastries at the cafeteria. Sometimes, a student or two would linger behind to talk to him. Usually, they just wanted to rope him into upping their grade or, in a few genuine cases, actually ask a relevant question.
The man who stayed behind was clearly none of the above. In fact, he wasn’t even a student. Nick saw him sitting at the very back of the Greek-theatre-style hall, his hawk-like features eyeing Solomon.
He made his way down to the teacher’s desk and smiled at Nick.
“Interesting lecture, Professor Solomon.”
Nick glanced at the other man with him, this one built like a flesh wall; one of those thick, stubby men, almost as wide as they are tall. Nick noticed he had one of those earpieces in his ear—a bodyguard, no doubt.
The first man spoke again.
“Alejandro Astrid,” he said by way of an intr
oduction. When he extended his arms, Nick noticed a fine Italian silk shirt emerge beneath the sleeve of a Hugo Boss suit as well as a nineteenth century cufflink.
“You have expensive tastes, Mr. Astrid,” Nick said, shaking the man’s hand. He felt no need to introduce himself—the man clearly knew who he was.
“I can afford it, Professor Solomon,” Astrid replied. He fiddled with the cufflink. “Antiques are a particular hobby of mine.”
Nick let out a small snort.
That type again, he thought.
Ever since he branched out into the authentication business, he’d met hundreds of guys like this one. Rich, well-groomed billionaires, probably an heir or a CEO of an oil company or a chain of superstores, who watched way too many Indiana Jones movies and fancied themselves as collectors. The sad part was, these guys usually had some authentic pieces locked away, stuff that belonged in museums, to be shared with the rest of the world.
“Consulting rates are on my website,” Nick replied dismissively.
He began walking away but the bodyguard blocked him in.
“Dude,” Nick said. “Seriously not in the mood.”
“Forgive my associate, Professor,” Astrid said. “I just want to show you something that I think might interest you.”
He held up what looked like a blackened, silver coin. Nick was about to retort with a very rude comeback, but something on that coin sent a cold shiver down his spine.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, his tone filled with wonder. He opened his case and extracted a multi-tool. Selecting a small magnifying lens, he took the coin and examined it.
It was indeed silver, and very old. The Latin markings placed it around the sixteen-hundreds, towards the turn of the century. Nick could make out the words entrance and order on the coin, but without sitting down and spending a few minutes with it, he wasn’t going to be able to fully decipher the etchings on the side. Most of the engraved images had blackened over the years.
What really caught his attention, however, was the carving of a large man holding out a globe. On the other side of the coin were similar etchings, this time of a crowd bowing down.
Those images stirred back memories, reminding Nick of the stories he was taught back home.
Nick had been brought up in a cult of sorts, in a large nomadic compound, much like the ones hippies used to live on. Except these people didn’t advocate flower power. Instead, they brainwashed kids like him, telling them stories about monsters and alien gods, and how man is a mutation created by those gods. For that reason, they trained like a militia, and were forced to memorize every major historical detail so as to spot any possible alien presence. Nick remembered how miserable life was, particularly for him.
They had told him he was special, that he was chosen by God. Everyone expected him to be super human.
No wonder he hightailed it out of there at the age of sixteen.
Bunch of looneys, he thought, pushing the memories aside.
Astrid loomed over like a hawk.
“Fascinating, yes?”
“Indeed,” Nick replied. “I’ve never come across this particular type of coin. It appears to be a marker of some kind.”
Astrid beamed, revealing a set of painfully bright dentures. “Yes. That is a mark of Initiation of the Order.”
“The Order? Is that any order, or with a capital O?” Nick asked, half-joking.
“Yes.”
Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you a Tom Clancy fan, Mr. Astrid?”
“I do not see the validity of that reference,” the man replied curtly. “The Order was a secret society originating in Europe in the seventeenth century. Spain, to be exact. Right after Columbus’s voyage.”
Nick Solomon let out a sigh. “Mr. Astrid, I hate to burst your bubble, but there were hundreds of secret societies during that period. The world was changing. People thought the Queen was either God or the Devil. The same went for Spain, France, Holland, and Portugal. The New World, good old America, was full of its own cultures, which then the monarchs generously wiped out. Not to mention the conflicts between the Catholic and Protestants churches. Not exactly stable times.”
“Yes, Professor, I am fully aware of that,” Astrid said, extracting a small tablet device from his jacket. He uncovered the flap and tapped the gadget several times.
“Perhaps a little documented evidence might persuade you,” he said, handing Nick the tablet.
Nick began scrolling through the images and found himself staring at multiple photographs of the same ledger, one with a red leather cover. The word order could be faintly made out on the front. The next images were of pictures of old, faded paper full of handwritten text, each detailing voyages, missions, or a conspiracy. Twice, he caught references to stories of deities coming down to aid mankind, giving us tools and knowledge.
They were familiar stories—too familiar.
And then, he noticed it. It was just a fleeting thought, but he knew exactly where it led. This was why he never went anywhere near myths and legends, not anymore. His mind could filter fact from fiction, something which these rich megalomaniacs with “clues” to Atlantis clearly could not.
“El Dorado,” he read. “The Golden One.” He tore his eyes off the tablet and looked Astrid in the eyes, searching for signs of mental instability. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s a clue, yes?” Astrid asked.
“It’s insane.” Nick found himself sighing again and handed over the tablet. “Mr. Astrid, let me be straight with you. There are millions of so-called clues and leads to lost cities of gold, and alien civilizations, and crystal skulls, and Arks of the Covenant. But they are all stories, Mr. Astrid. The last genius who had the bright idea of trying to find El Dorado wound up dead with malaria and cholera. They found him years later in the Peruvian jungle. So, do yourself a favor, Mr. Astrid, and forget about this. It’s a legend, that’s all. A bedtime story. Leave it at that.”
Astrid’s eyes turned into ice before he put on his poker face again.
“Very well, Mr. Solomon,” he said. “I thank you for taking the time to speak with me.” He extracted a business card and a three hundred dollar fountain pen. “This is my contact address. Should you change your mind, come visit me. We would have much to discuss.”
And without another word, he spun on his heels and headed towards the door.
“Hey, wait,” Nick yelled after him. Astrid turned his head, and Nick held up the coin. “You left this.”
“It is a useless trinket, Professor. I have many more at home. Keep it.”
Nick considered that, but he knew that if he kept that coin, it would stare back at him, nudging at his mind. It would poke at his thoughts with that nagging voice, the same voice that told him to accept any expedition, so long as it was an expedition.
But El Dorado was just a legend, a pipe dream, and it would break his heart.
“Hey, Big Guy,” Nick called out to bodyguard.
The steroid case turned to glare at him with the same expression worn by an enraged Hulk. Solomon flicked the coin in his direction and the bodyguard caught it on reflex.
Nick grinned. “Merry Christmas.”
***
Secret Government Base, some time later.
Director Stanley Briggs was sipping his third cup of coffee that morning. He hated waiting as much as the next guy, but eight years as director of an agency so secret it would be considered terroristic, had ingrained patience in him. But sometimes, he needed his adrenaline. It would certainly wake him up on this day.
Two nights: that’s how long the Spanish millionaire had been on US soil, and that was how long his agency had been on alert.
Today, it looked like his wish for action would be granted.
The control room was small and tight, crammed full of laboring tech operators and even more computer screens. Technology was not his favorite thing in the world; it was easy to hide one’s intention behind a keyboard.
“Astrid made
contact with Red Target,” one of the operators reported.
Briggs pursed his lips. He remembered reading Red Target’s file—an archaeology and history professor who had caught a lucky break. Nowadays, he fancied himself the Indiana Jones type.
The only surveillance footage they had so far was of a man in his thirties partying like a college frat boy. Briggs remembered his disgust when reading the file—at that age he was still serving with the SEALs and very close to joining the counter-espionage business.
Briggs was a disciplined warrior and something about Red Target just pissed him off.
A dark, predatory smile crept on his lips.
“Let’s ruin this guy’s day.”
Chapter 15
For Nick, shopping was always an interesting experience. He preferred getting his own groceries, although often he wondered why he bothered stocking the fridge he had in his apartment when he was hardly ever there.
Sure, he slept there, but most of his waking hours were spent at the office. He’d even put a flat screen and a couch in there.
As he walked down the aisles, he picked out items and dumped them into his cart. Despite his lifestyle, he still took care of his body and diet. The way he figured it, if he ate well, then he could handle the partying. Besides, having your own food at the college was a good idea. Anything was better than the cafeteria slop they made students eat.
Worse yet, it was organic slop—as if that somehow made it any better.
He waited in line for his turn at the cashier. His lessons were over for the day, but those papers weren’t going to grade themselves. Besides, it was Friday, and no way was he going to miss that concert after having saved up for those tickets. Finally, it was his turn, and he quickly dumped a dozen items on the counter as the pretty lady behind it worked the barcode reader. She swiped his card and smiled. Danielle was her name, and she looked like a college student. The first thing Solomon noticed was how cute she was, in a girl-next-door kind of way.
