The Oracle

by D. J. Niko

  A rapid knock startled him. He turned off the faucet before opening the door.

  Evan stood on the other side. Behind him, a violet-hued, cloudless sky heralded the arrival of a clear day, the first in weeks. “I heard the water running and figured you were inside.” He looked over Daniel’s shoulder into the room. “I hope I’m not disturbing.”

  Daniel’s tone was clipped. “What can I do for you, Evan?”

  “I have been trying to get into the lab, but the code does not work. Any idea why?”

  “We had some unwanted visitors overnight. Probably the same goons who broke into the museum. I had to change the code.”

  Evan blinked rapidly. His raven eyes looked huge behind thick glasses. “Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier?”

  Daniel was careful what he said around Evan. It was obvious someone on the inside was feeding information to the looters. Until Daniel could determine who that was, he didn’t trust anyone. “Well, I’m telling you now.” He scribbled the new code on a piece of paper. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour. I have some questions for you.”

  Evan started to say something but instead nodded and walked away.

  Daniel locked the door and went into the bathroom to take a shower. The intensity of the last thirty-six hours was beginning to wear on him, and he needed to reboot. But even as he stood beneath the stream of warm water, there was no escaping his thoughts.

  It began with a plane crash.

  His recollection of that late-November day was indelible. Even now, the flashing red light from the cockpit—the first sign of trouble—replayed often in his mind, sometimes haunting his waking hours, other times jolting him from sleep. It appeared when he sensed danger, flooding his mind’s eye with the color of blood. He could not shake it, nor could he forget the pilot’s frantic calls of mayday as the controls failed.

  He was the sole passenger on Sir Richard Weston’s private plane, headed from London to New York City, when it fell out of the sky. The plane plunged nose-first into the gray waters of the North Atlantic with such speed he could feel the g-forces threatening to push his eyes out of their sockets. He recalled his vision blurring as gossamers of cloud whizzed past. At that surreal moment, he thought they were the wings of angels who had come to claim him.

  He was certain he was going to die. But it wasn’t the worst of it. He knew with all his conviction the plane had been sabotaged, and he knew who had done it. And Sarah, en route to Israel at the time, would likely be walking into a similar trap. He had no way of warning her, and he regretted that above anything else.

  It was the first time he had prayed, struck a bargain with God. If I make it out of this alive, he vowed, I will make sure Trent Ashworth and his piece-of-shit father are brought to justice for what they’ve done, even if I have to exact it myself.

  Great waves of frothy water battered his window, and the plane shook like a jackhammer hitting a slab of steel. He felt himself spinning in a gray vortex. His seat, with him still buckled in, dislodged from its base by the force of the impact and spun wildly through the metal tube, slamming against the front of the plane. Warm blood trickled into his eyes. His senses began to leave him. The last thing he saw was the heaving waters of the Atlantic enter the cabin through a gaping hole where the tail once was.

  How he got onto the wing, he would never know. He recalled only awakening beneath a steely sky, his bones aching like he’d been crushed in a vise, his teeth rattling from the cold. He smelled scorched metal and jet fuel, an odor that would forever be branded onto his olfactory memory.

  He was broken, but he was alive. Even if it took his last breath, he would make good on his promise.

  Daniel pushed his wet hair back and let the warm water from the shower pelt his face. If only it could wash away the memories that tormented him, wipe away the guilt.

  It was a miracle he’d survived. He was found by some English fishermen, good-natured blokes who didn’t mind keeping a secret. They delivered him back on English shores, and he made his way to London. His first call was to Sir Richard.

  Sarah’s father, who at the time was on a diplomatic mission to Uzbekistan, was stunned to hear from him. “Good heavens, Madigan. We all thought you’d perished.”

  “Your plane didn’t go down by accident, Richard. I know who’s behind it. Does the name Trent Ashworth mean anything to you?”

  “The new chap heading up Judah Oil and Gas. James Ashworth’s son. He’s a bit of a zealot, that one. We’re monitoring the situation in Jerusalem.”

  “Trent and his father sabotaged your plane. I can prove it.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I’ve had some messages from Sarah that sounded quite distraught. She said she was on her way to Jerusalem. Is she in some sort of danger?”

  “Jesus.” Daniel rubbed his burning eyes. “We have to move fast. I need access to the hangar video . . . and someone from the inside who can help me nail down a case of international conspiracy.”

  “You ought to call James Langham. We’re on the Joint Intelligence Committee together. He’s former MI5. He has means that you and I can only dream of. I shall alert him you will be ringing.”

  “Be careful what you say.” Daniel lowered his voice to a whisper. “If this is going to work, no one can know I’m alive. Not even Sarah.”

  His first meeting with James Langham was in a nondescript mews flat in Islington, where government heavyweights held clandestine rendezvous. Langham did not fit the textbook image of a man of power. He was the height of a jockey with far too much flesh for his frame and a thatch of disheveled white hair. His suit looked as if he’d slept in it, and the top button of his shirt was loosened to make room for the pink rolls that sprouted beneath his chin.

  But the glint in his hyperalert green eyes suggested he gloried in the hunt. And so it was.

  Langham had already known about Trent Ashworth’s dubious rise to the helm of Judah Oil and Gas and about his father’s conspiracy to sell aircraft defense systems and intelligence to the Israelis, a move that could well have led to war in the region. It was a precarious situation on the verge of developing into a clear and present danger. So far, Joint Intelligence had nothing illegal to pin on the Ashworths, so Daniel’s claim of proof of criminal activity was enough to cause Langham to cancel a day’s worth of meetings and head to Islington.

  Daniel played for Langham the hangar video that showed the bald, pale-blue-eyed technician working on Sir Richard’s plane. It was the same man who had worked on Harry Ashworth’s—Trent’s brother—plane before its systems failed during a flight over Scotland. Daniel then told Langham about the witness who could corroborate his story and watched the portly man’s lips curl into a tight smile.

  “If what you say is true, you have just done a great service to the crown.”

  “Be that as it may, I have a different motivation. Richard Weston’s daughter is in danger. She’s in Israel, and she’s being hunted by Trent Ashworth. I need your help getting to her before he does.”

  Langham sat back on a wingback chair and tapped his fingers together. “There may be something we can do.” He studied Daniel’s face for a long moment. “Tell me, Dr. Madigan, how far are you willing to go for your friends?”

  Daniel sensed this would cost him. But whatever Langham’s currency, he was prepared to pay it. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Good.” Langham sprang from his seat with more energy than he looked capable of. He walked to a filing cabinet and removed a folder. “Weston tells me you can be trusted with privileged information. I should like to show you something.”

  Daniel joined him at the dining room table. Langham opened the folder to reveal a set of photos of artifacts in storage. Daniel knew the objects well. “The Elgin marbles.”

  “Indeed. The Parthenon sculptures and friezes Lord Elgin brought back to England in the early 1800s—the subject of much controversy, as you no doubt know.”

  Daniel nodded. He was well aware of
the Greeks’ desire to repatriate the objects and believed they had every right to claim them. He decided to leave his own convictions out of the conversation, for the British were immovable on their position.

  “A priceless collection, no doubt,” Langham continued. “One the Greeks would like to have back. They claim, as do other critics within the international community, that Great Britain has no right to the sculptures because they were removed without permission.” He turned to another photo. “This is an English interpretation of an official translation in Italian of the original firman issued by the acting grand visier of the Ottoman Empire, in 1801. As you know, this was what allowed Lord Elgin to legally buy the marbles on behalf of His Majesty King George III.”

  Daniel knew of the controversial document. Many scholars had doubted its authenticity because it was two steps removed. Worse yet, there were discrepancies between the English and Italian translations, casting an even greater shadow on the purchase. The English version included alterations convenient to the British—for example, it named Lord Elgin’s secretary as the official expediter, while the Italian version did not—and was eventually accepted by the Parliament, legitimizing the crown’s claim.

  “Naturally, the Greeks claim this document is a fabrication. They are calling for a reexamination of both translations by an independent body, seeking inconsistencies that would allow them to bring the case before an international court.” Langham pursed his lips. “It is preposterous.”

  “Preposterous or not, it’s reality. Not much Britain can do to stop it.”

  “There is one thing that will put an end to this dispute once and for all: the original Turkish firman, signed by the grand vizier himself.”

  “But that has never been found.” Daniel raised an eyebrow. “If it ever existed at all.”

  “Of course it existed. Britain acquired those treasures through legitimate means and has a right to them now. It is thought the firman was destroyed during the War of Independence, but we have reason to believe it was stolen by Greek fanatics and guarded for generations.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me you know where it is.”

  “If only it were that simple. We’ve been seeking it for decades, and we are quite close—but not there yet. Allow me to explain.” He reached inside the cabinet and pulled out another folder. “Our investigation has launched us down a rabbit hole that is rather deep. We have been tracking an antiquities ring that has allegedly amassed billions of dollars’ worth of Greek and Ephesian artifacts, mostly through unlawful means.”

  “You mean theft.”

  “Quite right. And flagrant theft, indeed. Most of it is happening under the noses of the Greek authorities, who have neither the power nor the resources to stop it.”

  “What proof do you have of this?”

  “Let me show you.” Langham pulled a stack of photos out of the folder and tossed them onto the table.

  Daniel looked through the images depicting crates sitting in a warehouse and close-ups of their contents—marble sculptures, classic black-figure pottery, bronze and gold jewelry. “Where were these taken?”

  “In a south London warehouse hired by a prominent gallerist, an Egyptian chap named Ishaq Shammas. We were tipped off by one of our agents that the shipment contained a bust of Apollo stolen from the museum of Olympia some years prior. So we went in to investigate and eventually arrested Mr. Shammas for trafficking in stolen goods.

  “But in the process, we discovered something very interesting. The shipment prior to this one contained a document of Turkish provenance dating to the time of the Ottoman occupation of Greece. According to the warehouse log, the document was signed by the Kaimakam—the grand vizier—of the Ottoman Empire.”

  Daniel rubbed his eyes. The headache that had been plaguing him since the crash had begun to intensify. “Are you saying this guy was in possession of the original firman?”

  “That is exactly what I’m saying.”

  “So what happened to it?”

  “That’s what we don’t know. Supposedly, it was delivered along with the rest of the shipment to a collector whose identity Mr. Shammas has refused to reveal, even under pain of incarceration. He has since been extradited to Egypt and is now serving time in a rather unsavory prison in Cairo.”

  “Where does that leave you?”

  “We simply have to obtain the information another way. Which shouldn’t be hard, considering the pillaging of Greek artifacts continues. There has been a rash of thefts in Greece and the Turkish coast, which we believe are related to Mr. Shammas and his star collector. We were led to this conclusion by something we found whilst searching the gallery computers.” He removed a drawing from the folder. “This rendering was attached to an e-mail sent by Mr. Shammas to one of his brokers. It read simply, Any price. Trouble is, shortly after the arrest, that broker was found hanged in his flat.”

  Daniel studied the artist’s sketch of a golden obelisk with a sharp end, like a stake. The lack of ornamentation made it difficult to peg to any era. He’d not seen anything like it and questioned whether it was ancient at all. “I don’t get it. Why is this significant?”

  “We don’t know. But by a marvelous stroke of good fortune, we do know where it is. And we intend to use it as a linchpin to get to this collector—and to the document that rightfully belongs to the British government.”

  “Is this the part where you tell me what you want from me?”

  Langham closed the folder and placed it back in the filing cabinet. He gestured to Daniel to follow him to the library. They sat opposite each other on red leather armchairs that smelled slightly of tobacco. Langham sucked on an unlit cigar and began. “In addition to my duties for Her Majesty’s government, I also serve as chairman of the A.E. Thurlow Foundation. You may know of it.”

  He did know of it. It was one of the oldest British institutions, capitalized to the tune of two billion pounds, and a major funder of archaeological research worldwide. “Go on.”

  “When we researched this obelisk and discovered it was in custody in a small museum in Greece, we decided to extend a rather sizeable grant to the local ephorate. They were in dire straits, so they were elated at the news—and willing to do anything we asked. Our condition was that the object be kept in the museum under heavy security.

  “Meanwhile, we would leak the information in a controlled fashion so that it got to the operatives of this antiquities ring whilst we set a trap. We haven’t been able to execute on that, because we haven’t got the right partner on the ground.”

  “Surely the director of the ephorate—”

  “The Greeks are buffoons. They cannot be trusted.” His eyes glinted as he stared at Daniel. “What we need, Dr. Madigan, is a very smart and capable archaeologist who’s sympathetic to the crown—or at least owes us a favor—to execute the plan.”

  Daniel could see where this was going. “And what would that involve, exactly?”

  “Studying the obelisk and publishing your findings in the proper academic journals. And when the looters come—and they will come—working with an Interpol team to ensure they are in custody. We’ll take it from there, and you’ll be free to go.”

  Daniel rubbed his throbbing forehead but quickly withdrew his hand when he felt a sharp sting from a gash above his left eye. He exhaled.

  “We can take care of your assignment papers straightaway—if you’ll agree.”

  A wrinkle formed between Daniel’s brows. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course you have a choice. This isn’t an autocracy.” He placed a hand on his guest’s shoulder. “You could choose to be on your own—at which point we would wish you luck with saving your partner’s life.”

  Langham had driven the point home: if Daniel wanted their help, he would have to play their game. “Fine. I’ll go to Greece. But she comes with me.”

  “You can bring along the Dalai Lama if you so choose. But no one can know about this assignment. No negotiation.”

 
Daniel turned off the water and felt the chill in the room needle his wet body. Langham’s plan had sounded simple enough, but it had gone wrong. Before Daniel had a chance to study the object and publish about it, the information was leaked another way. As a result, the theft caught them unawares—and now they were scrambling for plan B. Daniel had thought about walking away and taking the consequences, but he had given his word. To him, that still meant something.

  The only way out of his predicament was through it.

  The image of Sarah’s perplexed face, outlined in the chalky glow of moonlight, was branded onto his memory. If she ever caught wind of the deal he’d cut and the secret he’d kept, she surely would walk away—for good this time. He wouldn’t blame her. But even if it meant losing her, his conscience was clear: he had done what was necessary to save her life.

  He dried off and threw on his well-worn Rutgers hoodie and the dusty, ripped jeans he’d been wearing for a week. It was time to face the day.

  Eight

  Though she knew the looters were after the brass spike, Sarah had spent the early morning hours studying something altogether different. She had a hunch the wolf’s head rhyton held some clues that would help them piece together a theory on the mysterious object no one could identify.

  She examined the pottery specimen under the fluorescent lights. It was painted in the Corinthian black-figure tradition against a natural clay background. The technique was prevalent from the Peloponnese to central Greece starting in the seventh century BCE but eclipsed in the early fifth century BCE, when the Athenians introduced red-figure painting, which was considered far superior. In Sarah’s opinion, early black-figure painting—the intricate carving out of detail on silhouetted figures before firing—was underappreciated.

  This rhyton was a perfect representation of the technique at its height. The face of a she-wolf was frozen in a menacing snarl, its narrowed eyes delivering a warning to the beholder: Partake of me at your own peril.