His satchel, or more precisely, its contents—the Phaistos Disc—had been drawn into the powerful magnetic field.
That’s interesting.
But there was no time to explore the mystery. Ignoring the satchel, he gripped the black box in both hands and slid the device toward the door knob. As the electromagnet moved, it pulled the metal latch bolt clear of the strike plate, and the door popped open.
“Top that, Dr. Jones,” he said.
As soon as he switched off the device, the satchel fell away, but Pierce barely noticed. He stuffed the device back into his pocket and ventured through the door onto the rooftop, above the museum’s first floor. The low wail of police sirens greeted him. Close but not yet too close.
Pierce ran to the edge of the rooftop, trying to get oriented. He could just make out the harbor off to his left, a couple of miles distant, at the base of the slope upon which the city of Heraklion had been founded. That meant he was on the east side of the museum complex. If she stuck to the plan, Fiona would be leaving from the south, only a few hundred yards away. Pierce would have preferred a route that led him further away from her, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He looked down, focusing his attention on the more immediate problem of his own escape.
Because the museum was built on a hillside, the ground was a lot further away than he had anticipated—at least a forty foot drop. The wall below was smooth concrete, with no windows or ledges.
Note to self, addendum: Also bring rope. He growled in frustration. Forget Indiana Jones. He was going to have to start wearing a utility belt like Batman...if he actually made it out of this without getting killed or arrested.
He switched on his MagTac and shone the beam along the low parapet at the edge of the rooftop. A square shadow caught his eye and revealed a small opening that fed into a metal downspout that ran down the exterior wall.
Pierce stared at it for a few seconds. He could think of at least a dozen reasons why trying to shinny down that pipe was a foolish idea, but the one argument in favor of it was even more compelling: he had no other choice.
The sirens were getting louder.
Biting his lip, he hoisted himself onto the parapet and swung his legs out into space.
Oh, crap. Nope. Can’t do this.
But there was no turning back now. Although he was still gripping the edge of the roof, too much of his body weight was already hanging out over the side. Climbing back up would be harder than sliding down the spout.
He stretched his feet out, probing the wall until he felt the pipe. He tried to grip the slick surface with the soles of his boots, but struggled to find purchase. Despite his lifelong action-hero fantasies, he had always been the kid in gym class who couldn’t climb the rope to save his life.
You don’t have to climb, he reminded himself. Just go down.
Going down was inevitable now. It was just a question of whether he slid or plummeted.
He unclenched his left hand from the parapet and reached down for the pipe. It was secured tightly against the wall, with no room for him to wrap his hand around it, but he got his best grip on it and squeezed with all his strength.
Now the other one.
His right hand seemed to have developed its own opinion on the subject of letting go. Pierce squeezed the spout even harder with his left, trying to work up the courage to… “Just. Let. Go.”
He let go.
Gravity seized control of the situation. There was a shrieking noise, like air escaping from a balloon, as the soles of his boots rasped against the pipe. Pierce felt a bloom of heat against his palm, friction caused by sliding down the spout much faster than he had intended. Frantic, he groped for the pipe with his right hand. He felt more friction heat as his fingertips grazed the wall, but somehow he managed to grab hold and squeeze—
He hit the ground like a pile driver. White hot skewers of pain stabbed up through the soles of his feet, all the way to his knees. Yet, even as he pitched backward, staggering like a drunken sailor and finally landing hard on his ass, he knew that his efforts to slow the crazy descent had not been futile. He was still alive.
Ignoring the pain, he got to his feet and shuffled across an open space that appeared to be a cross between an active archaeological dig and a picnic area. A wrought-iron fence guarded this section of the museum perimeter. The street beyond was quiet, but Pierce moved along the fence until he was in the shadow of a large rhododendron bush. Then he attempted to scale the barrier. The climb out required more effort than the climb in, and was less graceful, but he was in the homestretch now.
He dropped to the base of the fence and slid down a sloped retaining wall to the sidewalk. The street before him was one of the main boulevards running down the hill toward the harbor. There was a good chance at least some of the police units responding to the alarm would be coming up it. He stripped off his ski-mask and gloves and shrugged out of his black turtle-neck to reveal a garish tropical print shirt—just the sort of thing a tourist might wear. Then he started down the sidewalk, moving as nonchalantly as his aching legs would allow. He took the next left, heading west down the narrow urban canyon between the museum and a neighboring office building.
The siren noise abruptly peaked as a police car, with emergency lights flashing, rounded a corner and raced toward the museum entrance. Pierce decided it was better to look directly at it, like a curious passerby, rather than turning away and arousing suspicion. The vehicle did not slow, but continued past, the noise of its siren building to a high-frequency shriek before Dopplering away to nothing.
Pierce did not allow himself a relieved sigh. Fiona was still back there somewhere, her fate uncertain. He quickened his step, wincing as each footfall stressed the minor injuries sustained in his fall, and continued on toward the designated rendezvous point.
“Please let her be safe,” he whispered, a prayer to any actual God who might still be paying attention.
4
Fiona had only just arrived at the exit, when an alarm sounded from somewhere in the building behind her.
Well that takes care of that, she thought, twisting the knob and easing the door open. After a quick check to confirm that the courtyard beyond was still deserted, she stole forward, keeping to the shadows, and scaled the fence in the same spot she and Pierce had used to enter. As she waited for a car to clear the nearby traffic circle, she stripped off her black over-garments and stuffed them into a nearby storm drain. Clad in denim shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with a silk-screened likeness of the Acropolis, she looked like a young tourist out for a late-night stroll. She hoped Pierce was having as easy a time sticking to the plan.
She crossed the street and skirted along the edge of a city park, heading west, not moving toward a specific destination but putting as much distance between herself and the museum as possible. The noise of the alarm had already diminished, but she could hear police sirens in the distance.
“Need a lift?”
The voice startled her. She had been so focused on getting away that she had failed to notice the car pacing her. A quick glance showed a man with wavy blond hair leaning out the side window of a blue sedan. He looked old—probably as old as Pierce, who had to be at least forty. The man immediately raised her hackles. The last thing she needed right now was some perv hitting on her. She looked away, trying to send a clear ‘buzz off’ message with her body language, realizing only then that the man had spoken in English.
British, judging by the accent.
The man called out again. “You’re here with George Pierce, aren’t you?”
The question startled her, and she came to an abrupt and unintentional halt. She forced herself to resume walking, refusing to give any further acknowledgement, but her mind was racing to make sense of the situation.
“I saw you come out of the museum just now.” His tone was offhand, casual.
Fiona stopped again. This time, she gave him more than a cursory look. Aside from the fact that he had approached h
er out of the blue, after evidently stalking her and Pierce, there was nothing particularly scary about him. Somehow that only made the situation worse.
“The police are going to be here soon,” he continued in the same unruffled manner. “I’m sure they’re bound to notice me following you, and since I have no intention of just driving away, you should probably ask yourself whether you want to attract their attention.”
Fiona muttered a curse under her breath. Under any other circumstances, she would have welcomed the arrival of the police. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Liam Kenner. Dr. Pierce and I are colleagues.”
“Never heard of you.” It was true. Fiona had been attending classes at the University where Pierce taught. She knew everyone in the department, and most of the other archaeologists who came and went on a regular basis. The name Kenner did not ring any bells.
“We were acquainted several years ago.” Kenner paused a beat, then set the hook. “When he first began his search for Hercules.”
If she had not already been standing still, Fiona would have tripped over this revelation.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Kenner went on, “but I really think we’d both be more comfortable if you joined me. I don’t bite.”
Fiona desperately wanted to beg off, citing the old wisdom about not taking rides from strangers. Something told her that Kenner might be more dangerous than a random sexual predator, but the mere fact that he knew about Pierce’s connection to Hercules convinced her that not knowing was even more of a risk.
“Well, I do,” she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “If you try anything…” She let the threat hang. Kenner merely smiled.
As she circled around to the passenger side, Fiona stuffed her hands in her pockets, trying to make the gesture seem as casual as possible. The fingers of her right hand closed around the wallet containing the lock picks. They would be very effective stabbing weapons, if the need arose. She noted a rental sticker in the corner of the windshield. That was a good sign. It meant Kenner probably wouldn’t have been able to rig the electronic locks to hold her prisoner. At the first hint of trouble, she could stab him with a pick and then jump out.
She slid into the passenger seat but didn’t buckle the seat belt. “Okay. Talk.”
Kenner smiled again, then turned his eyes forward. He started to pull away from the curb, but at that moment, a pair of police cars screamed past, going the wrong way on the one-way street, heading for the museum. Fiona tried to hide her concern for Pierce behind a mask of indifference, but Kenner was not going to let her off that easy.
As he started forward again, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the receding lights. “You and Dr. Pierce separated. Why?”
“Long story.” She stared straight ahead. “What do you want?”
“Actually, I want the same thing George does. The truth.” He paused, perhaps hoping that she would voluntarily fill the silence. When she did not, he went on. “Has he told you the story? Seven years ago, he discovered proof that Hercules was a real, historic person, named on the manifest of a ship from the fifth century BC. The ship was the Argo.” When she did not respond to this, he glanced at her. “Does your American education include the classics? Argo? Jason and the quest for the Golden Fleece?”
Without meeting his gaze, Fiona replied, “Although the most complete account of Jason’s voyage, the Argonautica, was written by Apollonius of Rhodes in the third century BC, the works of Homer make reference to both the Argo and Jason, not to mention Herakles—” She broke from an otherwise flat monotone to emphasize the correct Greek pronunciation—“which date to at least the year 850 BC and may be as much as two centuries older than that. So, while my uncle might have discovered a ship named Argo, with a crew member named for the mythological hero, I doubt very much he would have made the mistake of believing that it was the inspiration for a legend that was at least five hundred years old when that ship was built. That’s what I learned in my American education.”
Kenner burst out laughing. “Touché, my dear. As a matter of fact, I think I made a similar observation at the time. I don’t recall what George’s reaction was. Regardless, shortly thereafter, the document was stolen. George believed the theft was the work of a secret society dedicated to preserving the legacy of Hercules.”
Fiona felt a chill of apprehension and dug her hand deeper into her pocket. Had Kenner spotted the tattoo on the back of her right hand?
The symbol, a circle crossed by two parallel lines, was the mark of the Herculean Society, a souvenir of her first encounter with Alexander Diotrephes. It had always reminded her of a livestock brand, not so much a declaration of ownership as a sign of protection. Despite all the grief accompanying his interference in her life, Fiona had for a time secretly liked the idea of having the legendary Hercules as her guardian. Throughout her high school years, she had done her best to keep the tattoo hidden from her classmates at Brewster Academy. With her olive-complexion, raven-black hair and distinctly Native-American features, not to mention the fact that she was a Type 1 insulin-dependent diabetic, she was already different enough.
The symbol of Hercules was not widely known outside the Society, though it had been adopted as a Druid sigil in the 1960s. But if Kenner had done his homework, he would probably have come across it.
“Secret society?” Fiona rolled her eyes and tried for her best dismissive teenager voice. “Cool story. Is that why you were following Uncle George and me? Are you in this Hercules Club?”
“I’ll tell you, if you tell me why you and Dr. Pierce broke into the museum tonight.”
Fiona weighed her options. She was not about to share the truth about the Society with this man, no matter who he claimed to be or how much he claimed to know. But what tack should she take? What lie should she tell?
Before she could make up her mind, Kenner chortled again and clapped her shoulder. Fiona jerked away as if his touch had been red hot, but he continued laughing, oblivious to her reaction. “Just having a spot of fun with you,” he said, though his humor sounded forced. “Of course I’m not part of that group, if it even exists at all. And your business at the museum is none of mine. Where can I drop you?”
The abrupt reversal stunned Fiona almost as much as the uninvited familiarity, and it took her a moment to gather her wits. Did he want her to take him to Pierce? Was that his game? If so, she wasn’t going to play.
“That old fort,” she said, choosing one of Heraklion’s most notable landmarks.
“The Koules fortress?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he sensed what she was trying to do.
“That’s the one.”
Kenner said nothing more, but at the next intersection he made a right turn, heading in the direction of the old harbor. They made the short journey in almost complete silence. Kenner merely looked ahead, focused on the road. A few minutes later, the marina appeared. Fiona could just make out the squat silhouette of the old Venetian fortress that had once guarded the port. It was situated on a causeway that was part of the long breakwater, which still sheltered the marina.
Kenner stopped the car near the entrance to the breakwater, which was barricaded to prevent vehicle traffic. He looked out at the fort. “Rather isolated here.”
“I’ll be fine.” Without another word, Fiona opened the door and got out.
“If you should see your uncle,” Kenner called out, “Ask him to contact me. I have some information that may be of interest to him. Provided he’s still looking for Hercules, of course.”
Fiona kept walking toward the old monument. The faint noise of an engine revving and tires crunching on pavement prompted her to glance over her shoulder. The car was moving away.
Kenner had not been wrong about how isolated the place was, but Fiona was a lot more worried about him coming back than running into some lurking stranger. She calculated the distance to the edge of the causeway. If Kenner came after her, she would leap into the harbor and
swim for it.
She kept walking, but when the receding taillights disappeared, she ducked behind a barrier and waited. A minute. Five minutes. There was no sign of Kenner.
She dug her phone from a pocket, checking for messages from Pierce. Nothing. She started to tap out a text message to him, but stopped short of sending it. If he had been caught or arrested, then the police would be monitoring his phone. They might be able to use it to track her down.
Even if he had not been captured, he would be observing the ‘no contact’ rule that had been part of the plan.
She left the message unsent.
The designated rendezvous was about two miles away, at the Heraklion Airport. Her arrival at such a late hour would be less likely to attract unwanted attention than anywhere else, even at a hotel, but she knew the real reason he had chosen the airport for a fallback position. If he was not there waiting, she would board a waiting jet, which would take her to a destination known only to the pilots. The Gulfstream G550 was owned and operated by one of the Herculean Society’s many shadow enterprises—legitimate corporations that facilitated operations in every part of the globe, not to mention providing a steady source of revenue. The flight crew, like most of the people employed by the Society’s subsidiary ventures, were unaware of the role they played in protecting the world from history, and history from the world. They did not even know the Herculean Society existed, much less that they were a part of it. But they would follow Pierce’s instructions to the letter.
That might have been Pierce’s plan, but there was no way she was going to leave him behind. Still, maybe there was another way she could make use of the Society’s resources.
She opened the Internet browser on her phone and found the contact information for the company that managed logistics for the Society. She called the international number, and then identified herself as a passenger on the Gulfstream. She hoped that would accord her VIP status, but the operator promptly put her on hold.
Herculean (Cerberus Group Book 1) Page 4
