Malcom smiled sympathetically, as though what he was about to reveal would crush their dreams. “How did they get there?”
Sam paused. “That’s a good question. The drawings, if they were true, depicted a ship from 1655. How often does this lake change its depth?”
“Since its discovery,” Malcom said, “the water level hasn’t changed a foot.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sam lowered the additional dive tanks to the staged decompression stops. He and Tom completed a final check on each other’s SCUBA equipment and stepped into the lake. He sank to roughly five feet and checked his dive computer and equipment. Everything was working fine.
“How are you looking, Tom?”
“Good. Let’s go find that picture.”
Sam swallowed to allow his ears to equalize as he descended. He and Tom dropped quickly, maintaining visual contact with each other throughout the process. The light from above served them adequately until they reached sixty feet. Sam switched on his dive flashlight and pointed it below. A large golden cave catfish glanced at them from blind eyes and swam past.
“I wonder if it tastes any good?” Tom asked.
“Don’t even think about it. That fish is unique to this cave only, and its numbers are estimated at less than a hundred and fifty.”
“Sure. But do you think it tastes any good?”
Sam ignored him. Instead he concentrated on his depth gauge. With no rain or other runoff affecting the lake, the visibility was unbelievably good, making it difficult to judge their descent. The lake started shallow at the beach on the eastern end of the cavern and headed deeper to the west. The tunnel narrowed the further west it went; the subsequent result being that while the lake’s surface measured at nearly two hectares, the bottom was no more than fifty feet at its widest point. It took Sam and Tom just under ten minutes to reach the cave’s bottom.
“I guess the bottom’s not so mythical after all,” Tom said.
Sam glanced at his depth gauge. It read 405 feet. “It looks like whoever took that photo either was a really good guesser, or they actually were the first to ever reach the lake’s floor.”
“Yeah, and if that’s true, then hopefully they were telling the truth about the pyramid, too.”
“Let’s go find out.”
They swam to the closest wall of dolomite. The bottom of the inland abyss wasn’t quite round. Instead it was more like an uneven oval. Sam shined his flashlight against the wall. There was relatively little silt built up on the wall. If there were any hand drawings on it, they would have seen them. He scratched his hands along the wall, removing the little silt, until it he was confident he would identify the same part of the wall when he reached it again.
Sam then started moving in a clockwise direction, constantly keeping his flashlight pointed at the wall along the way. Directly behind him, Tom made a second sweep of the same spot. They moved quickly. The deeper you go, the greater the pressure exerted on all gasses, which means the Trimix becomes compressed. At a depth of 410 feet, they were diving at twelve atmospheres, which meant they were using their gas twelve times faster than they would if they were on the surface and their bottom time wouldn’t be very long at all.
It took less than five minutes to make a complete circuit of the bottom of the lake and return to the initial spot where Sam had made his mark.
Tom looked at him. “Where’s the damned hand drawings?”
Sam shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Did we miss something?”
“Like what?”
“Maybe it goes deep at the center.”
“I don’t think so,” Sam said. “But we may as well have a look before we start our ascent.”
They swam toward the middle of the oval-shaped bottom of the lake. The lake definitely didn’t descend any further. Sam was about to suggest they start making their long ascent to the surface, when he spotted the boulder. It was probably originally at least eight or more feet tall, but a lot of it had sunk into the surrounding floor of the lake.
“I just had an idea,” Sam said. “What if that boulder was once well above the lake inside the main cave in 1655?”
“Of course!” Tom kicked his fins and swam toward the boulder. “They documented their loss on the stone. Sometime since then, the dolomite weakened and the rock fell into the lake, hiding with it any evidence of a pyramid in the region.”
Sam shined his light on the boulder. There was nothing. He swam to the opposite side and there in front of him was a hand drawn picture of a pyramid. Next to it, was a ship with three masts fighting a losing battle with a terrible storm. Wisps of dark smoke ran through the legs of the stick figures who stared up at the pyramid. In between the two pictures was a note written in modern English with some sort of red ink. Sam stared at the message.
Don’t let the Third Temple rise!
“What the hell does that mean?” Tom asked.
“I have no idea. It looks like whoever took that first picture was sending us a message.”
“Or someone else.”
“The question is, who?” Sam took several digital photos of the pictures on the rock.
“Famine?”
“Maybe. But I don’t see why someone would be trying to leave him a message. Besides, he didn’t look fit enough to make it here.” Sam put his camera away. “One thing’s for certain, there was a pyramid in Namibia at some time and I’m pretty confident that’s the Emerald Star being sunk off the Namibian coast.”
“Not sunk,” Tom said. “Judging by this image, it was swallowed by the sand.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It took more than four hours to reach the surface by the time they had completed the necessary decompression stops along the way. Sam thought about the Emerald Star for a moment. The discovery was irrefutable evidence the ship had been lost along the shallow waters of the Namibian Coast. If that was true, it was also likely the second part of the note found in the hidden chamber below Derinkuyu was as well – inside the ship was the key to the Third Temple, and their only chance of finding Billie. He also equally knew that it would likely be impossible to find her after all these years.
At Malcom’s insistence, they completed a mandatory three hour sit time on the raft before making their way to the surface. It then took nearly an hour to make the slow climb to the surface. One of the guides had a hot dinner waiting for them.
Tom studied the photos taken on the digital camera. His eyes leveled at the ship and then glanced at Sam. “You’re certain that’s the Emerald Star?”
“Yes.”
“So why don’t we head to the Skeleton Coast and go find her?”
Sam shook his head. He knew the constantly changing coastline would make it impossible to locate. “We’re better off trying to locate the pyramid instead, now that we know it was here.”
“Why? We already know the Emerald Star was carrying the key to the Third Temple?”
“Because it’s been lost for just over three hundred and sixty years.”
Tom shrugged indifferently. “And you think that’s too long?”
“It is along the Namibian coast.”
“Why?” Tom asked. “With the introduction of ground penetrating LIDAR, we can survey the area by air. It can’t take too long. We’ve found ships buried in harder to find places.”
“It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because at last estimate, the Namibian government predicted approximately four thousand shipwrecks were buried beneath the sands of the Skeleton Coast. But the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration predict that number might actually be much higher.”
“We’ve overcome worse odds before. Besides, we have nothing to go on with the pyramid – if that is even the same pyramid where Billie has been taken.”
Sam said, “The problem is the Namibian and Angolan coast isn’t static. With its massive sand dunes dropping directly into the cool waters of the Atlantic, the Skeleton Coast has
no set lines. It’s constantly changing shape and location. The prevailing southwest wind is cooled down by the cold Benguela Current to the extent that no cloud formation can take place, but instead a thick fog bank develops and penetrates miles deep into the Namib Desert. Every so often – maybe once every few decades – a powerful storm causes the winds to change direction. When this happens, a powerful eastern wind races across the desert and dumps millions of tons of sand into the Atlantic, moving the beach hundreds of feet further westward.”
“The sands are reclaiming land from the sea?” Tom thought about it for a moment. “The image of the Emerald Star that we found inside the Dragon’s Breath Cave shows the ship being swallowed by a sea of sand. There must have been a massive storm coming from the east.”
“Yes.”
“Then could we calculate backwards?”
“You mean, work out the known movement over a decade and then work backwards until we have the shape of the coast in 1655?”
Tom nodded. “Why not. It might work?”
Sam shook his head. “Unfortunately, while the eastern winds like to move the sand further west, the powerful and destructive force of the Atlantic Ocean often tried to reclaim its coast. The subsequent tug a war means there is no way of predicting where the coast was when the Emerald Star sank.”
“What we need, is a survey of the coast.”
Sam nodded. “Yes. But where are we going to find one taken on the year of the great storm?”
Tom paused. “There must be historical archives from the Portuguese expeditions into Southwest Africa? Surely they must have some sort of survey of the coast?”
“I’m sure they do, but how accurate could they be?”
Tom paused and then nodded in understanding. “John Harrison wouldn’t have completed building his first Sea Clock until 1730 – which means that any reference to the Skeleton Coast prior to that would have been based on a known latitude and visual guess work, without any reference to longitude.”
“Exactly, which means we’re back to square one. Looking for the lost pyramid of the Kalahari Desert.”
“Yeah, without any leads,” Tom said. His voice was hard and despondent as he spoke. “We could try ground penetrating LIDAR swathes from the air… but the Kalahari Desert’s a big place. We might just end up spending the rest of our lives searching before we found any evidence of the pyramid.”
Sam’s cell phone rang. He answered it, spoke briefly, and then hung up. A small glint of a smile creased his lips. “Change of plans. Forget the Kalahari for the moment. That was Elise on the phone. I need you to go to Istanbul instead.”
Tom nodded. “Sure. What’s in Istanbul?”
“Elise thinks she’s tracked down Peter Smyth and he might have an idea where the Mary Rose sank in the Black Sea in 1653. The Mary Rose was the first expedition to the Third Temple, so theoretically, if we find her, we might find a link to where she was going.”
“Great. When do we leave?”
“Not we. Just you. I’ve told Elise to recall the rest of the Maria Helena crew from their vacation and send them to the Black Sea to meet you.”
“Okay, you’re not coming, too?”
“No. I have somewhere else to be.”
“Really?” Tom asked. “Where are you going?”
“Paris. I have to attend an auction.”
“An auction? What are you looking to buy?”
Sam’s jaw fixed into a hardened grin. “Finally, some answers.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight – Derinkuyu
Dmitri Vernon pulled up at the house in a rented black sedan. Out in the front were several police officers making notes and talking animatedly on their cell-phones. It was late in the evening, and they all looked like they’d been there all day. A local news crew was filming from thirty feet away, just behind the cordoned off police lines. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. They were already making a circus out of his damned show.
He wore a tailor-fitted black suit with no brand name. He was six foot-two, but his perfectly proportioned physique gave him the appearance of a more modest stature. He wore dark impenetrable aviator sunglasses and the surly expression of a man accustomed to displeasure. He took little interest and no pleasure in his work today. It would be yet another false alarm. Not that it mattered. The timing was definitely getting closer. He had waited long enough and soon he would find what he was after. He ignored the local law enforcement officers, ducked under the police containment line, and entered the house.
A detective quickly approached. “Excuse me! Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Dmitri acknowledged the man. “Are you in charge here?”
“Yes. My name is Harun Ismet and this is my scene. Who are you?”
“My name’s Dmitri.” He handed his credentials to the detective. They gave his name as Dmitri Vernon. Below on the identification card were the words, Interpol, Special Agent. Under country of origin, were the letters, U.S.A.
The detective scrutinized the ID and then handed it back to him. “You’re an American?”
“Yes. But I’m based at Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, France.”
“Are you taking over my case?” the detective asked.
Dmitri shook his head and feigned a gracious smile. “No. I’m just here to have a look at something.”
Contrary to popular perception, the international policing organization does not have its own prisons or carry out arrests. Instead it acts behind the scenes, collating masses of intelligence and coordinating police efforts internationally. Dmitri liked to think this added to its mystique. His work generally went unnoticed, eclipsed by the national police forces that make the arrests and headlines, while Interpol rarely receives more than a line or two in news reports. The organization is a ghostly presence, informing operations on the ground, but never getting its hands dirty.
A wry smile came over the detective’s face. “What interest does Interpol have with this case?”
“Probably very little. But the MO triggered something on our database for a previous crime, so they sent me to have a look.”
“You could have called. We could have faxed you our report.”
“No. I needed to see the scene with my own eyes.”
Ismet nodded. “Follow me through to the back of the house. He’s on the bottom level.”
Dmitri followed without speaking. The house, like many of the other ones in the region, had been dug into the side of the hill, where porous volcanic stone had been easy to tunnel.
“How did you get here so fast?” Ismet asked, as he climbed down the ladder. “We only got called to the property three hours ago.”
Dmitri turned to climb backwards down the narrow ladder. “I just happened to be in the area.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of any operations with Interpol currently being run in my jurisdiction?”
Dmitri forced himself to smile. “No. I was here entirely on vacation when they called and asked if I could check it out.”
Ismet stared at him. He wore his opinion on his open face – the man didn’t believe a word that Dmitri had said – clearly Dmitri was here for a purpose. Unable to find a reason to challenge him, Ismet ignored the statement. “All right. He’s on the other side of this door, but it’s not a very nice sight. Of course, you’d already know that.”
“Do you know who he is? Or technically, who he was?”
“His name’s Kahraman Sadik.”
He didn’t recognize the name. “Is he known to you?”
“Does he have any priors?” Ismet asked. “No. He’s a good citizen. At least on record anyway.”
“What did he do?”
“He worked as a tour guide in the ancient city below for nearly twenty-five years.”
Dmitri nodded and opened the door. The light switch had been left on and it shined directly on the deceased man’s face. Dmitri took in the entire scene in a glance. The deceased was short. He had been stripped bare and his hands and feet ha
d been nailed onto the wood of a small cross at the center of the room. His stomach appeared unnaturally large. A recent surgical incision was noted just above his navel which had been neatly sewn up. Next to the body was an antique set of brass weighing scales. Although the nails appeared painful, he had no doubt they weren’t the cause of the man’s death.
He glanced at the detective. “Do you have a cause of death?”
“No. Only the wounds you can see clearly and none of them is lethal.” Ismet chuckled. It was the sort of thing only a seasoned detective could find amusing. “Of course, we don’t know what was done to his insides before being stitched up.”
Dmitri nodded and studied the deceased more carefully. A few minutes later he stopped at the man’s mouth. There was something inside. He removed a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his pocket and placed them on his hands. “Do you know what that is?”
“No idea. I wasn’t informed there was anything.”
Dmitri carefully opened the man’s mouth. “Do you mind if I have a look. See if it might answer some questions?”
“Sure,” Ismet said, appearing happy to have someone else perform the task.
Dmitri studied the item more closely. It was leathery and had been stuffed deep inside the man’s mouth to form a thick seal over his windpipe and esophagus. He slowly pulled at it until it came out. It was made of vellum, the old animal skin paper used for parchment writing.
A moment later – about the time it took him to take a single breath – the deceased man’s mouth started to open on its own like some sort of evil incarnation of the dead coming back to life, as hundreds of tiny red locusts filled the room.
Dmitri ignored the insects as they scattered throughout the living room, but their symbolism was hardly refutable. Instead, he focused on the words written on the vellum scroll.
A quart of wheat for a day's wages, and three quarts of barley for a day's wages, and do not damage the oil and the wine.
Ismet glanced over his shoulder and said, “What the hell does that mean?”
Dmitri removed his aviator glasses, revealing deep purple eyes that fixed on the detective’s rapt expression of horror. He swallowed hard. “It means there’s a famine coming.”
The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 3 Page 17
