The Secret of Hades' Eden
by
Graham J Thomson
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, names, organisations, events and places are conjured from the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, actual events, or organisations is purely coincidental.
The Secret of Hades’ Eden © 2011 Graham J Thomson
Cover art © 2011 Graham J Thomson
All rights reserved.
Graham J Thomson was brought up in the picturesque Scottish coastal town of Kirkcudbright – known as The Artists’ Town. After reading Genetics at the University of Glasgow he joined the British Army and served in the Intelligence Corps. Since leaving military service he has worked in international corporate crime investigations and information security. He lives with his wife near Cambridge.
For Annabel and Libby, for their love and the memories that make it all worthwhile.
And for Margaret, who will never be forgotten.
“See how the god hurls his bolts at the greatest houses and the tallest trees. For he is wont to thwart whatever is greater than the rest.”
Herodotus of Halicarnassus, 484-425 BC.
Monday
Hemera Selenes ‘day of the moon’
Chapter 1
0627hrs – Glenancross, Scottish Highlands
A new day began on a remote highland beach in the far northwest coast of Scotland. The pale orange glow of the dawn sun pushed away the darkness of the dying night as it rose slowly over a damp green hillside. Morning dew sparkled in the short grass, a thin layer of mist hovered just above the ground. Down the hill and over the beach, the fresh sunlight spilled out onto the calm sea that stretched all the way to the horizon, while seawater lapped calmly at the shore’s edge.
A light onshore wind blew gently up the beach, over the rocks and onto the narrow country road where several sombre men dressed all in black waited impatiently by their vehicles. They fidgeted and shuffled to keep warm, it had been a long wait. One of them, a colossal hulk of a man with a shaved head, scanned the horizon with a large set of binoculars.
Further down the beach two men stood side by side, arms folded, and stared out to sea. Cold salty air filled their nostrils with a heavy scent of the ocean.
‘They’re late,’ one said to the other in a broad Scottish accent.
‘Don’t worry, they will be here,’ was the stern reply. The man’s voice was deep, the accent Russian. ‘Just be sure your men are ready. And stick to the plan, whatever happens.’
‘I don’t like this,’ the first man added. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together vigorously. ‘It’s too light. We can be seen for miles around. And this terrain carries sound for a great distance.’
‘Then shut up,’ barked the Russian. Impatiently he checked his phone; there were no messages. ‘Come on. Idiots.’
The man with the binoculars waved frantically down to the two men on the beach. The Russian narrowed his eyes and nodded to him. The rest of the men reacted to the silent order immediately. They scurried away and took up their positions.
Slowly, from the distance the vessel approached. The jug-jug of its engine grew louder as it neared, breaking the calmness of the morning. It was a mid-sized fishing boat painted blue and white. Lines of red-brown rust ran down its sides from the gunwales all the way to the water’s edge like tears of blood. Up on the bow was the silhouette of a man. He stood motionless, like a hunter stalking his quarry, and carefully scanned the coastline through binoculars.
When the vessel was only a few hundred metres from the shore the man on the bow adjusted his skipper’s cap and made his move. He raised both his arms out and held the position for a few seconds. Back on the beach the Russian in response raised his arms out in a similar fashion, but then moved them up over his head and down again. He repeated this movement twice. Seeing the corresponding response the skipper disappeared into the cabin.
Moments later the low rumble of the engine stopped with a grunt. Once again there was only the eerie sound of waves breaking on the sand and rocks.
The skipper reappeared, another dark figure joined him and they walked to the bow. The skipper threw an anchor overboard, while his first mate threw a rope ladder over. Together they lowered a small rubber dinghy into the sea and one by one climbed down into it. They rowed around to the stern of the vessel where the skipper precariously leant over the edge and untied a rope that was hidden somewhere below the water line. With the end of the rope secured, they turned and rowed towards the shore.
Once they had beached, the sailors jumped out. The skipper walked up the beach with the sodden rope dragging behind him, while the first mate pulled the dinghy up onto the sand. As he approached the skipper grinned and held out his arms to the side.
‘Your delivery is here,’ said the skipper. Jamaican in appearance and accent, he smiled widely as he spoke. His gold encrusted teeth sparkled in the sunlight.
The Scottish man took the wet rope without a word and dragged it further up the beach to a green Range Rover. He bent down and attached it to the winch at the rear of the vehicle. Another of the men then jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The winch turned and began to reel the rope in. At first it groaned and struggled with the weight. The vehicle was pulled a few inches down the beach until its wheels dug into the moist sand and held firm. Slowly two large black streamlined objects emerged from the sea. At the same time two other Range Rovers each fitted with a trailer were reversed down the beach.
As the objects were pulled further out of the sea they began to resemble mini submarines. Once they had been dragged a few metres up onto the sand, the rest of the team set about securing them onto the trailers.
‘Is it all in there?’ the Russian asked the skipper.
‘Yeah-man. Six tonnes of pure white,’ he said, still grinning. ‘Now where is my . . .’ he held his hand out and rubbed his fingers, ‘. . . money?’
The Russian turned and nodded for the skipper to follow him. They walked up the beach and on to the road where there was a black BMW parked. The Russian opened the back door and leaned into the seat. The rest of the men stopped their work momentarily and turned to watch. Taking a few seconds to rummage around, the Russian then took hold of something, withdrew and turned to face the skipper.
The skipper’s eyes widened in confusion as they focussed on the short black silenced MP5 submachine gun that was held firmly in the Russian’s hands. Before the skipper’s brain had time to tell his legs to run like hell, the Russian fired from the hip. Almost soundlessly a quick burst of three rounds penetrated him in the chest at point blank range.
Falling instantly to the ground he looked up, his mouth soundlessly opened and closed as he crumpled onto the sand. Callously, the Russian aimed the muzzle at the man’s head and pulled the trigger once more. A single silenced shot was sneezed out. The skipper’s life expired where he lay.
Seeing his skipper fall, the first mate staggered backwards, turned, and ran back towards the dinghy by the shore edge. In his rush his petrified legs failed him and he tripped and fell. Quickly, he picked himself up and ran at speed towards the sea.
The Russian calmly took aim and fired off several short bursts. Despite the distance most of the shots found their target. The first mate was thrown forward onto the shoreline by the force of the rounds that perforated his back. Struggling to hold on to his life he crawled away with all his might. Sand and water exploded around him as more rounds rained down. His struggle ended abruptly when a round rammed into his spine. Waves broke over his lifeless body; the water pulled at it trying to claim it for the sea.
The show over, the men went back to work. The Russian
congratulated them for a job well done.
‘Get the goods to the plant exactly as planned,’ he said. ‘You have one hour. Drive carefully. We cannot risk a crash now. Remember, your reward awaits you at the island.’
When the men had driven off with the cocaine covered and secured, the Russian took out his phone and called his boss to update him on the good news.
‘It rose in the east,’ he said and waited for the reply to his code-phrase. ‘Yes, boss, they were there just as you said. We were successful . . . It is on its way now . . . Yes, of course, there are no witnesses . . . Thank you boss, that is very generous.’
He hung up, pocketed the phone, and sat back settling into the warmed leather seat. He ran his thick fingers through his short blond hair, rubbed his scarred face, and slowly breathed out. The huge weight that he had carried for months had now lifted. The plan had worked, as he knew it would – his KGB covert operations training had never failed him, skills for life. The difficult part of the mission was over. It was only a matter of time now. The rest of the plan would fall neatly into place. It was all downhill from here.
He smiled to himself. The world wouldn’t know what had hit it.
Chapter 2
1918hrs – Cambridge
Sat in front of a computer screen in the Cambridge University Library, Ella Moore stared out of the small leaded window lost in her thoughts. Scattered across the old scarred wooden desk in front of her were several books on Egyptology, astronomy, and ancient Greek mythology. She held one open, its spine rested on her lap. She hadn’t read more than a page of it before drifting off. She stared into space lost in her thoughts and daydreams. She twirled her long auburn hair in her fingers.
Ella found the sanctuary of the library peaceful and comforting. Quiet and hidden away, she could lose herself in her books, and reflect on her studies. And, it being summer, there were few other students around to bother her. She had the place almost to herself most evenings.
The University Library, or the UL as it was known, was one of the great libraries of the world. Its vast, and often rare, collections boasted everything from a three-thousand year old text written on bone, to a colossal electronic archive of the world’s literature. Over the centuries its labyrinth of one-hundred miles of shelves had hoarded a countless number of books including some dangerous and controversial works. Like the Codex Bezae Cantabrigiensis, one of the earliest copies of the original four Gospels. When it was first given to the library in 1581 it had to be concealed from the religious zealots who sought its destruction. Its Greek and Latin text differed significantly from the official version of events, and as such it was considered dangerous and heretical. It was an old story, the suppression of knowledge, and one very familiar to Ella. Learning about, and uncovering, historical secrets was a personal obsession of hers.
Ella had gained a first in History and had gone on, despite her mother’s protestations, to do a post graduate degree at the university in Egyptology. Ever since she could remember she had been fascinated by the pyramids of Giza. She found them truly amazing; there was something almost magical about them, their sheer size, their mystery, the secrets they held that were yet to be discovered. She was thinking of them again now, dreaming, wondering what purpose they really served, fantasising about the–
From nowhere a large black hand landed firmly on her shoulder and gripped her tightly. Ella gasped and almost jumped out of her seat. Her book fell to the floor. Her head snapped around and her wide eyes set on the culprit. Quickly recognising the man’s face, she let out a nervous laugh and elbowed her friend lightly in the stomach.
‘You frightened me!’ she scolded, sitting up.
‘Ow. That hurt,’ the man said from above her. His voice was deep with a mild east London accent. ‘Thought I’d find you here. Don’t you have a life to be getting on with? No, of course not, I forgot, you need to find one first.’ The young man who beamed down at her had a huge smile that was infectious; the gaps between his teeth seemed to enhance the effect. His closely shaved head sat on a thick neck, under his jumper his torso bulged with toned muscles, the result of years of rigorous rugby training.
Ella had known Darren Winters ever since freshers’ week when they had first arrived at Cambridge. He was a bright guy from an underprivileged background and who, like Ella, had won a scholarship to the university. Darren’s chosen subject was the History of Art. Cambridge had been an ideal place to study this craft. His department was located in a row of historic buildings on Trumpington Street, close to the architecturally impressive Fitzwilliam Museum. The art museum held one of the finest collections in the world, from ancient Egyptian to modern masterpieces. It also boasted a modern laboratory where paintings were carefully analysed with state-of-the-art tools and techniques and works were professionally restored by the students, even after decades of shameless neglect.
‘What are you after?’ she asked, smiling up at his kind face.
Darren noticed that her smile was somewhat strained. ‘I’m after you,’ he said. ‘Everything okay? You look pensive.’
As beautiful as she was bright, Darren despaired of her for wasting her God-given talents. Despite being at the top of her classes, Ella lacked both motivation and confidence. She was a dreamer. He knew it, and she knew it too. Modest and shy, she never flaunted her looks, nor showed off her figure. She dressed plainly and wore little in the way of make-up. Only once since Darren had known her had she gone all out on dressing up. It was for one the May Balls, he recalled. She had rented a revealing silky black ball gown, had a friend do her makeup, and had had her hair professionally styled. Her friends barely recognised her, and Darren, her platonic date, didn’t know where to look.
Ella picked up her book from the floor and placed it on the desk. She paused in thought for a moment, and then said, ‘I called the lawyer’s office. They said I need to go and see them as soon as possible. It’s about my dad.’
‘Sorry to hear about that. I know you weren’t close, but still, it must be hard,’ Darren said sympathetically.
She made it no secret that her father had walked out many years ago – or abandoned them, as her mother regularly described it – and he had never stayed in touch. Ella remembered little about the man and had learned virtually nothing about him since his departure. Only that he was selfish and penniless to boot. At least that was she was told whenever she had asked. But, despite her intrigue, she believed what she had been told; there was no evidence to the contrary. He had never sent her as much as a birthday card and had shown no interest in her upbringing. It had been a struggle for her mother, Ella knew, but they had managed somehow despite the hardship. She had long ago stopped worrying about her father. She had written him off convinced he would never play a part in her life.
But that had all changed now.
A few days previously, on a dull, wet evening, a police officer had turned up at her flat unannounced. On opening the door Ella saw that he had the demeanour of someone bearing bad news. When he took his hat off, Ella went weak at the knees and panicked thinking something had happened to her mother. But the policeman calmly explained that a man had been killed by a burglar. The victim had no wife, no family, he lived alone. The police had later found that Ella was registered on his passport as next of kin. The victim was her father. The policeman gave her the details of the law firm that were dealing with his estate. Much to her surprise her father had left a will. Ella was his one and only heir.
‘It’s just so weird,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Why? He left a will, nothing weird about that.’
‘Well, for one thing the lawyer’s office is here in Cambridge. I often wondered where my father was, but it sent a shiver up my spine to think that he could have been so close to me all of this time.’ She couldn’t help thinking what an odd twist of fate it was. ‘We might have passed each other in the street, or eaten in the same restaurant.’
‘Maybe he’s been secretly watching you,’ Darren tease
d.
Ella didn’t see the funny side. ‘They want me to drop in to see them tomorrow. They said it’s urgent.’
Darren changed his tact to try to cheer her. ‘I’ll bet he’s left his secret millions to you. Lend me a tenner?’ He laughed a deep, hearty chuckle.
‘Yeah, as if that kind of thing would happen to me,’ she sneered back. She looked down and went quiet for a moment.
‘You know you can talk about it if you want to. He was your dad after all,’ Darren said breaking the silence.
‘He was a selfish idiot,’ she snapped, her eyes wide. ‘Sorry. You didn’t deserve that.’ She reached for Darren’s hand and squeezed it gently.
Darren winked at her: forgiven.
‘It’s just that I never knew him, I can’t even remember him. Really, he meant nothing to me.’ Ella believed what she said, but there was a sad tone to her voice that betrayed her.
‘Come on, let’s go get a drink. It’s happy hour at the White Horse.’
Ella collected her books together. She was about to get up when Darren noticed something on the computer monitor.
‘Is that marker pen on the screen?’ he quizzed. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’
‘It’ll wipe off,’ she said guiltily. ‘I was just doing something for my thesis.’ As part of her PhD she was writing an exploratory piece on an alternative history of the pyramids and the Sphinx. It wasn’t the first time she had gone against the grain of academia. It pleased her to challenge the established theories.
‘What’s it about, graffiti?’
‘No.’ She paused and pondered whether to explain further. She looked up into his inquisitive eyes which gleamed in the low light. She sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s the position of the pyramids. I was matching them up with the stars in a constellation. I just wanted to check something, silly really. Come on, let’s go.’
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