by Rick Jones
“And you believe that he was being untruthful?”
“I’m saying that I believe Mr. Montario knows where it’s at since, after all, he was there.”
“And the expedition? How did he explain their disappearance?”
“He’s claiming they were killed by something within the tunnels.”
Hall brought the glass of cognac to his lips, sipped from its edge, then lowered his hand while maintaining focus on his mirrored image. Then, more to himself than the other speaker, he whispered, “Something . . . within the tunnels?”
“From my understanding, he also informed Ms. Moore that there was a chamber within the temple that contained tombs.”
“Tombs?” He took another sip. “It appears that Eden is getting more interesting by the moment,” he said.
“He insists that the tombs contain a dark secret.”
“And that would be?”
“Apparently the truth is written on the chamber walls.”
“The truth about what lies within?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
Obsidian Hall began to pace the room. “And what is it that he believes killed the professor’s team?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“It sounds like Mr. Montario doesn’t know much about anything, does he? What about Ms. Moore? Does she know the location?”
“No. But she’s perusing her father’s records for a directional guide.”
“I see.” He stood before the mirror but didn’t acknowledge his presence since his mind continued to deliberate. The prospect of Eden existing was inconceivable. More so, he had the means to be standing upon its threshold within days, if not hours, if he had the coordinates.
All of a sudden the treasures within the state room mattered little.
“I need those coordinates,” he said, looking out the window and at the slight swells of ocean waves. “Can you get them for me?”
“Only if Ms. Moore finds them, but it’s not promising since her father kept such things hidden.”
“Find them, and your rewards will be great.”
“My only reward is to see that Professor Moore gets the recognition he deserves.”
“Professor Moore can get whatever posthumous sentiments the institutes deem fit to present him with. My only concern is Eden and what lies within.” Obsidian Hall moved before the mirror and squared his shoulders, then stood sideways to measure the profile of his flat stomach. “Since Ms. Moore is a non factor at this point in time, we’ll begin with the survivor,” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Montario’s memory is not as bad as he claims it to be. I’m sure his memory will become quite clear the moment I press him for the answers I need.”
“All I ask of you—”
Hall cut his caller off without as much as a valediction by disconnecting the line. Within moments he contacted his valet, a small Hindu man whose dark complexion was in stark contrast to his pristine white clothing, and informed him to ready the chopper for travel to the nearest airport, where he would charter a jet.
“When I make reservations, sir, where shall I tell them that you’ll be departing to?”
“To New York,” he said. “I’m going to New York.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Eastbound Over the Atlantic Ocean
Even now, on a flight to New York, to look at Montario one would think that he had been wandering for days beneath the desert sun, rather than the two days he actually meandered about before a Turkish shepherd took note of him.
When he was discovered he was in an obvious state of confusion and greatly dehydrated, speaking of the expedition and of things that didn’t make any sense whatsoever, the ramblings of a fevered mind.
When the Turkish authorities arrived, however, Montario was given a saline solution, which brought him back to a normal range of cognition.
Two men from the Emiyet Müdürlüğü, the area’s District Directorate, wore the blue uniforms and ranking silver stars of their position—that of lieutenant— openly questioned him on the subject of Professor Moore’s missing team. The nature of their interview was insinuating rather than curiosity. Were they accusing him of criminal activity? No matter the answer he gave them, they accused him of lying, which puzzled him greatly.
“Why would I lie?”
The officer with the sparse mustache on his upper lip smiled. “Because nine people are missing,” he told them. “We need to know what happened, since you were there.”
More questions revolved around criminal insinuations, the officers pointing an accusing finger at him saying that he was responsible for their deaths and if he wanted to prove otherwise, then it would be in his best interests to tell them where the bodies were.
He gave the coordinates as best he could recall, resulting in several search attempts by Search and Rescue with negative results.
Subsequent questioning sessions came in waves for the two days he was hospitalized; the line of questioning more threatening, and their claims that Montario was sending them in endless circles was becoming tiresome. And should he not give them what they wanted, they promised him that he would serve the balance of his life in a Turkish prison.
That was when Montario had enough and requested an authority from the American Embassy, further stating he no longer had anything to say unless a U.S. consul was present.
“There are nine bodies out there in the desert,” the man with the sparse mustache said, his face stiff and unyielding. “We only want to help your friends.”
Montario leaned forward. “You can’t,” he said. And then he fell back into his pillow, his eyes ceilingward.
The men sat there looking at Montario for what appeared to be hours when, in fact, it was only seconds. Still, they unnerved him as he lay there under their gaze of examination.
Without saying another word the officers rose from their seats, gathered their jackets, and left the room. When they were gone Montario allowed his chest to deflate, the rush of air pouring out of his lungs.
They had nothing and he knew it. They had used every interrogation tactic short of corporeal punishment. And he knew that, too.
Nevertheless, on the following day he could only wonder if they would show up again for another round of finger pointing. They never did so he considered the matter closed.
The moment he was released, he returned to the Göbekli Tepe dig site to retrieve his gear, which was a backpack filled with dirty T-shirts, dusty shorts, and random notes. Without saying good-bye to Alyssa, who was said to be inside her tent, he left.
No matter how much he wanted to, he could never face her again, knowing that he would have to choke back emotions. He had been able to contain himself in the hospital, had kept himself from looking at her with those doting eyes of his, the way they fawned over someone the way eyes do when they say “I love you.”
Not only did she possess a natural beauty and carry herself with graceful economy, but she also possessed an inner strength that was matched by her desire to succeed at every turn.
But in her eyes he was just Montario, a student aide working his way through NYU. And he knew he would be nothing to her but Montario, the student aide.
As the plane took a turbulent bump, he closed his eyes.
Like a good soldier, she would follow in her father’s footsteps. He knew that. And that is why he wanted to remember her by the way she smiled at him with ruler-straight teeth, or the way she cocked her head when they shared a joke or a memory.
She was a part of the Moore legacy and nothing could change that. She would follow in her father’s footsteps right into the black heart of Eden. “A cold, dark place where things hide themselves in darkness,” he murmured, drawing the attention of the woman sitting next to him.
He opened his eyes and sighed as the plane shuddered along the waves of turbulence.
And then he checked his watch.
New York City was less than two hours away.
#
By the time Montario arrived at LaGuardia, he wa
s exhausted. All he wanted to do was go home, take a shower, and fall asleep.
After grabbing a cab to his apartment, a twelve-story brick tenement about a mile east of Times Square, Montario paid a marginal tip much to the chagrin of the driver and made his way quickly up the stairwell.
When he opened the door of his apartment, he was greeted with the heated staleness of a residence that had had its windows closed for over a month. Dropping his backpack on the couch, he went to the window and parted the drapes. With his apartment facing west, he cherished the rosy afterglow of sunset beyond the towers of the city’s horizon and smiled.
It was good to be back.
“Welcome home, Mr. Montario.”
The voice was alien to Montario as he twisted around with the action of a startled man, his eyes sizably wide with awe.
Sitting on the couch was a man wearing an expensive suit, one leg crossed over the other in leisure. He raised a hand and patted the air in a gesture for Montario to calm down. “I apologize for the intrusion,” he said. “I simply request a moment of your time.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The two men flanking the stranger did not go unnoticed by Montario as he took quick appraisal of their simian-like features, such as their prognathous jaws and sloping brows, thick muscles and broad shoulders. What he didn’t like, however, was their gaze—full of chilly resolve and black intentions.
“These are my people,” said the stranger, intercepting Montario’s line of sight. “My . . . aides, shall we say?”
“How do you know my name?”
The stranger looked at him with the clearest blue eyes Montario had ever seen, but they were ice cold in their stare. “Actually, you have me at a disadvantage,” he said, feigning a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know your first name.”
“It’s just Montario.”
The man’s smile flourished. “Like Fabio or Cher or Liberace, huh?”
Montario didn’t answer him.
“Mr. Montario it is, then.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Mr. Montario,” the man’s voice was no longer affable but rigid, “I don’t think you really want to go there with me, do you?” He raised a hand to indicate his aides, to bring about the advantage of their size. “They won’t let you. And nor will I.”
“What do you want?”
“First, let me introduce myself. My name is Obsidian Hall,” he said with self-importance.
Montario narrowed his eyes, wondering where he had heard that name before. It came to him in a swift flash of enlightenment. Obsidian Hall was a billionaire reputed to be a man of questionable character who often exhibited thin moral fiber by choice, at least according to media sources.
But why is he here and what did he want?
“You have information I need,” he said finally. “And you’re going to give it to me.”
“Me?” Montario pointed to himself. “What could I possibly give you?”
“For starters, I want you to give me the location of Eden.”
The men stared at each other for a long moment in a match of wills.
And then: “You will give me what I want, Mr. Montario.”
“I can’t give you what I don’t know,” he returned.
“You may have told that to the Turkish authorities. But I’m not the Turkish authorities. So you will cooperate.”
“Professor Moore was in complete authority,” he said honestly. “He was adamant about keeping certain information close to his vest for fear of misappropriation.”
“You really want me to believe that you don’t know where Eden is after spending time there?”
“One part of Turkey looks just as much as another. Have you been there?”
“Mr. Montario, I’m a man of little patience. I didn’t get to where I am by believing every man I came in contact with. In fact, I am where I am because I made insignificant people like you give me what I want—freely or otherwise.”
“Otherwise? You mean, as in torture?”
“I prefer to call it experimental interrogation.” Hall leaned back, clasped his hands together, and placed them on his knee while studying Montario. “I’m a man of extreme wealth,” he said. “I have people everywhere. And all I have to do to get whatever I want is to reach into my sizeable wallet and pay them for whatever information I need.” He leaned forward, his blue eyes steely in their appraisal. “And my information regarding you, Mr. Montario, is this: You were very close to the professor and his daughter. So close, in fact, that you were his aide. So for you to stand there and lie to me by pleading ignorance is a foolish tactic to protect Eden. You will tell me everything I need to know.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Then perhaps I can jog your memory.” He turned to the man closest to Montario and tipped his chin, a command that galvanized the large man to reach into the pocket of his suit and produce a photo. He handed it to Montario and stepped back.
It was a recent picture of Alyssa at the site of Göbekli Tepe. She was busy taking notes at one of the carved bas-reliefs on a column.
“I believe that’s Alyssa Moore, yes?” asked Hall.
Montario stared at the photo for a long time before lifting his gaze toward Obsidian Hall. And then he lifted the photo, showing Obsidian the snapshot side. “And you’re showing me this why?”
“She visited you at the hospital, yes?”
Montario remained quiet.
“Your lack of response is becoming quite annoying, Mr. Montario. You will answer my questions, do you understand? Now, she visited you in the hospital, did she not?”
“She did.”
“Obviously she wanted to know what happened to her father and at Eden. Did she ask you the same questions I’m asking? Did you lie to her the same way you’re lying to me?”
When Montario failed to respond, Hall made a fleeting and dismissive wave of his hand, prompting the large man to close the gap between them and force Montario to his knees. The large man kept a vise-like grip on the back of his neck, threatening to snap his bones with a quick twist, if necessary. Montario grit his teeth against the pressure as he dropped the photo.
“Did you lie to her?”
“No.”
“So she knows the whereabouts of Eden?”
When he didn’t answer the large man squeezed Montario’s neck, causing pain.
“No!” he finally hollered. “Everything about Eden was kept in her father’s journal.”
Obsidian Hall leaned forward, as if caught by surprise. “His journal?”
Montario nodded. His face twisted in anguish as the man maintained his grip.
“He kept a journal of everything he did.”
With another nod from Hall, the man eased up on his grip. Hall got to his feet. “And where is this journal?”
“It’s in . . . my backpack.”
Hall nodded to the second ape, who rummaged through the backpack, found the black book, and handed it to Hall, who leafed through the pages and discovered that it was entirely encrypted. He held the book up. “Is this a joke?” he asked, waving it.
More silence from Montario.
“Mr. Montario, if you wish to be obstinate—” Hall nodded to the large man who squeezed Montario’s neck to the point where Montario thought his life was about to be snuffed out with a single snap right up until the time when the large man finally relaxed his grip. “Mr. Montario, what did he write in this encrypted journal of his?”
“Lots of things,” he said. “I assume he wrote about the tombs—about the Central Chamber.”
Obsidian Hall waited for him to expand on this. When he didn’t, he pressed him. “What about them?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Everything’s in cryptic passages. Professor Moore writes in ancient languages as a tool to keep others from misappropriating his findings. I can’t decipher them. Only Alyssa can. I can only remember what he told me.”
“And what was that?”
“That Eden is a cold, dark place. A place unlike what religious texts makes it out to be.”
Obsidian gained his feet and walked toward Montario until he stood over him, and then looked down. He held the book tight. “I must say, Mr. Montario, as intriguing as all this sounds about burial tombs and a Central Chamber, we all know that truth lies within facts. And the facts lie within those tombs.” He began to pace the floor of the apartment. And then speaking rhetorically, he said, “The question is: who are inside the tombs?” And then more directly to Montario: “What did the good professor tell you about them?”
“Not a thing.”
Hall gave other nod, prompting the huge man to squeeze hard enough for Montario’s face to flush.
“Every time you lie to me, Mr. Montario, my colleague here will squeeze your neck until he crushes a bone or two, which will make you a quadriplegic for the rest of your life. Now I want the truth. What did the professor tell you regarding the tombs?”
Through gritted teeth, he said, “I swear to you! He said nothing to me other than it’s not what religious texts make it out to be. All he said was that Alyssa may lose her spirituality, should she know the truth.”
Hall stopped and turned on the points of his feet. “That’s what he said? That Ms. Moore may lose her spirituality?”
Montario nodded as best he could.
“Funny,” Hall said, “that a woman of science sits upon the border of science and religion, accepting to believe in both when one clearly contradicts the other.”
“You don’t know her.”
“If you do not proffer me the coordinates, then here is my proposal to you: I will present this book to Ms. Moore and force her to interpret her father’s writings, assuming he wrote the coordinates down, which, in all probability, he did. Is that what you want, Mr. Montario? Do you want to put her in the position you now find yourself in?”
The large man allowed Montario to raise his head enough to view Obsidian Hall.
“Give me the coordinates,” Hall said simply. “Should you do that, then there would be no need for me to contact her.”
