The Atlantis Covenant

by Rob Jones

  “So what make you think he wants to sell it to you?” Hunter asked.

  Rorschach smiled. “On a recent visit to Mexico, Klara found out that Mr Vazquez has run into some big problems regarding a major fraud trial. The nature of his business means cash flow is sometimes an issue and right now he needs money.”

  “He needs money?” Hunter asked.

  “Lots of it, and fast,” Rorschach said. “The competition between Raul and I when it comes to collecting antiquities is no secret among those who know us both, but this time I think he will roll over and sell me the statue. The problem is, he’s not above having a fake one manufactured and selling it to me instead of the original you see in this picture.”

  “Which is where I come in,” Hunter said. “I’m beginning to join the dots.”

  “But you must be careful,” Rorschach said. “Raul is a criminal. He’s one of the biggest collectors of antiquities and relics in the world and most of his collection was acquired illegally. Bribery, blackmail, theft – even murder – are all part of his arsenal. Ironically, we think this is one of the rare times our Cuban friend actually paid fairly for a piece. He claims he paid the smuggler over a million dollars for it.”

  Hunter whistled. “That’s a lot of cigars.”

  “He wants three million for it,” Rorschach said casually. “That’s even more cigars.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  Rorschach sipped his wine. “Yes, but it’s the only way we can get that winged statue out of his possession. He claims there is a map, too, hence Dr Anderson’s participation in this evening’s banquet.”

  “A map?” Kirsten asked.

  “A Nazi map, but he would say no more. I don’t yet know the significance of the map, but he paid another half million for it, so I’m guessing it’s going to lead to even more valuable artifacts. We need to move fast. We surely can’t be the only ones who know about this. Half of the black market is going to want to get hold of that statue, and I’m certain the American FBI may be involved.”

  “The FBI?” Hunter said. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  Rorschach nodded, mouth full of lobster. “I believe a separate shipment going to another dealer was recently intercept by the FBI in Miami, so they’re out there all right. If this is true, then we’re talking about a race, Dr Hunter. A race between the Rorschach Foundation and the FBI. They will hide the treasures away forever, but it is my intention to put them into public view by handing them over to UNESCO.”

  Hunter gave him a double-take. “That’s very generous.”

  “I would own them, of course.”

  “Naturally. But wait, I thought this Vazquez was bankrupt or something? If so, how did he buy the daggers from Cavallo?”

  Rorschach laughed. “You are very perceptive. These daggers were sold to us months ago, long before the Cuban Government froze Raul’s assets.”

  “Got it.”

  Rorschach pushed away his plate and looked at Hunter and an increasingly uncomfortable-looking Kirsten Anderson. “I think with the existence of these statues and their inscriptions, we can make a prima facie case for a total rethink on the subject of antediluvian civilizations, and more specifically Atlantis.”

  “Which is still a major shock to me,” Kirsten said.

  Hunter pushed his napkin away. “So when do I leave?”

  “You leave immediately,” said Rorschach. “You and Dr Anderson, of course.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I travel and work alone.”

  “Not this time,” Rorschach said. “You will verify the statue as authentic, but Dr Anderson is required to authenticate the map. Not only that, but only she is authorized to purchase them from Vazquez. She must be there with you or the deal is off.”

  Hunter thought about telling him where to get off, but this was bigger than any of that. Rorschach was offering him the chance to solve the greatest mystery in human history. Atlantis.

  “Seems fair enough,” he conceded at last. “Where in Cuba?”

  “Old Havana,” Rorschach said.

  Kirsten looked at him over the top of her glasses. “Don’t tell me, you know it?”

  “It’s a UNESCO world heritage site, Dr Anderson. So yes.”

  Rorschach caught them scowling at one another and laughed. “I think this could be the start of a beautiful relationship! Now, go take my private jet to Cuba.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hunter woke up and stretched his long legs. Turned out, getting shot at by rogue Iraqi soldiers wasn’t as easy as it looked. He had bruises all over his legs and hip, not to mention two or three cuts and grazes on his arms and elbows and chin. He was just contemplating going straight back sleep when Kirsten appeared in the aisle.

  “I thought you might like a cup of coffee.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Drink up, we’re almost there. You slept nearly the entire flight.”

  “I guess I needed it.”

  She crashed down in the seat opposite him and put her coffee down on the table. “We didn’t get a chance to talk properly back there. Oskar can be a little serious.”

  “I’m sure he’s the life and soul of the party.”

  She rested her chin on the back of her hand. “He’s not so bad when you get to know him.”

  “You were upset that he kept you in the dark over the statue?”

  She nodded. “You could say that. It’s unlike him.”

  “Tell me,” Hunter said. “How long have you worked at the Rorschach Foundation?”

  “Three months.”

  “That’s not a long time. Where were you before?”

  She sipped her coffee. “I worked for the Smithsonian in Washington DC.”

  He regarded her with admiration. “Wow.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “He hires only the very best.”

  “I can see that. You seemed sceptical when we were talking about Atlantis. I take it you’re not a believer?”

  “I am not, no. It amazes me anyone can be.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It just seems so far-fetched.”

  “You saw the daggers.”

  “But isn’t it possible they could be from another ancient civilization?”

  “Maybe,” he said, his voice trailing. “But I hope not.”

  She blinked in the soft cabin light. “This is really important to you, isn’t it?”

  “Finding Atlantis has been my dream for most of my life.”

  “And you’re not worried if people think you’re a crank?”

  He paused and thought about how to reply. “I don’t care what other people think and I never have done. I think Atlantis was real, and some sort of hub civilization joining all the other ancient ones together. Just because archaeologists have never been able to link the ancient cultures of the Americas with those of Sumer or Egypt, doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

  “No?”

  “There are many unexplained coincidences.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as carvings in South America with a striking resemblance to those of ancient Egypt. Something must have acted as a bridge and linked these cultures together, and it’s my belief that ‘something’ was Atlantis. All I have to do is find it.”

  The pilot announced they were ten minutes out and should buckle up ready for landing.

  “And that journey begins now,” Kirsten said.

  “Absolutely.”

  He watched as the small jet touched down on Cuban soil and after the usual hassles at customs, the two new colleagues were standing outside in the stifling heat looking for their driver.

  “Are you certain one is booked?” he asked.

  She tutted. “Yes, because I’m the one who booked it. Ah – here he is now.”

  A man in a chauffeur’s cap drove an idling black Mercedes over to the kerb, pulled the handbrake up and hopped out of the car. “Are you Dr Anderson?”

  “I am.”

  The man looked genuinel
y upset. “I am Miguel from Car Cuba. I’m sorry I was not here to meet you in the arrivals lounge, but there was traffic on the way.”

  “You’re here now,” she said as he popped the trunk and wheeled their bags around to the back of the car.

  Hunter opened the rear door. “After you.”

  “You’re a true English gent,” she said sarcastically.

  The car rocked when the driver slammed down the trunk. He walked around and climbed inside and turned on the engine and AC unit. “Welcome to Cuba. I hope the car isn’t too hot for you. It will cool down when we get going.”

  He pulled out of the airport and began cruising toward the capital city. Hunter counted the years since his last visit to Havana and realized grimly it was almost twenty-five. A different time, back then. Just him and Avril backpacking around the Caribbean for a few months. Cheap motels and rum and long nights on the beach.

  A lot had changed since then. Avril was gone, and he’d worked hard to build a career spanning two regiments in the British Army, an Oxford archaeology doctorate and now a great job at UNESCO. Cuba had changed too. A raft of economic reforms in the early nineteen-nineties had reduced the deficit and grown exports to many countries all over the world.

  “Everything looks different,” he said, but there was no reply. He turned and saw Kirsten was asleep, her head lolling gently on the rear headrest. Without her glasses, he saw more clearly the way her brown eyelashes curled gently toward the rise of her cheekbones and made her look younger.

  As the driver pulled up outside a large villa, Hunter thought he heard her mumble something through her slightly partly red lips. He nudged her awake. “We’re here.”

  Her eyes flicked open and she stared at him with sleepy, jet-lagged eyes. “Sorry?”

  “We’re at Vazquez’s mansion,” he said, nodding past the driver at the large black iron gates in front of the car. “And by the looks of things, crime pays.”

  “Like Oskar said back in Switzerland,” she said, fumbling in her bag for her glasses. “Be careful what you say in here. Sounds like Raul Vazquez is a dangerous man.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, but I can get pretty tetchy myself, especially after a long flight.”

  She looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “Max?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do try and take this seriously. We’re talking about a three million dollar purchase for the Rorschach Foundation and doing a deal with a known gangster.”

  “You know me,” he said with a broad smile, then added, “Actually you don’t.”

  “No, but I’m starting to get the picture.”

  The gates swung open and the driver turned in the seat. “Are we going in?”

  “Drive on, please,” Kirsten said. “We don’t want to keep Señor Vazquez waiting.”

  “No,” the driver muttered. “You really don’t.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The car swept around a large circular drive and pulled up outside the sprawling property’s main portico entrance. The driver opened their doors and they emerged into the shade of a dozen royal palm trees. A man in a black suit stepped out of the house and greeted them. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail and a sharp, tanned face.

  “Dr Anderson and Dr Hunter?”

  “That’s us,” Hunter said. “How could you tell?”

  Kirsten gave him a look and elbowed him. Turning to the man, she gave him a million dollar smile and Hunter was once again struck by her beauty. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Señor Vazquez.”

  He laughed. “You are mistaken, Dr Anderson. My name is Mario Davila, I work for Señor Vazquez.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Think nothing of it. Please, if you follow me I will take you to the artifacts. I know Señor Vazquez is very keen to make a mutually acceptable deal with Mr Rorschach.”

  They stepped up to join him and he showed them into a small room at the side of the house. The dark wood floorboards were polished to a sheen and potted fan palms swished back and forth under the downdraft of a vintage windmill ceiling fan, gently whirring above their heads.

  Davila walked into a small room just out of sight and returned with the winged statue and a rolled-up map in his hands. “Here, do your thing, Dr Hunter.”

  Hunter unrolled the map and cast his eyes on it. “I’m no expert, but it looks real. Dr Anderson?”

  Kirsten took a jeweller’s loupe from her pocket and leaned over the desk to study the map in silence. After gently moving the small magnifying glass over the surface of the war-era map, she stood up and slipped the loupe back in her pocket. “Without a doubt, this looks like a genuine Nazi stamp and the age seems to correlate with the story. I’m not prepared to go further at this stage without chemical analysis but I can say with confidence Mr Rorschach will not be disappointed.”

  Davila smiled. “And the statue?”

  Hunter lifted the winged statue cautiously. On a quick surface inspection, it was almost identical to the one he had found in the desert tomb outside Mosul. His head filled with memories of McCabe and the soldiers hunting him through the labyrinth.

  “Let me see.” He turned it over in his hands. It felt strange holding one of the three Winged Guardians so soon after McCabe had snatched the other one from him.

  “Is it real?” Kirsten asked.

  “It’s real,” he said. “But that’s different from authentic. You know that, right?”

  She sighed. “You know what I mean, Max.”

  “I need time.” He turned it again, studying every carving, symbol, chip.

  “Like the other one, this one has a sickle hanging from its belt. That’s a good start.”

  “What’s the significance?” she asked.

  Davila sighed and leaned on the edge of the desk, slipping a toothpick between his teeth and folding his arms over his chest.

  “When carving kings, the Assyrians sometimes gave them a sickle as a weapon to fight monsters. The mace on the other side of the belt represents the supreme god Ashur. The thing that’s got me is that the inscription is obviously pre-early Assyrian Empire, and by a long way, by the looks of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pictograms and alphabets evolve very slowly over time. Think about how we can read Latin script carved into tablets or buildings from two thousand years ago. With very few exceptions, it’s basically the same alphabet – the same letters. These are so different from early Assyrian or Egyptian glyphs that we’re talking thousands of years older, exactly like the ones I saw on the statue in the tomb at Nineveh.”

  “So it’s authentic?” she asked.

  Aware of the heavy responsibility he had to get the assessment right, he paused and took another lingering look at the statue in his hands. “The inscription is very similar in content and exactly the same in style. The size and weight are the same. It looks like the same age, and the strange rosy silver it’s made from is the same. In my opinion, we just found the second of the three guardians.”

  Davila pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and flicked it into the bin behind the desk. “In which case, I will call Señor Vazquez and let him know the good news.”

  Hunter and Kirsten stood awkwardly near the window while Davila called his boss. The two men spoke in hushed Spanish for several moments and then Davila put the phone down and addressed them.

  “He is very happy they have been authenticated by two such eminent experts in their fields, but he has changed his mind about the price. If Mr Rorschach wants to bring these items into his collection, he will have to pay much more for them.”

  Kirsten held her breath. She had been prepared for something like this. “How much more?”

  “The new price is ten million dollars.”

  She gasped. “But Señor Vazquez made a deal! He said he would sell the winged statue and the map for three million American dollars.”

  Davila was unmoved by her pleas. “And now Señor Vazquez has modified the deal. He will sell you the items, b
ut for ten million dollars.”

  Hunter winced. “That’s not a fair price.”

  Davila stared at Kirsten with dark, unblinking eyes. “Well? What’s it to be, Dr Anderson?”

  Kirsten pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and contemplated the new deal Vazquez had put to her. “I’m authorized to go to ten million, but no higher.”

  Hunter looked at her, astonished. “Ten million? I wish that son of a bitch McCabe hadn’t taken the one I found even more, now! I could sell it to Oskar and retire.”

  Davila spoke on the phone with his boss, nodded and ended the call.

  “Is he accepting the ten million dollars?” Kirsten asked.

  “It turns out Señor Vazquez no longer wants to sell the items.”

  Hunter huffed out a laugh. “Is he bloody kidding? We flew all the way out from Switzerland to verify them and now he doesn’t want to sell them anymore!”

  “But why not?” Kirsten asked. “Now he knows they’re authentic.”

  “Because if you’re willing to pay so much for them, they must have a far higher value and he wants to know what that might be.”

  Hunter checked his watch. “This has been a total waste of my time. If we hurry we can get the last flight back to Switzerland. I can get a flight back to Paris in the morning when we land.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen either.”

  Hunter’s expression grew darker. “Why not?”

  Davila’s response shocked them both. With no fuss or warning, he gently reached inside his jacket and pulled out a Beretta 92. Lifting it until it was pointing at Kirsten’s face, a greasy smile broke on his face. “Because you’re coming with me and the statue and the map. We’re going on a ride together.”

  Kirsten couldn’t hide her shock. “You can’t take us prisoner!”

  “I think I just did. Canosa, get in here.”

  A man in a trilby slipped into the room. He was holding a Makarov pistol, waist-height and an unlit cigarette was hanging from his lower lip. “You called, boss?”