Pulse

FORTY-FOUR

The chartered flight, courtesy of a U.S. government spending account, touched down at Gibraltar airport shortly after dawn. It was the fastest way to cover the distance, but the small airport's lax security also allowed Rook to sneak along Pierce's Glock. Rook had also used the change of scenery and mission as an excuse to change his clothing. He now wore more functional cargo pants, T-shirt, and hiking boots. Queen had changed into similar clothing. Gibraltar was built on a steep incline that descended from the base of the "rock" to the ocean. The combination of ancient fortresses, caves, tunnels, and sloped city streets translated to a lot of hiking. Rook noted that even in cargo shorts and a tank top, Queen managed to still look more European than he did. Too much "backwoods and flannel in you," she'd explained.

Unsure of where to begin their search, they took a "tour the rock" taxi, which drove them to all the local sites, starting with downtown Gibraltar. The city, being property of the United Kingdom, was a mix of British pubs, shops, and bright red phone booths better suited to a

London street corner than a Mediterranean city. But the population density of the city made finding any kind of clue as to the location of the Herculean Society impossible.

They continued the taxi tour, requesting to be taken to the oldest sites on the island. With the Society being so interested in history they hoped they would make their home, as Gallo had, as close to an archaeological wonder as possible. St. Michael's Cave, a stalactite- and stalagmite-filled cavern sometimes used for operas and ballets, proved to be an impressive site, but home to nothing more than tourists and a large, out-of-place auditorium.

Next came the Great Siege Tunnels, which Rook hoped would turn up something. The labyrinth of tunnels were one of the island's first true defense systems. Built and used to defend the island between 1779 and 1783, they were later used during World War Two. The dark, low ceiling tunnels were full of history, violence, and death, but were vastly predated by anything as old as Hercules.

Visibly discouraged, their cabbie and personal tour guide, Reggie, took their mood to be a result of discontentment. He was a kind man, full of smiles, but his British name combined with dark skin and rigid features made his true nationality a mystery. His mixed accent, as well, was impossible to place, at times sounding Indian, other times Spanish, and occasionally British. "I will show you the best Gibraltar has to offer and introduce you to our most famous residents."

It sounded like a lead worth following, so neither argued. They became even more interested as they approached a large fortification high above the city. "The Tower of Homage," Reggie explained. "The oldest structure in the city."

The car stopped in a large parking lot, nearly full. The tower itself stood to their left, tall and impressive. The double-door entrance was closed. "What's in the tower now?" Rook asked.

Reggie answered from his rolled-down window. "Her Majesty's Prison Service."

Rook shook his head. "Well, there goes that theory. Unless her majesty is in league with the Herculean Society."

Queen ignored him, walking to the hillside wall. The view of Gibraltar below and the blue-green sea beyond was impressive. Once again, they found themselves in an ideal vacation spot for history buffs and revelers alike. Rook stood beside her. "I'm not a big fan of needles or haystacks. Put them together and I'm bound to get pissed."

When she didn't reply, he looked at her. She craned her head one way and then the other. To their left was the city. To their right, a line of hotels along the beaches. "What are you looking for?"

"How old is this castle?" Queen asked and then answered before Rook had a chance to process the question. "A.D. 711."

Rook began to ask a question, but she held up a brochure she'd picked up at St. Michael's Cave, answering the question of how she knew the build date. "Okay, what's your point?"

"This is the oldest structure on Gibraltar. But it's not old enough."

"And?"

"And we've only seen half the island."

"That's because the other side is a thirteen-hundred-foot vertical drop into the Mediterranean."

Queen handed the brochure to Rook and pointed to the bottom of the third foldout. He read the text aloud, "Gorham's Cave. Twenty-eight thousand years ago, Neanderthals made their home on Gibraltar. Not only were they the first hominid settlement, it is also suspected they were the last of their kind. Over one hundred three artifacts have been recovered including spear tips, knives, blah, blah blah. Yeah, I see where you're going. So where is it?"

"At the bottom of a thirteen-hundred-foot drop." She smiled. "But we can also take a boat."

A sudden blur of motion caught Rook's attention, but he reacted too slowly to avoid the approaching creature. It launched from the wall, clung to his back, and assaulted him with its small hands, groping in his pockets and in his waist. "What the hell!"

Rook spun and struck the animal with his arm, knocking it away. As it bounced off the cement sidewalk and bounded back up to the top of the wall he got his first look at the creature — a brown-furred, tailless macaque. One of the island's famous Barbary Apes. But it wasn't just the sudden appearance of the macaque that opened Rook's eyes wide. It was what it held in its hand — a 9mm Glock.

Rook felt the small of his back. Nothing. "Son of a bitch."

Though the macaque held the weapon handle out, Rook didn't want the gun to discharge outside Her Majesty's Prison Service. Explaining why a macaque had a handgun covered in his fingerprints, stolen from a ransacked office at the University of Athens would take some time. More time than they had. Even with Deep Blue's vast political influence.

As Rook reached out for the weapon, the macaque hissed and barred its teeth. Rook dove for the weapon, but the creature was too quick. He looked at Queen, who was watching and smiling. "A little help?"

"I've never seen two monkeys fight before."

Rook grunted, then dove for the macaque again. This time it leaped onto his back and off again. That's when Rook noticed Reggie approaching. "It's okay," Rook said. "You don't need to help."

"I see you have met our most famous residents? Do not worry. This is a simple matter," Reggie said. "You just have to know how to negotiate."

Rook watched as the man took out a chocolate bar. Reggie and the macaque slowly reached out both hands, each taking hold of what the other held. It was like watching a back-alley drug deal. He let go of the chocolate and the macaque disappeared over the side of the wall. "Here you go, sir," he said, handing the weapon to Rook, and then added, "Do not worry, sir. I will not speak of your weapon." He pulled up his shirt, revealing his own handgun. "The streets can be dangerous at night. Especially for tourists. You were wise to bring it."

"We were hoping to visit Gorham's Cave," Queen said, wanting to change the subject.

A magnificent place. Unfortunately, closed to the public."

"Is there anyone there now?"

"Indeed. Archaeologists have been working on the site for many years."

Queen reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. "Are you sure there isn't a way to get a private tour?"

Reggie grinned and scoured the area for any bystanders who might overhear before saying, "I might be able to arrange transport to the cave… but you must deal with the archaeologists — and consequences— on your own."