The Forbidden Tomb

58

Surrounded by the turquoise waters of the Aegean Sea, the island of Amorgos is located at the easternmost edge of the Greek Cyclades, one of the island groups that make up the Aegean archipelago.

With no airport on Amorgos, those who wish to visit can do so by private boat or on one of the public ferries that service the island’s two ports: Katapola in the south and Aegiali in the north. These shuttles — which include catamarans, jet boats, and traditional cruisers — offer daily routes between Amorgos and the nearby islands.

Unfortunately, it was a long way from Egypt.

The quickest way for Cobb and Sarah to reach the Cyclades would have been to charter a seaplane in Cairo to fly them directly to the island of their choice. But Cobb took that option off the table when he learned that air traffic near Amorgos was sparse at best. Circling the island a couple of times on a sightseeing tour was one thing, but actually touching down just off shore was bound to attract unwanted attention.

Another possibility was to grab a flight to Athens, then work their way south. It wasn’t a difficult trip, but it wasn’t fast, either. By the time they made their connecting flight from Athens to Naxos and then caught the ferry from Naxos to Katapola, they would have wasted more than a day. They needed to get there as soon as possible if they hoped to catch Manjani when he checked his e-mail as part of his morning routine.

Their answer came in the form of a regional airline that promised to have them in Santorini shortly after dawn. From there, it would take less than two hours to reach Amorgos by boat as long as the weather stayed clear and the sea remained calm. As fate should have it, their quest was noble and the gods blessed their journey.

And no one released the Kraken.

The high-speed ferry arrived at the port city of Katapola just after nine. Cobb stared out the window at the rocky coast of the small island, searching for hidden beaches among the sheer cliffs. Sarah wasn’t interested in the sights. She had spent the entire trip curled up on the seat beside him, getting caught up on her sleep.

He couldn’t blame her.

It had been a grueling week.

Initially, they had hoped to blend in with the crowd as it left the ferry, but it turned out they were the only ones departing in Katapola. In fact, they were the only ones in sight, as if the entire island had been deserted for an impending disaster.

And yet that wasn’t the strangest thing that he noticed.

Or didn’t notice.

Cobb had visited many ports in his life, and the one thing that all of them had in common were signs for local destinations. In St Petersburg, imposing steel placards with massive Cyrillic letters announced routes inland. In Montego Bay, there were charming, hand-painted wooden planks that pointed to the nearest bar. The signage was distinct for each country, but the goal was the same: to guide new arrivals.

But in Katapola, there were no signs at all.

Sarah noticed it, too. ‘How’s your Greek?’

‘Slightly worse than yours,’ Cobb replied.

‘Which means it’s non-existent.’

They headed inland, hoping to spot someone who could point them in the right direction. Eventually, Sarah spotted a man sprawled on a wooden bench. At first she thought he might be dead, but as they approached he popped upright as if he had been caught sleeping on the job by his supervisor.

She smiled, and the man smiled back.

He even raised his hand and waved.

‘Jack, take a look.’

As Cobb followed her gaze, the man stopped waving and signaled for them to come forward, letting them know that he would welcome a conversation.

‘You are lost?’ he called out. A Scandinavian accent tinged his words, but it was the alcohol in his system that slurred his speech.

‘Just a bit,’ Sarah admitted.

‘Where you going? Maybe Jarkko can help.’

‘Who’s Jarkko?’ she asked, confused.

‘I’m Jarkko!’ he announced proudly. ‘And Jarkko knows the sea like a butcher knows his meat. Yesterday was Athens. Today is Amorgos. Tomorrow is Malta — if Jarkko can find it in the dark. The island is quite small, and Jarkko is quite drunk.’

With no other options, she was willing to humor their new companion. Walking closer, she saw his callused hands and sunburned face. Together with his three-day beard, Jarkko had the look of a man who had spent his lifetime on the water. She scanned the slips nearby, focusing on a battered wreck of a fishing boat.

‘Yours?’ she asked.

Jarkko looked at the boat and laughed. Then he turned in the opposite direction and pointed to a magnificent yacht anchored far offshore. It rivaled the size and splendor of that yacht that Papineau had secured for them in Alexandria — which meant it cost a lot more than a drunken fisherman could afford.

‘That one,’ Jarkko bragged.

Cobb rolled his eyes. ‘Great. He’s drunk and delusional.’

Jarkko laughed at the suggestion as he pulled out a thermos from under the bench. He then filled the cap with steaming brown liquid and offered it to Cobb. ‘Kafka?’

Cobb didn’t speak Greek, or Swedish, or whatever language the crusty fisherman had just muttered, but a hot cup of coffee sounded pretty damn good at that moment. Despite his reservations about the man himself, Cobb knew that in some parts of the world declining an offer of food or drink was tantamount to a slap in the face.

‘Sure,’ he said as he grabbed the cup and lifted it toward his mouth. A split second before he took a sip, he caught a whiff of its aroma and turned his head in disgust. ‘Oh my God, what is this shit? You said it was coffee. That’s not coffee.’

Jarkko started to laugh. And not a normal conversational laugh, but a loud, booming chortle that shook his entire body. ‘Not coffee. Kafka. Mixture of coffee and vodka. My own creation. Is good, no?’

‘No!’ Cobb objected as he handed the cup to Sarah so she could take a whiff. ‘It’s not good at all! It smells like piss that’s been mixed with lighter fluid. Seriously, how can you drink that stuff?’

Jarkko patted his belly. ‘I am tough guy. Iron stomach.’

‘And a pickled liver,’ Cobb added.

Jarkko stared at him and burped his rebuttal.

Sensing an opportunity to belittle Cobb while ingratiating herself with a local, Sarah took a sniff of the liquid, shrugged like it was no big deal, and then drank the kafka in a mighty gulp as if she were at a bachelorette party in Las Vegas. To make the moment complete, she glanced at Cobb and sneered. ‘You’re such a pussy.’

Cobb started to defend himself, but quickly realized that anything he said would fall short of the mark, so he simply held his tongue in silence.

Meanwhile, Jarkko’s reaction was the exact opposite. He looked at Sarah with puppy dog eyes and muttered the first thing that came to mind. ‘I think I love you.’

Sarah smiled and handed him his cup. ‘In that case, I was hoping you could give me some directions.’

‘Yes!’ he exclaimed as he rose to his feet. ‘Jarkko will give you anything! His thermos! His yacht! His sexy underwear! Tell me, do you like to fish?’

‘I do,’ she said as she gently pushed him back down, ‘but let’s start with directions. Do you know a place called Diosmarini’s?’

‘Yes! Jarkko knows it very well. It is up steep hill. If you climb on Jarkko’s back, Jarkko will carry you there — and pay for breakfast.’

‘As tempting as that sounds,’ she grabbed Cobb’s elbow for emphasis, ‘we have a previous engagement.’

Jarkko groaned in heartbreak. ‘You are engaged? Why you flirt with Jarkko?’

She smiled at him. ‘Because you’re too sexy to ignore.’

‘Yes — Jarkko sees point. Jarkko has forgiven you!’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘So,’ Cobb said as he glanced at his watch, ‘the café is right up the hill?’

Jarkko nodded. ‘Yes, keep walking. You find, right there. Look for white sign, white tables, white chairs. It is so bright even you can find it.’