The Minoan Cipher

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hawkins slid off his stool and wrapped his arms around his ex-wife.

“You never cease to amaze me, Abby.”

She pecked him on the lips. “Where’s your Greek friend? The stuffy old archaeologist.”

“I never said Kalliste was stuffy,” Hawkins said. “I said she was highly-respected. Too bad you can’t meet her. She went back to Greece.”

“Good thing. I looked her up on the internet. She’s quite attractive for a middle-aged woman. Actually, for any age.”

“C’mon, Abby. You flew across the Atlantic because you were jealous?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Hawkins. I came to Spain because I heard you’d gotten yourself into a pile of trouble.”

Hawkins gave Calvin a look. “It was no big deal.”

“I’d say having a boat shot out from under you and almost drowning is a big deal.”

His friend shrugged. “The lady is very persuasive.”

“Don’t blame Calvin,” Abby said. “You and I were only married a short while, Matt, but long enough for me to know when you’re being disingenuous with that cavalier attitude of yours. I would have worn Calvin down eventually and wormed the story out of him. I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“I’ve got some bumps and bruises. That’s nothing compared to my new submersible. Tough seeing a multi-million dollar piece of equipment sink under your feet.”

Abby put her hand on his arm. “What can I do to help, Matt?”

Hawkins glanced at the entrance to the lounge. “I can tell you more in detail after we talk to these gentlemen.”

He waved Captain Santiago and Miguel over, made the introductions and suggested they all move to a table, which put them beyond the range of the smart phone amplifier Leonidas was using to eavesdrop. He could have edged closer, but he didn’t want to attract attention. He put some cash down, unplugged the ear buds, and went to the reception desk for his room key.

Back in the lounge, Hawkins began, “Captain Santiago owned the Sancho Panza, the salvage boat that sank during our survey. If it weren’t for the captain and his son, I wouldn’t be here talking to you. Could you tell my friends what happened before the boat went under, Captain Santiago?”

After the Spaniard repeated the story he had told the police, Abby said, “I don’t get it. Who would want to stop you from diving to simply look at the wreck?”

“Maybe the ship was carrying treasure,” Calvin drawled. “Folks figured you were poaching on their stash.”

“That’s possible, Cal. But how many treasure hunters would have Spike missiles in their back pockets?”

“Yeah, I catch your drift. Hardware’s available on the black market, but the shooters would need intel about what you were doing, and where you’d be doing it. Takes money and contacts. That suggests a tight organization. Maybe a government.”

“The big question is still, why?” Abby said.

“I don’t know,” Hawkins said. “I’m hoping I can find that out when I make another run at the site. Cal’s going to handle security.”

“Is this a no-girls-allowed boy’s club adventure?” Abby said. “Just sayin’.”

“Molly has already agreed to help with research. I’d love to have you on board, but the last time we talked, you were barely holding your company together.”

“Women are better multi-taskers than men, Matt. Besides, my transports and executive jets will come in handy.”

Hawkins knew that Abby had gone through Navy weapons training, kept herself in top-notch physical condition and had a quick mind that almost always made the right decision. But he hesitated. “You sure you want to do this? Things could get complicated,” he said.

Abby folded her hands, looked him straight in the eye and in a level voice, said, “When have things not been complicated between us?”

Hawkins smiled. “Just sayin’.”

“When do we start?”

“Tomorrow morning. The captain has arranged for a boat. He and his son will take us out to the site. I see this as a three-fold mission. First, find Falstaff and assess salvage possibilities. Second, Cal, I’d like you to make a forensic inspection of the captain’s boat.”

“I can do that. What’s the third fold, Hawk?” Calvin said.

Hawkins powered up the tablet. The screen showed a shaky, greenish-gray image of the bones of the wreck illuminated in Falstaff’s floodlights.

“Kalliste took this video with her cell phone. The quality could be better, but she was shooting through the passenger sphere. The picture gets cloudy where we used the thrusters to blow sand off the wreck. It will clear after a second. Here.”

He froze the image and zoomed in on the tapering, conical object partially buried under the sand.

Abby leaned forward. “What is that thing, Matt?”

He tapped on the tablet. An album of black-and-white prints appeared on the screen. The pictures showed different views of an object that looked like an inverted bucket suspended in the sea by ropes or chains. The final image showed a man in the bucket, which was being lowered into the water using pulleys and gears attached to a heavy framework.

“Damn,” Calvin said. “It’s a diving bell.”

“A real old one from the looks of it,” Hawkins said. “Diving bells go back to Alexander the Great, but they didn’t become technically feasible until Dr. Edmund Halley improved on earlier models. This is Halley’s bell design.” He called up another image. “The model in the video looks even more sophisticated than that.”

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Abby said.

“We’ll know better once we get a vehicle down for a closer look. But the implication is pretty clear. Kalliste and I weren’t the first divers to make it down to this wreck.”

After he left the lounge, Leonidas had gone to his room and taken a miniature recorder from his suitcase. He switched it on and propped it up against a desk lamp. He made sure that the corridor was deserted. Then he went to room 308, slipped a plastic case from his pocket and took out a thin metal card. He ran the card through the door lock to pick up the combination and used it as a master key. Slipping into the room, he placed one electronic bug in the living room area and another in the bedroom.

Using a miniature battery-powered tool he drilled holes in the walls for the tiny microphone transmitters. Each cylinder was smaller in diameter than a thumbtack. He placed a ballpoint pen containing a micro-transmitter on the writing desk. The pen actually wrote.

He stood in the middle of the room and in a low voice, said, “Testing. Testing.”

Leonidas returned to his own room and hit the play button on the recorder. His test came through loud and clear.

When he re-entered the lounge, he saw that Hawkins and his friends were wrapping up their business with handshakes. As Hawkins gave the woman a quick embrace he happened to look in Leonidas’s direction. They locked gazes. Leonidas smiled and nodded, playing the part of an old man approving of young love.

Leonidas watched Hawkins and his friends leave the lounge and silently scolded himself. Hawkins had noticed him staring, and it had stirred a defensive curiosity. Leonidas should have known better. Hawkins had served in Afghanistan, where interest from a stranger was often the precursor to an attack. Sloppy move on his part. It was a strong reminder of what he should have learned by now. Not to underestimate Matt Hawkins.