The Minoan Cipher

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The black Citroen limousine pulled up to the front gate of the imposing mansion set on a tree-lined street off one of the exclusive Second Empire avenues in the Chaillot quarter of Paris. Built in the 19^th century for an opera singer, the mansard-roof house had been the scene of many glittering gatherings, where Paris artists mingled with the wealthiest residents of the city.

After the original owner died, the mansard was converted into a sanatorium where the well-to-do could stash family members with mental illnesses or infirmities. The wealthy called them imbeciles, a term that referred to any mental condition that could embarrass a prominent family.

Medical care was secondary to incarceration. The straitjacket was the main method of treatment. The sign on the cast-iron gate, Maison de Bonheur, was a lie. Under no circumstances could the two-story structure that housed the schizophrenic, paranoid or mentally challenged be considered a “house of happiness.”

The mansion was now owned by a dummy corporation. The sign still hung from the gate, but there was only one patient in the house, surrounded by medical attendants and guarded closely by hard-faced security men. Two of them occupied a guardhouse at the gate. They were tall and wore black uniforms and berets. Machine pistols hung from their shoulders. While one guard walked over to the car to check for identification, the other kept his pistol aimed, ready to fire at the least sign of danger. The ID checked out, the gate was raised and the limo drove up a long curving driveway.

The house, surrounded by trees, was largely invisible from the street. The Citroen pulled up to the entrance where a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform, loose white smock and slacks, awaited. A figure shrouded in a black hooded cloak got out of the car and approached the nurse.

“She knows I’m here?” she said.

“She’s waiting for you,” the nurse said. “We notified her as soon as you called from the plane.”

“What’s her condition?”

“Deteriorating. But still in command. She ordered us to move her from her bed to the throne room. It’s not as comfortable, but being there seems to give her new strength.”

“Take me to her.”

The nurse led the way into the house, through a grand entryway, and into an elevator. The hooded figure got into the elevator alone and pressed a button. Seconds later the door opened and she stepped out into a windowless chamber. A blast of cold air penetrated her cloak. The recessed ceiling lights illuminated walls decorated with gryphons — creatures with the bodies of an animal and the head of a plumed bird.

The room was carpeted in red and devoid of furnishings, except for a throne-like chair that had a high, scalloped back and thick armrests.

The figure seated in the chair was small and bent over, head held low and resting on the chest. The top of the face was hidden behind a black veil. The ankle-length black ruffled skirt identified the shrunken figure as female. She was linked to an intensive care monitor; the blinking screen provided a constant picture of her faint heartbeat and low blood pressure. An intravenous feeding bag hung from a mobile stand. Plastic tubes from a portable oxygen generator led up, under the veil. Despite the ventilation, the air was heavy with the odor of decay.

As soon as the visitor stepped into the room, two huge creatures that had been sitting on their haunches next to the throne trotted forward and bared the fangs in their odd, pointed muzzles. She instinctively reached up to touch the oval medallion hanging from a gold chain around her neck. Inscribed on the metal medallion was an axe design. Inside the medallion was an electrical circuit that broadcast a silent signal, not unlike that of a dog whistle. The animals had been trained to attack anyone not wearing such a device.

Each creature weighed around two-hundred pounds. Standing on their hind legs they were taller than the average man. The breed had been developed centuries before to look like the gryphons painted on the wall. The mythical creatures were the followers of the Britomartis, the Minoan goddess of wild animals.

Instead of attacking, the animals nuzzled the visitor’s legs with their cold noses. With nothing to kill, they returned to their posts and curled up like large puppies. The figure in the chair patted the creature on her right and made cooing sounds, before she spoke.

“You said you had an urgent matter to discuss, Daughter. I trust it must be important to bring you here.”

“I would not trouble you otherwise, Mother. May I approach?” she asked.

A boney finger beckoned. The visitor stepped forward and handed over the photos. The woman called Mother pushed her veil back from her wrinkled face and shuffled through the pictures one-by-one.

“Where did you get these?” she said. Her voice had gained a hard edge.

“From a source within the Greek government. The American engineer working with the Greek woman brought it up from the great ship.”

“How could that be? I understood that the ship was to be destroyed.”

“I ordered Salazar to destroy the ship. Hawkins, the American engineer, salvaged the ship before the helicopters came in with their depth charges.”

“Where is this American engineer now?”

“Hawkins is still in Spain and presumably has the device with him.”

“I thought we put an end to this nonsense when we attended to Ventris and his English friend. Now this American threatens our secrets.”

The hooded figure waited in silence.

Finally, the old crone stopped her muttering, and said, “Do you know the function of this device?”

“Only that no one was to be allowed to salvage it from the great ship.”

The crone tapped the stack of photos with the tip of her finger.

“An instrument like this was carried aboard every great ship. The machines were the keys to our empire. With these devices, the great ships communicated with people of different nations: the Egyptians, the Syrians and the Greeks. But in the wrong hands, the device would allow someone to translate the Sacred Word.”

“That would be a disaster,” the visitor said.

“Yes, Daughter. A disaster. We are older than Rome, older than the Greeks and Carthage and all who have followed. The Way of the Axe goes back to an age when humans were just emerging from caves. The Old Order endures because we communicate in a tongue only we know. We have conducted our affairs for centuries using the Sacred Word. If the device falls into the wrong hands, all our secrets kept through the centuries will come to light. Our plans to regain power and influence will be in jeopardy.”

Her voice had been rising with each sentence. She was out of breath and wheezing. The electronic monitors began to blink in alarm.

“Should I call someone for you?” the visitor asked.

She dismissed the offer with a wave of her hand. “Listen to me. There can be only one explanation for this misfortune. She lives. The king’s foul spawn. The daughter of Minos. She is the cause of our ills. I can feel her presence. She is near and she must die, as the prophecy instructs.”

“I don’t understand, Mother. The king and his daughter have been dead for four thousand years.”

“No! I smell her. She is the reason our equilibrium has been disturbed.”

The crone’s head dipped to her chest, but she brought her chin up again quickly. “First, the machine must be retrieved. Hawkins and the Greek woman must be killed. I will call forth the Priors to carry out the prime directive.”

The hooded figure nodded. The Priors were the remnants of a monastic order, but their numbers had dwindled through the centuries. Now, only four of the trained assassins whose main mission was to kill anyone likely to translate the sacred script, remained.

“I will immediately forward the information on Hawkins and Kalliste Kalchis to the Priors.”

“Good. What do you hear from Salazar of the other business?”

“The event is on schedule. His people will be in place. He says there will be no mistakes.”

“There better not be.” She paused. “Tell me, Daughter, what is your opinion of Salazar?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“The Salazar family has been our loyal servants for centuries,” the crone said.

“Maybe Salazar tires of the role. He is the last of the family and has no heir.”

“This is why I chose you to succeed me, my daughter. I knew you were blessed by the Mother Goddess when I saw your skill with the sacred dagger, even as a child. But you have wisdom too. Tell me what you think we should do about Salazar.”

“Nothing for now. Let him carry out the event, then convene a gathering at the Maze where we will deal with him.”

“Who would take his place as head of Auroch?”

“Me.”

“An interesting proposition. But you may be premature. I would have to be convinced that he is a danger to the Way before taking drastic steps. We have more important matters we must deal with for now.”

“I understand, Mother.”

“Good. Go now. I am getting tired.”

The visitor bowed, and backed into the elevator. As the doors were about to close, the croaking voice called out from the throne room.

“Remember the prophecy, Daughter.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“She is near. She must die.”