The Relic Hunters

CHAPTER ONE

“Look at the mad monk.”

He heard it often as he walked by. These unenlightened scum, wandering pointlessly with their unwashed children. These ignorant cattle, followers of the herd, bleating through life without the slightest inkling that every day, their every step, their every breath, was being judged, controlled and manipulated.

He would snuff them out at the merest hint of an order.

But not today. One surprising event had already occurred this morning, and he was about to be the author of at least one more. The earlier event, a true shock indeed, was hearing the unease and disarray in his master’s voice. A first, and probably last, for this life.

He scanned the road quickly, assimilating every scrap of information offered by his surroundings. The path that followed a slight incline up toward the front of the Athens Archaeological Museum was clogged with tourists and gawkers. He slowed, absorbing the environment. It was loud, colorful and upbeat. That would soon change. He kept the grave smile to himself as a man and woman barged past his right shoulder.

The words of the one true master running incessantly through his brain: “My son, focus fully on the work at hand. You can bask and bathe in the light, but only with the full illumination of focus. If you want to swim, focus on swimming. If you want to run, focus on running. If the moment is dark, confusing or unclear, focus on your objective. And you will always have an objective, Baltasar. Always.”

The couple he would prefer to tear limb from limb continued along their way, laughing loudly, oblivious to at least one muted monster in their midst. Baltasar took his time to thread through the crowd, focused. Ahead, the tall, round pillars that fronted the museum’s edifice marched toward the entrance and two sets of wide steps. The moment was approaching, then. He would have to be quick.

Baltasar was a complex man; seeing the appeal of archaeological mystery but happy to destroy it on even the most whimsical order from his masters. Obedience was everything. Loyalty and trust kept him alive. The Athens Archaeological Museum housed the relics of yesteryear to entertain the world of today and tomorrow, but Baltasar recognized only his master’s words on the subject of the past.

“Only four things matter from your or anyone’s past. The words you spoke. The barbs and bullets you loosed. The life you led, and the opportunities you squandered. Remember, it is too late to complain when the chance has already passed you by.”

Everything else was flotsam, designed by the true masters to make the herd lose focus.

Baltasar headed directly for the entrance, feeling a steady flow of adrenalin. Frequently, the jobs he carried out required him to remain incognito; today though, there was no such need. Today, the requirement was for speed.

Baltasar had spent a lifetime honing and enhancing the man — the weapon — that he had become. Still evolving, still advancing. The black bristle at the side of his head and the thick topknot along the middle were as much an identity as his given name. The yellow elastic band he used to keep it in place, the same. The wounds that decorated his body — the scars that had been handed out mostly by trainers, not enemies — gave him peace. Often, he would trace them in the dark, remembering their provenance and a lesson learned. They were the blueprint of his education, the roadmap to where he was right now. He was an intimidating man — tall, broad, grim of face, but the visage was offset by the humble black robes he wore, diminishing any threat he posed in the eyes of all but those that really knew.

Ahead, beyond the entrance, he was faced with three different doors. Straight in front stood the door to the Prehistoric Collection, but Baltasar knew he should use the door to the left. Initially, this led to the Sculptural Collection, followed a circular route and presented dated Greek sculptures and others heavily influenced by Ancient Egypt. Interestingly, at least for Baltasar and because of what he knew about the mission at hand, a bronze statue of Zeus could also be viewed along his route. At the rear of the museum sat rooms where private and temporary exhibitions were held. It was toward this area that Baltasar set his feet. Feet that had trodden a thousand different paths.

Found and purchased at a far-east flesh market at the age of six, the world had ever been his enemy. Thrown from one evil master to the next he had tried running, again and again until they decided to break his spirit. Before this could be accomplished a new man entered his life.

“These weak men need you to worship them. They need to dominate you to rise above their own nauseating fears; to prove to themselves that they are strong. But come with me… come with me and I will show you that divinity is earned a different way. That all sin can be repented. That no self-flagellation, no seven Hail Mary’s, no amount of bowing and kneeling can make you truly great, truly at one with God in this world. It is no longer in his image.”

Baltasar had warmed to this man, seeing a desire to aid and teach, a quality that promised restraint before violence, something new.

“I am yours.”

“I do not ask that. I will never ask that of you. First, understand that there is no god beyond the one we create. There is no salvation greater than that which we make. There is no afterlife, no eternal salvation beyond the legacy we leave. I am not an easy man. Not a fool. The things I ask of you will be dire indeed. But you will have one thing, I promise… one thing above all else.”

Baltasar had leaned forward. “Yes?”

“Family. I will give you a family. If family is truly a feeling of fitting in.”

The seed had been sown, the dye set. Baltasar had found true purpose and enlightenment. The next thirty years of his life were full, content. And as the master said — some of the tasks they asked of him were beyond appalling, but family came first.

Baltasar was dimly aware that he could never leave his master, but that too was a comfort, a safety barrier that urged him on. He was also dimly aware that he’d been raised to be different to most other people: few morals, no taboos, and utter obedience to the point of banishment. He would never question an order.

A circuitous route brought him to the private exhibition rooms, behind which he knew stood the various laboratories where new artifacts were stored and examined. The entry doors were behind an airport-style metal detector and a basic keypad. No guards were evident, though the area was watched over constantly by a cluster of security cameras. Baltasar wasn’t worried. In truth, words like worry, burden and insecurity held only dim meanings for him. The path provided. The master provided. All was well. His love was not blind, as some said, it was all seeing.

Baltasar visited the toilets, lost the robes, and came out wearing jeans, a black T-shirt and a baseball cap. A total transformation. The robes he still carried inside the small rucksack secured to his back. Dressed in the strange outfit, he felt a moment of inappropriateness bordering on betrayal, but the robes would never be far away.

He passed through the detector, needing no weapons, cellphones or money. He jabbed at the keypad in the correct manner, a servant of masters that could attain the code to any keypad on the planet in a matter of minutes. Expecting the doors to open, he breezed easily through when they did so.

Beyond the first set lay a rectangular open-plan room of cubicles, each with its own desk, computer and set of drawers. At the far end were the “clean” rooms, where older, more important relics found their way. Baltasar had been informed that the object he sought would be there, almost certainly inside the middle room of the three. Of course, he had never expected the workplace to be empty and he wasn’t disappointed. Three sat at their desks, heads down, lost in their jobs. Another stood by the water cooler, contemplating his plastic cup and the grimy window in front of his face.

Baltasar picked up half a mug of cold coffee from a desk and strolled through as if he’d just started work. One older lady gave him a glance before looking away. The man by the water cooler never moved. Baltasar reached the middle clean room in a matter of seconds and faced his first obstacle.

The standard lock with no key.

Breaking it open would be easy, but noisy. To try the handle and find it locked would draw attention. There was only one course of action.

Kill them all first.

Pausing for a few seconds, Baltasar pulled down the top of his T-shirt and traced one of the old wounds there. Scar tissue, ridged and angry, it was pure white stitching now, but oddly comforting. It reminded him of past days when he’d still been fully unaware of the master’s true plan for him. Another scar ran across his stomach. Baltasar lifted his T-shirt now and traced that one, pressing hard. The pressure cleared any white noise that might be buzzing around his brain.

The man by the water cooler was staring at him.

Baltasar smiled, picked up a letter opener and leapt swiftly at the first worker. Head down, focused, they never even looked up before the shiny silver edge dug deep into their neck and ripped its way to the right. Then the blood was splashing, the life ebbing. Pain was a secondary sense to shock, at least at first. Baltasar was already leaping away, seeing the water cooler guy opening his mouth to scream. The letter opener flew truly, flung with incredible dexterity and strength, and lodged as far as it was able into the side of the man’s neck. Another expression of shock. The paper cup fell to the floor, splashing its contents across a pair of patented leather shoes. Then Baltasar was there, withdrawing the letter opener quickly then thrusting it back into place.

Again and again and again.

Eight seconds had passed.

Spinning, he saw the old lady regarding him with disbelief. The only other person left alive was rising fast, clearly about to make a break for the exit.

Baltasar allowed the water cooler guy to fall to the floor to continue bleeding out. Of course, he knew that even a trained operative such as he had no chance of stopping the rising man, so another alternative had to be sought. In an office space as cluttered as this, many items came to hand. A keyboard wasn’t heavy or accurate enough unless he achieved the perfect shot and in this environment it was unlikely. He almost went for the thick-rimmed trashcan, knowing its heavy impact would send the man sprawling, but then spotted a far better alternative.

A severed head.

Baltasar hefted it, moved it to his right hand and took aim. The old lady took a deep breath and almost screamed, more worried about the head than her life. Baltasar hadn’t thought of that. Still, he let loose the severed skull, wondering briefly if his action might have some classic meaning, and then watched as it smashed against the man’s right cheekbone. The effect was immediate, eliciting a squeal and diverting the run straight into a desk. He hit hard, knees striking wood, legs folding, chin coming down and bouncing off the surface. Baltasar didn’t stop for one second. A discreet vibration in his pocket had already told him that he had less than ten minutes.

The event was coming, and was now utterly unstoppable.

Baltasar struck the old lady dead center in the chest with both feet; caught himself on both hands and was back on his feet before she hit the floor. The other man was still groaning. Baltasar could leave them both in a stupor, but couldn’t take the slightest chance. Another weapon then appealed to him.

The sword was old, damaged. The point was useful, however, and quickly ended any lasting threat the two workers may have posed. Now, Baltasar had the lab to himself. He returned to the locked door, forced it open, and quickly entered. The object he sought was right there, next to a microscope and a discarded pair of white gloves. Unstrapping the small rucksack he pulled on gloves of his own and placed it gently inside the receptacle he’d been given. Then he sealed it.

Replacing the backpack, looking around one last time, he was ready to go. His head counted down the seconds. Four minutes. Barely enough time, but timing was of the essence. Crucial to almost every mission. Timing was often the key to a clear escape or ignominious capture. Baltasar didn’t have to, but made a good job of concealing the bodies and the blood, working fast. The alarm must not be raised — not here, in this room. He then exited the lab, passed through the detector and moved fast along the halls. Nobody gave him a second glance. Baltasar desperately wanted to change back into his robes, but knew they singled him out. The civilian costume would have to do, for now. Many innocents milled about the museum, lost in their own worlds, young and old. Foreign and local. Priceless works of art before their eyes. Baltasar passed a few moments reflecting over the fact that there were many ways to steal relics, objects of incredible significance, but there really was only one way to ensure that theft was never discovered.

His masters had done this before. Very loudly. Very publicly. In their wisdom, their infinite intelligence and depth of cunning, they knew what worked best.

The main doors were ahead. Baltasar felt another vibration inside his pocket and knew he had less than thirty seconds.

Athens was barely visible through freshly cleaned glass. The city would never be the same.