The Vault of Poseidon

CHAPTER FOUR

“Hello, again,” said Sir Richard Eden. The English politician was sitting behind an old, worn desk in the study of his townhouse just a few streets from the British Museum. His crisp white shirt was still covered in blood from the earlier attack, and his face seemed to have aged several years in the short time since Hawke had last seen him.

Through the window they could still hear the sounds of the sirens as the emergency services dealt with the aftershock back at the museum. Eden rubbed his shoulder and winced before speaking: “Apparently you’ve already met, but please allow me formally to introduce you to Lea Donovan — she’s the head of my personal security.”

He gestured to Lea who was now standing beside his desk. She had changed and was now dressed in a black sweater and tight blue jeans, and her blonde hair was tied back less formally. They shook hands again.

“No disrespect, but maybe you should change your head of security?” Hawke said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lea asked sharply.

“Sir Richard nearly got killed today, is what I mean.”

“You were the one supposed to be running security at the museum. If you’d done your job properly the shooter wouldn’t have even been inside the building.”

“And if you’d briefed me about Sir Richard’s psychotic enemies I might have run tighter security.”

“If you must know,” Eden said, “Lea didn’t know anything like this could happen.”

“And what did happen?” Hawke asked.

Eden seemed torn between a reluctance to speak and the urge to request their help. For a long time he was silent, staring at the middle distance outside his window. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you,” he said, turning to Lea. “Even you.”

Hawke and Lea shared a concerned glance. “You’re going to have to tell us more than that, Richard,” Lea said.

“Bloody right you are,” Hawke said flatly. “A woman you claim you know walks into the British Museum in broad daylight in the middle of a major exhibition, rambles incoherently about the ultimate power of Greek gods and gets shot dead right in front of the cream of the crop. I think you owe us an explanation.”

Eden stared at both of them for a few moments before speaking. “Yes, I did know the woman — that much is perfectly true. Her name was Lucy Fleetwood and she was an academic working here in London.”

“An academic?”

“That’s right. She was a professor of ancient languages just up the road at University College London.”

“And how did you know her?” Lea asked. “You should have told me about this.”

“She was working for me.”

“If you want us to help you, we need the whole story, Richard,” said Hawke. “Spit it out.”

Eden fixed his eyes on Hawke and seemed to acquiesce.

“Of course. As you may know, I run a highly covert section of the intelligence services, but my lifelong passion is archaeology. A few weeks ago my team found something potentially of very great value to the archaeological world — and perhaps to the wider world as well. I’m talking about the Ionian Texts.” He looked at them hoping to see a flicker of recognition, but neither showed any.

“What’s the significance of these texts?” Hawke asked.

“Until recently most people simply refused to believe they existed, and dismissed them as a fanciful legend and nothing more. A few of us, however, never stopped believing that one day they would be found. I have spent my life searching for them.”

“Yeah, but..” Hawke was growing impatient. “What’s their significance?”

Again, Eden’s face was a tortured mix of reticence and desperation. Finally he spoke: “They are supposed to refer to the location of the vault of Poseidon.”

“The what?” Hawke’s voice was sceptical.

Lea’s eyes narrowed with doubt as she looked at her boss.

“It’s like a tomb,” continued Eden reluctantly, “only it’s supposed to contain not only the sarcophagus of Poseidon but also an enormous hoard of treasure, both his personal wealth but also that offered to him as a tribute by his worshippers.”

“Sorry?” asked Hawke, perplexed. “I might not have had the best education in the world but even I know Poseidon was a god. How does a god have a tomb?”

This time the fight on Eden’s face between reluctance and desperation for help went the other way: “There are some things I just cannot explain to you at this time about the nature of the tomb and its contents, and you’ll just have to live with it.”

Hawke was used to being cut-off — it was part of life in the marines, but he realized that this was different. “Come off it, Richard.”

Eden sighed. “You were a very accomplished Special Forces soldier for many years and you served on a great deal of top secret missions. We both know you would not have been aware of the strategic significance of many of them, and we both know you were able to work with that. You can consider this the same thing.”

Hawke was hoping to hate Sir Richard Eden, but already the old man was making it difficult for him. He appreciated frank, honest talk, and it looked like Eden did too. “I can live with that — for now, at least.”

“Good. I was impressed with how you handled yourself today, with the exception of that little stunt with the tour bus — we’ve already had the Japanese Embassy on the phone to the Home Office by the way, so thanks for that — and if you want to see your little jaunt it was recorded by dozens of tourists and it’s all over YouTube.”

“It was my only play…”

Eden sighed. “And as for the destruction of a police helicopter over the Thames in broad daylight, let’s just say Prime Minister’s Question Time is going to be a bloody nightmare this week.”

“Like I said, we had no choice.”

“If you say so, but either way I need someone I can trust to get to the bottom of this. I’ve known you all your life, Lea, and I trust you totally. Hawke — I’ve run a check on you and you seem like a solid type. I’m sure the two of you can work together on this.”

“As one door closes…” Hawke muttered.

“We don’t have much to go on,” Eden said, “but thanks to the quick-thinking of Professor Fleetwood we do have something — both her translation regarding the ultimate power being buried in some kind of kingdom, and also her reference to New York and the amphorae.”

“Which isn't much, let’s face it,” Hawke said. “And oh yeah — what the hell is an amphorae?”

“What the hell are amphorae — it’s plural. They’re vases.”

“Vases?” Lea asked.

“Ancient Greek vases.”

“That’s still not what I would call a lot to go on.”

“But it’s a start,” Eden said coolly, regaining a little of his infamous composure. “The Ionian Texts are supposed to confirm not only the existence of the vault but also its location. According to legend, a daring raid was made on the tomb thousands of years ago by unknown forces.”

Hawke was starting to wonder what the old man was smoking, but kept his thoughts to himself.

“Afterwards the keeper of the vault — a worshipper of Poseidon whose name was lost to history, but we know he was a potter and we refer to him as the Vienna Painter — hid all traces of its location.”

“Why?”

“It’s possible that the tomb could guard one of the greatest secrets known to man.”

“And what would that be?” Hawke asked, eyes fixed on Eden.

“For now, that will have to remain classified.”

“Oh, come on…”

Eden was not moved. “The potter left only one small inscription to reveal the tomb, and according to legend he hid it inside a vase. We thought the Ionian Texts would confirm this and it looks like they have, at least if Professor Fleetwood was right.”

Lea nodded. “So that’s where we need to start. Finding these inscriptions.”

“And I suggest you get moving. Professor Fleetwood’s killers are clearly very serious about getting their hands on the vault and everything in it, and I just can’t let that happen.”

“Do you have any idea who’s behind this?” said Hawke.

Eden nodded. “A few days ago a man named Hugo Zaugg was released from a prison in Zurich where he had been serving a two year sentence for perjury and perverting the course of justice during a famous tax evasion trial in Switzerland.”

“Sounds like a charmer,” said Lea.

“He is a recluse and the world knows very little about him, except for the fact he has practically limitless wealth, very powerful connections in international agencies like the IMF, and also…”

“And what?” Hawke asked, sensing yet more reluctance on Eden’s part.

“His father was Otto Zaugg.”

Hawke shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

“Unsurprising, but you would have had you lived in Greece during the Axis occupation in World War Two. He was a ruthless SS tank commander and went on to be a very high-ranking member of the Nazi Party before fleeing to Switzerland at the end of the war where he lived out his life in search of…”

“Let me guess — the vault of Poseidon?”

“Exactly.”

Hawke studied Eden’s lined face. “But what interest would a man like that have in an archaeological find? Sounds like a mystery to me.”

Eden looked away from his desk. “Quite, yes.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me something?” Hawke said.

“Only that if it really is Zaugg behind this then watch out. He has extensive contact with the European underworld and among his associates are these two men.”

Eden swivelled the computer monitor on his desk and showed Hawke and Lea grainy black and white photos of two men taken from a distance. “The man you see coming out of the gambling den is Kaspar Vetsch. He’s a dangerous psychotic with no fewer than three European arrest warrants out on him. His speciality is torturing people for information and he's been known to work for Zaugg.”

“He looks like a proper psycho,” Hawke said.

“Creeps me out,” said Lea, sincerely hoping their paths would never cross, but knowing if they did that he would come off worse.

“The other man — the one climbing into the back of the cab in this picture here is Heinrich Baumann, former Kommando Spezialkräfte — the German Special Forces. A sergeant with a lot of experience and a penchant for killing people in amazingly original ways.”

“He looks even worse than Vetsch,” said Lea.

“He has one eye?” Hawke asked.

Eden nodded. “Lost the other in a knife fight in Mexico City. The attractive metal hand is courtesy of a machete-wielding people trafficker in Budapest. We know more about these two than we do about Zaugg himself, so that’s the only briefing I can give you at this time.”

“I’ve had worse,” Hawke said.

Eden rose from his desk. “When you arrive in New York, you’re going to have to work fast. I’ve already asked a contact in MI5 if they’ve heard any chatter regarding any of this, but they’ve drawn a blank so whoever it is knows how to dodge the security services. That tells me they’re powerful, rich and clever, which makes a formidable enemy. My money’s on Zaugg.”

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” Hawke said.

Lea looked at him. “Maybe not this time.”

“She’s right — don't get cocky or you’ll get dead,” Eden said bluntly. “We don’t know who they are, but we do know they’ve killed an innocent woman, stolen the Ionian Texts and their translations, and are probably already on their way to New York to search for the vase.”

“I just need to make a call,” Hawke spoke as they waited for a taxi. He stepped across the road and sent a text to an American cell phone number: Are you there, Nightingale?

A few seconds later came the reply: “What do you want, Joe?”

He texted back: “Can you do something for me?”

“Oh God.”

Hawke could almost recognize the tone behind the text — she was in one of her moods. He only knew the woman by the codename Nightingale. She was former CIA in the way he was former SBS. They had worked together on many cases back in the old days, but never met, and she remained a mystery to him. But she had saved his life more than once, and he had saved hers once in Cartagena, so they trusted each other totally.

“Please?” Hawke texted. “I almost just got killed.”

“Rlly? Cool,” came the reply. She was infuriating.

Hawke needed this to move faster, so he dialled her number and two seconds later she picked up the phone.

“You nearly just got killed? Really? I was going to say I miss that…” she said, and paused, “but I don’t think so.”

“Just check something out for me, Nightingale.”

“Sure. I’m just about go to bed. What time is it in England?”

“Daytime.”

“Cute. You know, I have a terrible headache and maybe the flu and I just had the day from hell. Literally just a second ago I just said to myself that I really, really hope Joe Goddam Hawke calls me and asks me to check something out for him.”

“Thanks, I need you to get me some info. Not the sort you can pull off Wikipedia if you get what I mean.”

She sighed. “What is it?”

“I’m working for a man named Sir Richard Eden.”

The sound of typing.

“Okay, here it is: Member of the British Parliament, works for various national security subcommittees and has close links to MI5. Served fifteen years in the British Army and an obsessive collector of archaeological artifacts. You’re not risking your life for this guy are you, Joe?” She sounded unusually concerned.

“What about a Lea Donovan, his personal security. Is there anything else you can tell me about her?”

More typing, this time accompanied by sighing.

“Sure — I just hacked her CIA file.”

“She has a CIA file?”

“She surely does, Joe.”

“That doesn’t sound right to me. She works security for an MP.”

Nightingale laughed. “You’re so naïve, baby.”

Hawke ignored this. “You were telling me about her CIA file?”

“She was involved in some anti-terrorism operations when she was in the Rangers.”

“The Rangers?”

“Sure, the Army Ranger Wing of the Irish Army — they’re called the Sciathán Fiannóglaigh an Airm. I probably didn’t pronounce that right but in English they’re called the plain old ARW. They’re an elite special operations force into sabotage, ambushes, gathering intel, you name it.”

“They let women in that?”

“You are such a sexist bastard, Joe Hawke. As a matter of fact she was one of just three women with them, according to what I’m reading right now.”

“She told me she was in intelligence, so I assumed an intelligence corps officer.”

“And you know what they say about assuming…”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I bet she could kick your ass.”

“And that’s why the CIA has a file on her?”

“Because she could kick your ass?”

“Funny. I mean because she was in the Rangers?”

“Uh-huh. Listen, gotta go, Joe. Call me if you need me.”

She disconnected, and the taxi pulled up.

Hawke crossed the street and opened the taxi’s door. They both climbed in and the taxi joined the traffic. “What are you doing?” he asked as Lea took out her mobile phone. She quickly jabbed a number into the pad and held it to her ear.

“Now it’s my turn to make a call.”

“Who are you calling?” Hawke asked.

“A friend. We’re going to need all the help we can get and Ryan’s a sharp cookie.”

“Who’s Ryan?”

“My ex.”

An hour later, the taxi pulled up outside a large gray factory where a lone man dressed in a black trench coat and scarf was patiently waiting for them.

“What the hell is this place?” Hawke asked.

“They used to make paint here, a long time ago, but today it’s occupied by squatters. It’s where Ryan lives. That’s him right there.”

“And what does Ryan do?” Hawke asked sceptically.

“Sort of a student, I guess you could say. Oh yeah, also hacks computers.”

Ryan opened the door and climbed in. A cold breeze of icy air blasted against them through the open door.

Lea glanced at him. “Ryan, hi.” A kiss on the cheek. Cold and quick.

Ryan Bale climbed into the back seat beside Lea and offered everyone an awkward smile. He had scruffy, curly hair cut just above his shoulders, and Hawke turned to see he was wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt beneath the trench coat.

Hawke laughed. “You have to be kidding. He’s fifteen.”

“I’m not fifteen,” Ryan said indignantly. “I just have a young face.”

“A face they could use to sell nappy rash cream.”

“Better that,” Ryan replied calmly, “than a face that looks like a welder’s bench.”

“Hey!”

Ryan simply smiled, gave a condescending nod of the head and turned to Lea. “When you called you said nothing about bringing another one of your monkeys along.”

“He’s not a monkey, Ryan. His name is Joe Hawke and he’s a security guard.”

“Oh God, you’re finally slumming it. I knew this would happen — but so soon after we broke up?”

“Cut it out, Ryan. We saw a woman murdered this morning, if you must know.”

“You did?”

“People shot at us, Ryan.”

“With guns?”

Hawke sighed. “No, with peashooters. Can we move this along please?”

“Oh no,” Ryan said, sighing dramatically. “Another He-Man compensating for his lack of IQ with aggression and steroids.”

Lea sighed. “This is why I divorced him.”

“You divorced me? What a joke! I was the one who divorced you!”

“Yeah, you tell yourself that, Ryan.”

“You two were married?” Hawke asked in disbelief.

“Sure, why not?” Ryan said smugly.

“It’s not a part of my life I like to think about,” said Lea.

Ryan peered out the window as they joined the M25 and drew closer to Heathrow Airport. He leaned closer to Lea and lowered his voice. “This guy got any cameras on him, or wearing any wires?”

“Oh, not this again.”

“What’s up?” Hawke asked.

Lea sighed. “Ryan’s a bit of a conspiracy theorist.”

Hawke laughed again. “A tin foil hatter?”

“You can laugh all you like,” Ryan said, offended. “But like the mighty Kurt Cobain said, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”

“If you say so.” Lea rolled her eyes.

“Well they are after you, now,” said Hawke.

Ryan looked nervous. “What do you mean?”

“Are you not following the narrative, Ryan?” Hawke said. “We’re racing to New York to stop the people who just killed a professor from getting their hands on what has been vaguely described to us as the tomb of an ancient god. That’s not the sort of thing you do without upsetting people and they’re not going to take it lying down.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Ryan muttered. “Gods don’t have tombs.”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Ryan, now uncharacteristically quiet, paled slightly and sank silently into the folds of his sumptuous silk scarf. In the front seat, Hawke was desperate to get to the airport.