Abby reached up and grabbed on to a runner to stabilize the ROV. Instead, she was lifted off her feet and swung back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock until Miguel skillfully lowered the vehicle, and its two passengers, safely to the deck. Captain Santiago gunned the engine, and the boat slowly picked up speed.
The unmarked lead helicopter broke out of formation and flew in a wide circle around the boat. After a nerve-wracking minute or so, the chopper veered off, flew back to the wreck site and hovered with the others in a holding pattern.
Two pellets dropped from the belly of the lead helicopter and splashed into the water. The helicopter darted off and the second one moved in. Two more objects fell. The third chopper followed suit.
There were two thuds and the water above the wreck site rose in foamy mounds that exploded into twin geysers. Four more explosions followed at close intervals.
The helicopters banked off and flew back the way they had come. The clatter of rotors faded and the choppers soon disappeared from view.
Calvin stood up and lowered his rifle.
“What just happened?” he said.
Hawkins pictured the ocean bottom. Ancient timbers thrown everywhere. Falstaff’s passenger sphere now nothing but shards. The diving bell and all the other wonderful antiquities had been transformed into scrap metal.
“They bombed the living crap out of the wreck site,” he said.
“I got that. But why?”
“Haven’t got a clue, Cal. Let’s see what we got in return for all the money we’ve thrown into the sea.”
Hawkins asked Miguel to give him a hand lifting the box out of Minnie’s basket. The young man was strong, but he failed to get his fingers under the edge. As they pulled the box out, it slipped from his grasp.
Hawkins jumped out of the way. The chest barely missed smashing his toes and thudded onto the deck. The lid jounced off from the impact and something fell out.
Hawkins got down on his knees and examined the object, which was circular and around two feet across. It looked to be made of bronze, fashioned into a round metal frame that enclosed a number of smaller disks and gears. What he first thought were scratches in the metal turned out to be script and pictographs.
Abby knelt beside him and ran her fingers lightly over the engravings.
“What is it?” she said.
“Damned if I know,” he said. He looked off toward the wreck site where the water still boiled and steamed from the explosions. “But I’ve got the feeling that it’s something really, really important.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kalliste knew it had been a mistake to accuse her superior at the cultural ministry of being destroying her country’s cultural heritage. Too late. Winged words, as Homer would say, had already taken flight. Not that her outburst wasn’t justified. The official, whose name was Papadokalos, had set her off with his haughty dismissal of her Spanish expedition.
“Madame Kalchis goes to find what she says is a Minoan ship. What does she have to show for her work?” he said, speaking as if she weren’t even in the room.
With his pink face, razor cut black hair and mustache, and his habit of looking down his nose when he spoke, Papadokalos encapsulated the smugness of many male colleagues. He got his position thanks to the influence of his brother-in-law, a minister of Parliament who had voted to cut archaeological budgets. The cuts had spared the jobs of their own do-nothing relatives on the payroll.
She tried to moderate her temper.
Speaking in a calm voice, she said, “Perhaps Mr. Papadokalos is unaware that the expedition did not cost the Greek government a single Euro. I worked on my own time. A television network paid for the boat. The American engineer volunteered his expertise and equipment.”
“But failing to find a single artifact cost us our prestige.”
“What prestige? The Greek archaeological establishment is the laughing stock of Europe.”
An angry murmur came from the half dozen ministry bureaucrats gathered in the conference room at the Greek Archaeological Museum in Athens. It was no secret that the country’s debt crisis was crippling their archaeological reputation.
A threatened strike of security guards almost shut down the Acropolis. The ministry had lopped thousands of people from the payroll, closed monuments and museums and cut back hours at others. Even the country’s archeological jewel, the museum they were sitting in, was operating with a third of its staff.
Kalliste’s own position hung by a thread. Yet, she would never consider pandering to Papadokalos.
When he said, “As you can see, your intemperate remarks have upset your colleagues,” she lost it.
“Their anger is misplaced, and should be directed at ministers who are allowing foreign investors to build hotels and roads that are destroying our heritage.”
He lowered his chin into the flesh around his neck. His eyes narrowed in a tight squint.
“Are you implying that I am responsible for this desecration?”
Kalliste knew Papadokalos was stuffing his Swiss bank accounts with kickbacks earned for approving the fast-tracking of construction projects on ancient sites.
“I am implying nothing of the sort, Mr. Minister. I am accusing you and your government cronies of cultural vandalism that surpasses even the worst acts of that English bastard Lord Elgin, who vandalized the Parthenon. Consider this my resignation.”
She stood and pushed her chair back, then marched for the door and slammed it behind her. Her heart thumped like a pile driver as she strode through the museum corridors. She emerged into the Athenian heat and noise. Hailing a taxi, she barked out the address then sat back in her seat and stared out the window, fighting to get her emotions under control.
How did I ever get into this crazy archaeology business? She fumed. Stupid question. She knew exactly how. Her grandfather. He worked the land, producing delicious olive oil from his grove on the northeast side of Crete. It was in those olive groves that he unearthed the ancient artifacts that had fascinated her as a little girl and led to her insatiable quest for knowledge of long dead civilizations.
Recalling the startled look on the minister’s pink face at her accusations, she began to calm down. By the time the taxi dropped her off at her apartment complex in the fashionable neighborhood of Kolonaki, Kalliste felt like herself again. Her sixth floor apartment had a view of Lykabettus Hill. Kalliste would miss her work, but she wouldn’t starve to death. Her parents, both successful professionals, had left her a sizable inheritance, and her late husband had made sure she was well taken care of in his Will.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. When her tears stopped she poured herself a healthy shot of Metaxa brandy. She had drained half the glass when she got a text message on her phone from Hawkins. He was trying to Skype her.
She powered up her computer and Hawkins’s face appeared on the monitor.
“Glad I found you at home,” Hawkins said. “I’ve got some interesting news.”
Kalliste was eager to tell Hawkins about her resignation, but she was curious about the serious expression on his face. “Me, too. But you go first, Matt.”
“I’m calling you from a boat on its way back to Cadiz. Captain Santiago took us out to the wreck site. We were able to put an ROV in the water.”
“That’s more than interesting, my friend. What did you see?”