Hawkins described the holes punched in the hull of the Sancho Panza, and Calvin’s theory of a missile strike. “We found Falstaff not far from the salvage boat. The sub was in pretty good shape. Then we took another look at the ship, itself. The object near the stern is definitely an antique diving bell.”
“I’m stunned. That’s truly amazing.”
“Even more amazing are the objects we found near the bell. Dive gear that goes back centuries. Helmets and pressure suits, indicating multiple dives made on the wreck. It appears that none of the divers made it back alive.”
“That would suggest that the wreck’s location was passed along for hundreds of years.”
“Exactly my take on it. Someone knew about the ship long before we did.”
“I can’t wait to see the photos and video.”
“I’ll send the footage along to you for analysis.”
“Wonderful!” She clapped her hands. “This couldn’t have come at a better time. I just quit my job. This is the material I need to persuade the television network to fund a full-fledged expedition to salvage the wreck. I’ll call Lily Porter immediately.”
“I wouldn’t do that just yet,” Hawkins said.
Hawkins told her about the attack helicopters.
Kalliste was almost numb with grief. “You’re sure everything was destroyed?” she said, looking for a ray of hope.
“The barrage was pretty intense,” he said. “It’s not all bad news. Minnie brought us back a present. It was in a water-tight bronze chest we found on the ship.”
He held the artifact up in front of the camera, and rotated it slowly to give Kalliste a full view of the other side. She gulped down the rest of the Metaxa, excused herself, and went to the bar. She poured out a double shot of brandy and carried it back to her computer table.
“Please show the object again,” she said. When he went through the display, she said, “Do you have any idea what you are holding?”
“You’re the expert. I was hoping you would know.”
“I would have to see the actual artifact. But my first impression is that you have recovered a version of the Antikythera mechanism — the ancient astronomical computer found in a shipwreck near Crete.”
“I thought of the Antikythera device, too.”
“As you know, the computer had gears and dials that could compute the position of the sun, moon and stars. It would have been invaluable in navigating the seas.”
“This has dials inscribed with pictographs and letters.”
“This wonderful machine could have been used in navigating an entirely different type of sea. I’d like you to talk to someone, Matt. His name is Professor Vasilios Vedrakis. He’s an expert on Minoan script who works out of the Heraklion museum. He has written extensively on the Phaistos disk.”
“I’d be glad to talk to him.”
“Good. Then we will make arrangements to get together as soon as possible.”
Kalliste hung up and emptied her brandy glass. She thought she was going to faint from excitement. Forcing herself to rise from her chair, she walked to a wall safe located behind a stunning painting of the Acropolis. She punched out the combination, opened the door and reached inside for a metal jewelry box, which she placed on her desk.
Taking a key from her desk drawer, she opened the box, flipped the top back and removed a leather pouch. Her trembling fingers undid the drawstring and removed the vellum scroll inside, which she then unrolled on the desktop. It was about ten inches wide and when unrolled, was around three feet in length.
The vellum was covered with line after line of ancient Minoan script known as Linear A. The mysterious language had defied all attempts at decipherment, yet she had been a young girl when her grandfather showed her the script for the first time. Growing up, she had taken every opportunity to study the scroll. More than anything she could think of, it was the scroll she held in her hands that drew her to the study of archaeology. She had dreamed of the day it would be deciphered. But she never imagined that she would be the one to do it.
Papadokalos was in his office going over a doubtful resume, wondering where he was going to put all the relatives who needed government jobs. The latest application was from a cousin of a cousin. He stroked his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He suspected family members were selling jobs to friends and passing them off as family. Well, two can play that game. He would hire the so-called cousins, or uncles, or whatever they may be, but it would cost them dearly.
He was jotting down payback calculations when he got a phone call from the woman whose resignation had saved him the trouble of firing her. Kalliste’s insult had gone over his head, even though he would never state that out loud. He actually had no idea who this Elgin person was, but he was happy because her exit would open up another job needed by family.
“How nice to hear from you, Dr. Kalchis. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“As you may recall, you had some doubts as to the worth of my Minoan expedition.”
“No offense meant, Dr. Kalchis. I’m a numbers man. Some of your colleagues in the archaeological ministry suggested that line of inquiry.”
“In that case, would you kindly distribute the photos I’ve emailed you for their inspection? Tell them that they can direct their queries to Professor Vedrakis. I have designated the professor as the first one to have access to this remarkable artifact. Thank you.”
She hung up. Papadokalos shrugged and turned to his computer. The email from Kalliste had an attachment that included several photos of an ugly disk-shaped object. He pondered the images, thinking about his lucrative sideline. Months before, an anonymous caller asked him to forward news of any Minoan discoveries. He had given it a try, and with each tidbit, a substantial amount of money had been deposited into his bank account.
He had no intention of doing what Kalliste suggested, but her photos meant a new injection of Euros for little or no work done. Hitting ‘Forward’ then ‘Send,’ with a great sigh, he turned back to the resumes piled on his desk.
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 19th 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.