The Minoan Cipher (A Matinicus “Matt” Hawkins Adventure Book 2)
Table of Contents
THE MINOAN CIPHER
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PRAISE FOR PAUL KEMPRECOS
THE MINOAN CIPHER
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE MINOAN CIPHER
PAUL KEMPRECOS
SUSPENSE PUBLISHING
THE MINOAN CIPHER
by
Paul Kemprecos
DIGITAL EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Suspense Publishing
Paul Kemprecos
COPYRIGHT
2016 Paul Kemprecos
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, August 16, 2016
Cover Design: Shannon Raab
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/Roberto A Sanchez
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/Adam Smigielski
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/freestylephoto
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks.
DEDICATION
In memory of my pal Wayne Valero, collector extraordinaire, writer and friend of writers, a natural-born editor, lover of adventure and all-round good guy, who left this world far too soon.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The internet has made a universe of information available at the touch of a keyboard, but it is in physical books that an author searches for nuggets to stir the imagination of the reader. The Santorini eruption used as a backdrop in the Prologue is exhaustively examined in “Fire in the Sea” by Walter L. Friedrich. Two books, “Minoans” and “The Knossos Labyrinth,” both by Rodney Castleden, provided fascinating insights into work of Sir Arthur Evans and the art, architecture and mysterious religion of the long-lost civilization he discovered. The remarkable accomplishments of the linguistic genius Michael Ventris are described in “The Man Who Deciphered Linear B” by Andrew Robinson and “The Decipherment of Linear B” by John Chadwick. Ventris actually died in an auto accident at the age of thirty-four. While the fanciful account of that tragic event in “The Minoan Cipher” is purely speculative, if any one could have translated Linear A, it would have been Michael Ventris.
PRAISE FOR
PAUL KEMPRECOS
“ “The Emerald Scepter” just might be the perfect speculative thriller, offering up a seasoned blend of legend and folklore mixed brilliantly with actual historical fact. James Rollins and Clive Cussler have nothing on Paul Kemprecos who has been and continues to be a master of the form and then some. This is everything a great read should be, a riveting, tried-and -true tale of quests and daring-do, of great heroes and equally contemptuous villains. There’s a reason why Kemprecos is a #1 New York Times bestselling author and it’s all on display here.”
—Jon Land, USA Today Bestselling Author
“A brilliant mystery that combines suspense with exciting adventure. Intriguing plot twists from beginning to end, shrouded under genuine history.”
—Clive Cussler, New York Times Bestselling Author
“Kemprecos...writes sharp, readable prose.”
—Booklist
“Absorbing...Soc is an appealing, witty protagonist…and the Cape Cod locale is rendered with panache in this fast-paced enjoyable yarn.”
—Publisher’s Weekly
“Former newsman Kemprecos delivers the where, why, what, when, and finally who in a whodunit strengthened by gritty dialogue and assured depictions of suspenseful dives.”
—Boston Herald
THE MINOAN CIPHER
PAUL KEMPRECOS
PROLOGUE
PART I-CATACLYSM
The Aegean Sea, Circa 1600 B.C.
The gods were angry. There could be no other explanation for the quaking ground and the fire that rained down from the heavens on the hapless inhabitants of Kalliste, a small volcanic island located one-hundred-twenty miles north of Crete.
The island’s high cliffs formed an open ring that enclosed a deep lagoon big enough for dozens of ships. The protective bay and the island’s strategic location on the trade routes attracted cargo vessels from all around the Mediterranean. The island had prospered. The fruits of those riches could be seen in the thriv
ing settlements that lined the harbor. The islanders celebrated the bounty of the sea in their art and architecture. Graceful frescoes of dolphins and flying fish decorated the interior walls of the two- and three-story houses that lined the bay.
The riches came with a price. Kalliste was home to restless volcanoes, below and above the sea, which occasionally triggered earthquakes and blanketed the island with choking ash. The islanders had become used to what they saw as divine temper tantrums. After each disturbance, there would follow a flurry of sacrifices and ceremonies to soothe the gods. When things quieted down, the islanders swept the pumice dust from their thresholds and rebuilt the houses that had collapsed. Commerce was restored and life went on. But the impending calamity about to hit the island would be greater than anything in memory. The natural forces soon to be unleashed from deep in the earth were more powerful than even the gods could have imagined.
Kalliste’s fate had been preordained millions of years earlier. The island sat astride what geologists today call the South Aegean volcanic arc. The volcanic chain extends from Turkey to Greece, forming a line where the continents of Africa and Europe come together as they drift on a sea of molten rock known as magma. Where continents collide, cracks form in the earth’s crust and volcanoes are born. The massive magma chamber under Kalliste was like a gigantic pressure cooker. When the molten forces fractured the rock above, the blast that followed was one of the most violent natural explosions in recorded history.
A black plume churned more than twenty miles into the stratosphere, causing dramatic colors in the sky and climate changes around the world. Super-heated air flowed over the rim of the caldera with a fury hotter than a thousand blast furnaces. The turbulent cloud of ash and dust rolled horizontally across the sea at more than sixty miles an hour. The fiery shock wave pummeled ships standing in its way.
The increasingly violent tremors leading up to the eruption had made the island practically uninhabitable. Fleets of ships had carried most of the population to Crete. Many refugees settled in or around Knossos, the bustling town on the north coast that was the home port to the far-flung Minoan empire.
The day the world ended for Knossos had been filled with bountiful promise. Sweating longshoremen toiled on docks piled high with trade goods. Pedestrian traffic streamed past the boat sheds, construction yards, warehouses, cafés, taverns and brothels that served the needs of ships and the crews that manned them.
From the balconies of the houses built into the hill behind the harbor, wealthy merchants could look out on a forest of masts sprouting from scores of wide-beamed sailing galleys. Some ships were more than a hundred feet long. More vessels were anchored to the east and west of the port or clustered in the natural harbors and bays that indented the island’s one-hundred-sixty-mile-long coastline.
Ships sailing out of the island ports traveled to Africa, Asia and Europe, even beyond the Pillars of Hercules into the Atlantic Ocean. The merchant fleet carried the staples of a thriving civilization: olives, wine, and fine crafted goods to trade for copper used in the manufacture of bronze. Knossos was at the peak of its wealth, power and affluence. But in an instant, all that was about to change.
Along the waterfront, eyes turned to the north at the rumble of distant thunder. Refugees who’d fled Kalliste recognized the sound of a volcanic eruption. Some heaved a sigh of relief at their escape from their doomed island. But their destiny was only delayed. The volcanic eruption created an earthquake that in turn spawned a tsunami. And Crete lay directly in the path of the deadly wave.
The tsunami raced across open water in the form of a heaving sea, but when it encountered land, the wave released its full destructive force. It clawed the water out of the harbor, exposing the muddy bottom, then reared up in a moving brown wall more than twenty-five-feet high. Millions of tons of roiling seawater inundated Knossos and branched out in death-dealing tributaries that carried bodies and debris miles from the harbor.
The watery destruction swept several miles inland and finally ebbed at the foot of the sprawling palace that was the heart of the Minoan empire. When the wave receded, a muddy curve of shoreline was all that remained of the great commercial port of Knossos. All was silent. The only sound was the whisper coming from the blizzard of gray pumice flakes falling softly from the sky.
PART II-THE LABYRINTH
The squat-bodied man sat on a rock at the top of the hill, the dark wide-set eyes in his bovine face fixed on the horizon in a tight squint. He was dressed simply in a blue kilt; his muscular chest was bare. A bandanna protected his shaven scalp from the intense rays of the mid-day sun. He had come to this place every morning for the past few days, ever since he’d awakened after a sleepless night with the feeling that something was wrong. He didn’t know what it was, but he had learned from his many years as a soldier to heed his instincts.
From his hard perch he had a good view of the harbor and the sea beyond. The nauseous stench of rotting corpses and dead fish still poisoned the air several weeks after the giant wave had wiped out the port, but the curtain of dust no longer blotted out the sun. Tides had thinned the gray blanket of pumice to reveal patches of violet-hued water.
The feeling of unease was stronger than ever when his chariot passed through the palace gates earlier that day. He traveled to his rock perch along the remnants of a paved road that was matted with seaweed and covered with ash. The morning was uneventful. Then, shortly after noon, a speck appeared on the horizon. The object moved closer until he could make out a striped red-and-white sail of the design favored by Mycenaean shipbuilders. It was exactly what he had dreaded. A scout ship from the mainland.
Since the day of the disaster, the few ships that had ventured to Knossos were Minoan, returning from voyages to distant places. Unable to navigate the wreckage and pumice clogging their home ports along the northern coast, the ships had sailed around to the south side of Crete which had escaped the full force of the volcano. The black-hulled vessel approached Knossos harbor and made a lazy pass along the outer edge of the pumice line. The observers on board must have seen enough, because the ship turned and headed out to sea. Oars sprouted from the sides, the vessel picked up speed and soon became lost in the sea mist.
A cold sense of foreboding flowed through the man’s thick body. The mainland inhabitants had long chafed under Cretan rule. They paid tribute and accepted the onerous trading conditions enforced by the invincible Minoan navy. News of the destruction of Knossos would have spread to the mainland. The ship had been sent to assess the damage. An invasion would follow. As commander of the palace guard, known as the Followers, it would be up to him to stop the invaders.
The commander rose from the rock and climbed into the wicker chariot. He flicked the reins of the two piebald ponies, urging the pair to a gallop.
The chariot quickly covered the five-mile distance to the gates of the sprawling palace. The wheels clattered on a spacious stone-paved plaza where the commander then turned the reins over to a waiting guard. As he stepped out of the chariot he heard the sound of flutes, the musical prelude to a sacrifice.
The flute players flanked a procession moving across the plaza, headed by a half dozen young priestesses. They were leading two goats chosen for sacrifice to an altar in front of the massive sculpture known as the Horns of Consecration. At least a hundred people had joined the parade.
The commander frowned in disapproval. The crowds attending the ritual blood lettings were growing in size. The piping of the flutes faded as he strode between massive rectangular stone columns into the cool interior of the palace. He descended a stairwell several floors to a passageway. In the flickering light of sconces that lined the walls he saw two people step from a doorway and walk in his direction. He recognized the high priestess of the Mother Goddess sanctuary, and her brother. The priestess wore a long flounced skirt and a blouse with an open bodice that bared her breasts. On her head sat a tall, layered hat. She carried a clay urn that held the gold-hilted sacrificial dagger.
The commander stood with his back to the wall. The priestess brushed past the commander, her skirt swishing in the quiet passageway. The fragrance of oil made from flower petals filled his nostrils. Her eyes were fixed in a stony gaze. She was under the influence of a narcotic intoxicant used to heighten the sacrificial experience and paid no attention to the commander.
He had known the priestess when she was an alluring young woman of breathtaking beauty. Her physical and mental transformation began after she became emissary to the Mother Goddess. Her shoulder-length raven hair was streaked now with silver. Seductive eyes that had been inviting warm pools in her youth now burned with the intensity of smoldering coal.
Although she was barely thirty, her once soft features were as hard as marble. Her lush lips had thinned to a tight line. Hours spent away from the sun in dark temples and cave shrines had imparted a bloodless pallor to her face. The heavy use of kohl on her eyelids emphasized the whiteness of her skin. Her power rested on her success in dealing with the whims of a capricious deity. She allowed herself no life beyond the rituals.
The commander was a tough and fearless soldier, but the priestess made him nervous. He had seen her dance with poisonous snakes in her hands. He had witnessed sacrifices where she had slashed the throat of a two-thousand-pound auroch bull that stood more than six feet high at the shoulders.
The brother was tall and willowy like his sister, but where her face was beautiful his was feral, with a pointed chin, aquiline nose and yellow, almond-shaped eyes. His scalp had been shaved and painted blue, as was the fashion with elite Minoan males. He wore a jeweled girdle that thinned his waist to an unnatural size that emphasized his chest.
He shot the commander a glance that brimmed with hatred. The commander was used to hostile looks from the brother, knowing he resented his authority as second in command to the king. But this time the man’s frown turned to a smile. Almost as if he was keeping a secret behind his yellow eyes.