The Minoan Cipher (A Matinicus “Matt” Hawkins Adventure Book 2) Page 19

  Now that he knew where their destination was, he took his time. He caught a taxi to the port and boarded the next ferry to Santorini. While most passengers were out on deck, he went into a restroom. When he emerged, Pouty had disappeared. Leonidas had on shorts, sandals, a T-shirt, and a Yankees baseball cap. In addition, he had sprouted a beard. He’d flipped from British tourist to American tourist. He was getting to like the garrulous Englishman, but he needed to blend in.

  A few hours later the ferry landed at Thera and he took a bus to Oia. His first stop was the tourist office. The young woman at the desk marked the address of Kalliste’s house on a map. He strolled through the narrow alleyways until he came to a small square. He walked down the stairs from the square, past the house which overlooked the caldera. It would be hard to keep it under surveillance without being seen. He went back up the stairway and saw the rental sign on a house built into the cliff above Kalliste’s place. The landlord showed him a studio apartment that he immediately took, paying paid the man a week’s rent in cash.

  Leonidas walked through the neighborhood, memorizing the streets and alleyways. As he strolled along, his nostrils picked up a familiar scent. He followed the smell to the Kastro and found a gathering of young Americans getting high on pot. He accepted their invitation to join the party. When they had smoked all their marijuana, he offered to buy a round of drinks at a taverna.

  One round turned into others and they ended up closing the place down. As he stumbled home in the darkness he thought that it was a good thing he’d memorized the neighborhood. He took a few wrong turns, but made it safely back to his apartment and passed out.

  Hawkins tossed and turned on a sofa that was too short to accommodate his long body. He gave up finally and checked his watch: Five o’clock. Throwing off the blanket, he rose from the sofa and pulled his clothes on. His friends were still in bed. He made coffee, sat at the table with his tablet and read the message from Captain Santiago. Apparently the captain couldn’t sleep either because the message had been sent only minutes earlier.

  Dear Matt: Please get back to me immediately. I have done a partial translation. The document speaks of evil deeds.

  He typed a reply.

  What sort of evil deeds, Captain Santiago?

  The very worst kind. This document is very dangerous. We should meet in person. Can you come to Cadiz?

  Hawkins wrote that he’d come to Spain as soon as he could. He pondered the captain’s message. Even after his boat sank under him the captain had displayed a calm that was almost uncanny. Yet the centuries-old parchment had spooked him. Hawkins climbed to the upstairs bedroom and knocked softly. Abby came to the door fully dressed. She and Kalliste had smelled the brewing coffee and were about to come down.

  Calvin was up as well. When the group was together again, Hawkins showed them the message.

  “Damn,” Abby said. “Wish I had held onto the Gulfstream.” She checked commercial flights on her phone. “If we leave within the next ten minutes we can catch a flight to Frankfurt. Forty-five minute layover and we can hop a plane to Cadiz. We’ll be there in time for lunch.”

  Kalliste called a taxi. They threw their toothbrushes and a change of clothes into their bags. Within minutes, they headed out the door on the way to the main square where the cab would pick them up.

  A few hundred feet away, Leonidas heard someone speaking English in the quiet of the morning.

  He parted the curtains of his hangover fog, got out of bed—still wearing his rumpled clothes—and staggered to the front window just in time to see Hawkins and Abby disappear around the corner. They were carrying bags, which told him that they weren’t simply going for a walk around town. He pictured himself chasing after them but decided against it. His wig had fallen off, revealing his scarred scalp. Then the waves of nausea churning in his stomach sent him running for the bathroom sink.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cadiz, Spain

  Lily met the DNA expert from Madrid at the courtyard restaurant of the Melia Santi Petri hotel. He had called the night before to say he had the test results. When she told him that she wanted to meet with him as soon as possible, he said he would catch a flight to Cadiz in the morning.

  The slightly-built, well-groomed man in the dark blue suit and gray tie emerged from the hotel, glanced around the courtyard and saw Lily waving him over to her table. They shook hands.

  “You must be Ms. Porter,” he said.

  “And you would be Luis Flores from the genetic profiling lab. Please have a seat.”

  Flores sat at the table and placed a leather briefcase on his lap.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get the test results to you earlier,” he said. “Genetic testing has come a long way, but the process still involves several steps. The sample goes through a machine that isolates it from the other material, then it must be heated to magnify the DNA and frozen before it can be analyzed.”

  “Don’t worry, Senor Flores. This was an unusual request to toss at you on such short notice. I appreciate your company’s decision to give it Priority as I asked.”

  Flores beamed. “I was glad to do it, Ms. Porter. I’m a great fan of Hidden History. I particularly enjoyed that segment you did in Madagascar about the zombie batmen.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure you will also enjoy the program we just finished filming, called Werewolves of the Paris Sewers.”

  The eyes behind the circular wire-rimmed glasses widened. “Werewolves! You certainly cover the spectrum of the supernatural.” He grinned. “Anyway, on to the subject at hand. The analysis we just completed was somewhat unusual. Is it something related to a future program?”

  “Hidden History is constantly researching possible projects. There are only so many zombie or vampire stories you can run.”

  “I can hardly wait,” he said. He unsnapped the briefcase and reached in for a file folder, placing it on the table directly in front of him. He asked Lily if she knew much about genetic profiling.

  “I was a reporter before I became a producer,” she said. “I know a great deal about many things but not very much about one thing in particular.”

  “Picture the human cell as a bubble, and within that is a smaller bubble called the nucleus. Within that nucleus, both men and women have twenty-three pairs of chromosomes. When men and women conceive a child, one chromosome in each pair comes from the mother and the other from the father. The ‘Y’ chromosome is passed down from the father, whereas women pass along their DNA from the mitochondria that float in the space between the nucleus and the outer layer of the cell.”

  “All very informative, Senor Flores.” She glanced at her watch. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m on a tight schedule.”

  “Sorry. I felt I had to lay a foundation so you would appreciate the special problems we had to deal with in analyzing these samples.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “None with the hair sample. Using the polymerase chain reaction, we easily developed a genetic profile of the subject.”

  “Was the bone sample too old to analyze?”

  “Not at all. With the latest techniques, ancient DNA can be traced back tens of thousands of years. All the way to the African ‘Eve’ who is supposedly the mother of all mankind. The bone sample you provided was dated between three thousand and four thousand years old. A comparatively recent period when we look back in human history.”

  “I’m afraid you’re losing me, Mr. Flores.”

  “Had this been a sample from the tissues of a mummy, we could have dated the sample using the PCR process. The problem with dating ancient specimens is that skeletal remains, bones and teeth, are fragile and highly degradable. No cells are preserved, which means we can’t use the PCR lab procedure I described a moment ago. It is mitochondrial, not the nuclear DNA, that survives.”

  “You said you could date a specimen back to Eve.”

  “Yes, Eve, but not Adam. Mitochondrial markers are passed down from the maternal line, not
the paternal one. The bone sample came from a male, so it was impossible to make the genetic connection between the two samples.”

  “That’s disappointing, Senor Flores. I had hoped you could do better,” Lily said in a flat tone of voice.

  “I had hoped so as well,” he said with a sigh. “This is a fascinating assignment, and I would have loved to establish a connection between the two samples. But not all is lost. It’s possible that circumstantial evidence may establish a link.”

  He opened the file folder, extracted two sheets of paper and slid them across the table. Printed on each sheet was a pie-chart and a map of the world’s continents with areas that were color coded. He tapped the pie-chart labeled “Subject A” with the tip of his finger. “This is the genetic profile from the bone sample. What do you see?”

  “It is almost entirely in red except for a small sliver in green.”

  “Correct. The island of Crete on the map is also in red, indicating that the individual we’re interested in is almost entirely of Cretan origin. The green sliver corresponds to the area around the eastern Mediterranean where the subject had ancestral antecedents.”

  Lily stared at the other pie-chart. “Tell me more about the diagram.”

  “As you can see, most of the chart is red, indicating that the subject is around ninety percent Cretan. Subject B is around fifty per cent pure Cretan, with the balance mostly Spanish and other western European areas.”

  “What’s this?” she said, pointing to an irregular black section of Crete that was the same in both maps.

  “You have a quick eye. That’s the circumstantial evidence I mentioned. This is the Lassithi Plateau. Some scholars refer to it as the Machu Picchu of the ancient Minoan civilization. As Crete was overrun by various invaders, the last of the Minoans retreated to the plateau and the adjoining mountain slopes.”

  “Are you saying that both subjects go back to Lassithi?”

  “Their genes do. In fact, they go back to the Neolithic people who first settled the island more than seven thousand years ago. These were small settlements. Families intermarried, so it’s entirely possible the subjects were related. I can’t confirm that. You’ll have to go back along the maternal line. We’ll try to refine the search and see if we can come up with anything that we didn’t pick up with the initial analysis.”

  “Thank you, Senor Flores. May I keep these charts?”

  “I printed them out for you to keep. I’ll be looking forward to the Paris werewolves. Please let me know when the program airs.”

  “I’ll do that,” Lily said, forcing a smile.

  After a quick handshake Flores headed back into the hotel and Lily sat down again and studied the pie charts and maps. The skull sample produced no surprises. Minos could trace his Cretan ancestors back for centuries. But the chart based on the hair sample from Kalliste Kalchis really intrigued her.

  The Cretan section indicated that Kalliste and Minos both descended from inhabitants of Crete who had arrived on the island in Neolithic times. The king’s daughter had moved from Crete which accounted for Spanish and European DNA in the genetic profile of her descendant.

  One pie slice caught her eye. It was much thinner than the others and constituted only a small percentage of the chart for Kalliste. The sliver showed that she had a distant ancestor from the Caucasus. Lily tapped out Caucasus in the Google space of her phone. The northern part of the region on the coast of the Black Sea in ancient times was known as Colchis.

  She Googled Colchis. As she read further, her pulse began to race. Colchis was the home of Medea, daughter of the king who lost the Golden Fleece to Jason and the Argonauts. Medea had a niece named, Persiphae. Lily looked up Persiphae and confirmed what she already knew; Persiphae was the wife of King Minos. How could she have missed it?

  Names often change over time. Even her own, Lily, came from Lil-ee, the sacred flower of the Minoan goddess Britomartis, who went back to the Neolithic era. But Lily’s ancient name was not Porter, but Portina, Minoan Mistress of the Animals.

  Colchis. Kalchis.

  It was no coincidence. Kalliste was descended from the daughter of King Minos.

  She had to bring Kalliste to her long overdue fate in the Maze. The decree from the High Priestess whose mummy sat on a throne in the Maze had been passed down through the centuries. The spawn of Minos must be given to the Mother Goddess if the Way of the Axe were to prosper.

  Lily silently mouthed the old chants, murmurings that had their roots in the primitive rituals when men lived in caves. The past seemed like a river rushing through her brain, but the sound it made was not water but a chorus of voices. An image flashed before her eyes. The photograph on the wall of Kalliste’s apartment. White cubical houses set against black ashen cliffs. The Mother Goddess was leading the way.

  “Would you like more coffee, Madame?”

  The waiter standing at her table had come over to see if Lily needed anything. She snapped out of her trance, gave him her playful TV producer smile, then scooped up the graphs and stuffed them into her pocketbook. She rose from her chair.

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m very fine indeed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Miguel picked up Hawkins and Abby at Malaga Airport and drove them to the Santiago apartment in an upscale part of Cadiz. Captain Santiago greeted the visitors with effusive bear hugs and introduced his wife, Louisa, a pretty woman with the broad smile that had been passed down to her son.

  The sturdy dining room table groaned under the weight of the Spanish appetizers known as tapas. The dishes included meatballs in spicy tomato sauce, garlic prawns and olives of every size and color. All washed down with an oak-aged Rioja wine.

  After lunch, Captain Santiago led his guests to his dark-paneled study. He pointed out the painting of Cervantes hanging over the fireplace. Photos of the salvage boats that had given the captain and his family a comfortable living hung on the walls.

  Hawkins recognized a photo of the Sancho Panza. Santiago noticed his pained expression. “It’s all right, Matt. The sea giveth and the sea taketh away. So make sure you have insurance.”

  “Words of wisdom from Cervantes?”

  “No.” The captain jabbed his chest with a forefinger. “From Santiago.”

  He unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out a large mailing envelope. Inviting his guests to take a seat, he settled into a stuffed leather chair. He opened the envelope and extracted a print-out of the document Hawkins had sent him.

  “I must ask you a question,” he said to Matt. “Where did you get this?”

  “From an Englishman named Robsham. It was among papers he inherited that once belonged to his great-uncle. Do you know what it is?”

  Santiago nodded. “A deed of penance. Basically a real estate transfer that dates back to the 16th century, regarding the transfer of property in the Castilla La Mancha.”

  Hawkins glanced at the portrait of Cervantes. “As in ‘Man of La Mancha’?”

  “The very same countryside where the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance roamed. It’s a region in the central part of Spain. Very flat and desolate. Known for its windmills, like the one Don Quixote battled, while imagining they were giants. I’ve traveled there a number of times. I’ve seen the property described in the document. It’s a medieval castle, surrounded by abandoned vineyards and farmlands. No inhabited villages or towns lay nearby.”

  “You would think that the vineyards would generate local commerce,” Abby said.

  “Perhaps at one time; long ago,” Santiago said. “According to the legends I’ve heard, the area has long been plagued by strange happenings that drove people away.”

  “What sort of happenings?”

  “People disappeared. Mostly young and mostly female. The villagers suspected the disappearances had something to do with the castle, which was home to a secretive order of monks. Many of the locals moved away. After some people were killed by some huge creatures who attacked them in church, the remaining inhabita
nts decided that even the Almighty couldn’t help, so they deserted their village.”

  “What sort of creatures?” Abby said.

  “They were said to be demonic dogs. The story goes back to the mid-1500s. It was on a Sunday and the people were at worship when two massive dogs burst down the doors and ran among the kneeling congregation, maiming and killing. They ripped the throats out of six people. Churches could be targets for brigands, so the villagers always carried weapons under their cloaks. Some attacked the animals with their knives and swords. Witnesses heard a whistle and saw one dog go to a man standing outside the church. He appeared to be a monk from the castle. He left without a word with the dog at his side. The other animal ran off, leaving a trail of blood.”

  “Tell us more about these dogs,” Hawkins said.

  “The animals were as tall as a man and had eyes that were flaming red; or bright yellow, depending on the storyteller. Their heads were skull-like, with a thick ruff around the neck, and they had long, narrow snouts.”

  “Good thing it’s only a legend,” Hawkins said.

  Santiago hiked up his thick eyebrows. “Maybe not. A few years ago researchers digging near the foundation of the old church found the bones of a gigantic dog lying in a shallow grave. The dog would have stood more than seven feet on its hind legs and weighed more than two hundred pounds. Its skull shape matched the descriptions and led the researchers to believe that it was a hybrid of some sort.”

  “Fascinating, but maybe we should get back to the document Matt sent you,” Abby said. “You described it as a ‘deed of penance.’ ”

  “The deed was an invention of the Inquisition. Loss of your property was part of the penalty paid by the accused. The document was basically fiction to make the theft of property legal. No money was mentioned in the papers. The Salazar family listed as beneficiaries took ownership for what was termed a ‘consideration.’ In other words, it was never paid for,” Santiago said.