Tuscan Hoax: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure Book 4), page 19
Holy shit! He shoved back a vision of landing in a shallower spot and sprang up, pulling with his arms. His lungs screamed as the mirror surface seemed to stretch away. Finally, he broke the surface and sucked in air. Three huge breaths. Then he spun, found the cliff, and twisted back to find Jasmin. As he treaded hard to move higher in the water, he saw two heads at ten o’clock, maybe four meters distant.
“Jasmin!” he yelled and swam over to her, but his high-tops dragged like anchors. In his days as a Ranger, Zac had trained to the point of collapse. Survival meant needing to know one’s range. Too hard, and you pass out. Not hard enough, and—Not today. C’mon, Zac, dig.
Darwin’s and Eyrún’s voices rang out from the clifftop, but they were unintelligible in the thrashing water. Something about a boat, Zac thought. He adjusted his stroke and lifted his head forward. Shit! They were pulling Jasmin into a bright orange Zodiac. Have to get there! He surged forward, and his vision tunneled as his body channeled oxygen into his burning muscles.
An arm slammed into rubber. He popped up and grabbed the Zodiac’s side rope while sweeping salt water from his eyes with his other hand. The dark hole of a large handgun pointed between his eyes. The thug he had hit first in the square said, “Get in the front of the boat, Zac. Try anything, and the first bullet goes in Jasmin.”
“Zac! Zac! The Zodiac!” Darwin and Eyrún yelled as they frantically pointed at the craft powering toward him. Darwin moved to the top of the wall, but Eyrún tugged him back. “That’s stupid. We can’t help him.”
He flashed hot, but then he realized it was a dumb move. “Oh, crap. There’s the megayacht.” He pointed at the vessel cruising through the Zodiac’s wake. It had motored into view from behind Bonifacio’s peninsula.
“Zac!” they yelled again.
“He saw us,” said Eyrún when Zac turned briefly, but he kept going.
They watched as the Zodiac cut its engine and the man on board hauled in Jasmin and then the thug. The man waited a few seconds for Zac to catch up and then used a gun to subdue him.
“Oh, Zac,” Eyrún cried out mournfully while turning to Darwin. “Get down.” She pulled him into a crouch beside a wheelie bin. “There’s a flic at the intersection, turning this way.”
Darwin pressed his head against the wall and watched the cop from a gap behind the bin. “He’s on his radio and coming down the alley.”
Just then, an older woman called to them from an open third-floor window. “Hey, you, behind the bins.” When they looked up, she pointed at a door three meters to their left. “Go in there and wait,” she said.
Eyrún started first and pulled Darwin inside. “Ew,” he said as he slipped into a dark space a little over a square meter that smelled of cleaning chemicals.
“It’s this or them,” she said.
Through a small window, papered over except for scratches, Darwin saw two gendarmes pass. He put an ear to the door and heard the woman tell them about some crazy people who had jumped into the sea. A long moment passed, with the only sounds coming from Eyrún’s breathing and his own heartbeat whooshing against his eardrums. Then a loud radio burst announced the people had been picked up by a tender and taken to the yacht, now powering away.
“What do we do?” asked one gendarme.
“Unless you can fly down to that yacht, they’re gone. Did you get a good look at the guy with the gun in the square?”
“No.”
“Then go interview the people who saw him.”
Darwin watched them pass again, and Eyrún asked, “How long should we wait?”
A minute later, a rap at the door brought him back to the window, where the woman waved them outside. They followed her to the same alley where the thug had crashed into Eyrún, and she said, “You need to leave quickly. I don’t like the police. Bunch of boys never got out of puberty. Follow this street and go left at Rue du Clocher. Then take a quick right onto Rue du Corps de Garde. It ends at the Mémorial du Passé Bonifacien. From there, you can find your own way under the bastion.”
“I know it. Thanks,” said Darwin.
Eyrún handed her a hundred-euro note. The woman refused, but Eyrún insisted, and the woman took it with a smile.
As they walked away, Eyrún asked Darwin, “You follow all that?”
“Yes.” And, at the first intersection they passed, he looked at the sign mounted on the building. “This is Rue Doria. An old friend’s grandparents lived down the block.”
They walked at a normal pace, and Darwin took her hand so they would appear to be a normal couple out for a stroll. The deep shadows tempered the hot air, but its stillness increased the claustrophobic feeling of the tight street.
“I need water,” said Eyrún, putting into words the tacky sensation in Darwin’s mouth. They passed a section permeated by the aroma of cooking sausages, which reminded him that he had never properly finished breakfast and would likely not be having lunch anytime soon.
A minute later, they reached the street’s end and entered a wider space at the memorial’s entrance where a handful of people sat at cafe tables. They crossed under the bastion through the same tunnel they had entered and ran down Montee Rastello. The number of tourists had increased in the last hour. Good for cover, he thought. But shortly after turning onto Quai Jérôme Comporetti along the harbor, he pulled Eyrún into a shop.
“What’re you doing?”
He put a finger to his lips as he led her behind a clothes rack and pointed. A gendarme outside the shop’s window moved toward the door and stayed there. Darwin and Eyrún stepped into a dressing room and peered around its drape.
“We’ve lost them,” the gendarme said into his radio.
“Stay in place for another half-hour. They’ll have to cross that location,” a voice crackled from the radio.
“Merde!” Darwin rolled against the changing room wall, considering their location relative to the car.
Eyrún peeked at the flic again. Then, shutting the drape, she asked, “How’re we getting out of here? Our only options are the quayside path and the upper road.”
Darwin closed his eyes and visualized getting around the harbor. “I got it. The train.”
“Train?” Eyrún’s face went blank.
“Yes. Drives on the street. You know, like you’ve seen in zoos. Anyway, it runs from the car park into the old city and back. We can catch it on the street at the top of Montee Rastello.”
“That works, but what about him?” She pointed toward the gendarme camped by the door.
“Easy. If he looks in here, shout.” Darwin walked around the counter and asked to borrow the phone. He called the local police dispatch and said he was a waiter at La Caravelle restaurant and had just seen the man the police were looking for.
Not a minute later, the cop’s radio crackled, and he took off in the direction opposite Montee Rastello. They beat a path up the steep street, and, when Darwin caught up with Eyrún, she asked, “How long before the train?”
61
Zac fell beside Jasmin in the Zodiac’s bow as the pilot shoved the throttle and swung hard toward the cliffs. He swiveled around to see a man descending a stairway cut into the limestone. “That would’ve been easier—”
“Shut up. No talking!” yelled the pilot.
The man on the stairs plunged into the rough water and swam toward them, and, when the first thug hauled him aboard, Zac recognized him as the other thug who had attacked Jasmin in the square. As the small boat pulled away, its engine echoing off the cliff, he focused on the men in the Zodiac. The two he had bested in the square had middling skills, but the Zodiac’s pilot was untested. He appeared cut from similar cloth, but the gun more than tipped the odds in his favor.
Zac turned to study the approaching megayacht, estimating its size as about equal to that of a small navy frigate. Its three wraparound decks above water each had ample windows. As they closed within thirty meters, he scanned for security staff but only saw a man and a woman emerge from the interior and descend to the swim deck. Crew, he assessed from their casual dress, white shorts and collared shirts with gold epaulets. The man shouted to them in a Russian dialect, “Who is he?”
“The boyfriend. He followed us,” said one thug.
Zac had learned basic Russian from working a joint Ukrainian operation early in his Afghan days. Unfortunately, his ability to visually judge his captors ended with a blindfold as soon as he set foot on the swim deck. He widened his stance against the loss of a visual horizon and let awareness flow into his other senses.
The surrounding conversations focused on stowing the Zodiac and another thug telling a crew member to get Thierry. Moments later, Jasmin yelled, “Leave me alone!” He smiled, as, from the slapping sounds, she seemed to be fighting like an alley cat. Then Thierry must have arrived, because she let loose a tirade worthy of a drunken sailor, screaming, “Leave me alone! I signed the goddamned papers!”
More struggling led to Thierry saying, “Stop it now, or he goes over the side.” Zac felt hands on each arm, and they partially lifted him. The command had an immediate effect, as Jasmin went quiet. “Good,” Thierry continued. “The same goes for you, Zac. Cooperate, and I won’t hurt her.”
“What do you want?” asked Zac.
“Take her away,” said Thierry.
“Zac, I’m sorry,” said Jasmin. Her voice sounded small, like that of a child speaking to a bully.
All went quiet. Zac could feel the sun’s heat move across his body, and he guessed the yacht was turning. A voice from his left said, “Move.” Then it instructed him to step up a short stairway to the main deck. They walked a short distance, and the hands turned him. “Sit.”
Zac’s calves sensed an object, and he lowered himself onto a cushioned seat. The sound of wood on wood scraping was followed by Thierry’s voice. “What do I want? I thought I have been clear, Zac, but maybe your friends are not as smart as they think.”
When Zac did not respond, Thierry moved closer. “What I want is for your friends Darwin and Eyrún to complete my request—find the Albanian Master. I asked nicely…well, with some unpleasant legal leverage, but they seem to think throwing their money around can get them out of the ACA’s embarrassing situation.”
“Why can’t you find him yourself?” asked Zac. Keep it neutral. Let him talk. The first rule of captivity—survival—meant understanding your captors, letting them know you will comply and help them get what they want.
“Believe me, I’ve tried, but the Mediterranean’s vast, with thousands of islands. I had almost resigned myself to letting him go, but he has something of mine that I need as collateral.”
“How can Darwin help you?” Zac tried to imagine what the man looked like. His voice flowed like a hypnotist’s. His English was perfect but with a heavy French accent.
“Zac…both you and I know he has an uncommon ability to find the unfindable. And he’s acquired powerful resources. But they think this is a game. I even sent Jasmin to help them get started, but she failed, so I engaged an alternate strategy. And now look. You’ve volunteered yourself as another hostage. I’m sure Darwin and Eyrún will do their utmost to find me the Albanian Master.”
62
Darwin scanned the road toward the citadel as a taxi coming from the lower harbor stopped at Montee Rastello to let out passengers. As the last person exited, Eyrún got in. “Let’s go,” she said, pulling Darwin’s arm. He slid in beside her and closed the door.
“Car park, please. We’re in a hurry,” Eyrún said to the driver and held two twenty-euro notes over the seat. The man took the cash and shot down the hill. Two minutes later, she and Darwin bolted from the car, and he paused at a street vendor. “I’m getting water. Bring the car around.”
She did, and she barely stopped as Darwin hopped in, dumped four water bottles on the front carpet, and secured the seatbelt. Then she cut into the stream of cars and headed back toward Ajaccio as fast as traffic allowed.
Darwin opened a bottle, handed it to her, and snagged another for himself. After slaking his thirst, he said, “Let’s not make a habit of running and jumping in the car.”
“Be glad it’s not a horse.”
“Tell me that’s not another of your secret talents.”
“Horses? No. They smell.” Her phone chimed, and she asked the in-car system to read the message.
“You have two new messages. Shall I read them?”
She grunted. “Yes.”
“Message from an unknown number: ‘We have them both. Your twenty-four hours to give us the Albanian Master’s location is down to twenty.’”
“Shit! How the hell are we going to find him in twenty hours?” she asked.
When the digital voice asked if she wanted to reply, she shouted, “No!” and stomped on the accelerator, taking them to 180 kph before downshifting into a series of curves.
“Didn’t the assistant say there were two messages?” asked Darwin.
“Siri, read the second message,” Eyrún said.
“Message from Barry Hodgson: ‘Lupita left this photo and a note in my office. Sorry I didn’t see it yesterday. She put in under a pile. Call me when you get this and I’ll read you the note.’”
Eyrún ignored the question about replying. “Darwin, look at the photo.”
Darwin picked up her mobile and tapped the image in Barry’s text, enlarging it to full screen. A woman and a girl stood before a dark cliff about three times their height. Bright sunlight bore down from a clear, pale sky and, combined with fading from age, washed out the color. He pinched the image.
“Merde! Look at this. No, pull over. You need to see it close.”
She stopped in a turnout and manipulated the photo. “The woman looks like Jasmin. Wait, so does the girl. Jasmin and her mother? What’s this about?” She looked at Darwin, who shrugged. Then she said to the in-car system, “Call Barry Hodgson.”
He answered on the first ring. “Eyrún, where are you? Have you found her?”
“No. Well, not exactly.” She filled him in on their chase, Zac’s kidnapping, and the message that they had both Lupita and Zac now. “We’re assuming they’re both on the megayacht.”
“Dammit,” said Barry.
“I got the photo. What’s the note say.”
They heard rustling over the phone’s speaker as Barry said, “Let me get my glasses. Okay. Here we go:
Barry,
I wanted to run something by you that’s making me suspicious.
Jasmin came by with a photo, asking if the algorithm could find its location. I agreed, thinking it would be a good test of the system and our searches for looted sites.
The photo is of a woman and a young girl taken in the 80s (see attached). Jasmin said it was her mother and sister. When I asked why she could not ask them the location, she said they are dead and she wants to find their burial place.
Then she asked me to keep the search between us, but she was emphatic about telling no one. Why would it be such a secret?
Lupita
“That’s it,” said Barry.
“I understand Lupita’s suspicion. If Jasmin’s looking for her mother’s and sister’s graves, why keep it between them?” asked Eyrún.
“Wait,” said Darwin. “Zac said Jasmin doesn’t have a sister. She’s an only child.”
“That woman’s smarmy. No wonder Lupita doesn’t trust her,” said Barry.
“Jasmin’s got to be looking for something else at this location. Maybe her mother’s grave, but why would she lie about a sister?” asked Eyrún.
“No idea,” said Barry. “I’ve already turned Lupita’s office upside down. There’s nothing else related to this. What else can I do to help?” said Barry.
“Dunno yet, Barry,” said Darwin. “We’re on our way back and should be there in an hour.”
They disconnected. Eyrún continued studying the photo as the car idled like a slumbering dragon. “Something about this.” She looked up at Darwin. “Jasmin’s from Lebanon, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, this photo’s not taken there. Look.” She zoomed in tight on the dark rock formations. “This looks like basalt, but it’s much younger than anything in Lebanon. I’d say it’s from an eruption during the Holocene and maybe more recent.”
Darwin understood geology in vague terms. As an archaeologist, he knew the Holocene as the age when modern humans started cultivation and built cities, but little beyond that.
“She’s lied to us about everything: her business, her father. She’s not looking for a sister. This is her and her mother,” Eyrún said as she continued to scroll around the photo. Then she repeated what Barry had read, “Jasmin’s looking for the place this was taken.”
“Maybe that’s why she’s been so curious about the bust?”
“What?” She jerked up in her seat.
“The bust. It’s basalt, right? She asked me once about the style, trying to narrow if it was Greek or Roman. Said that would help determine where it came from. I didn’t—whoa!“ He gripped the passenger handhold as Eyrún shifted in gear and the Macan fishtailed in the gravel until grabbing the pavement.
“Dammit. I should have done it before. I kept thinking it wasn’t important,” she said as they flew over the hills towards the ACA.
“What?”
“Examined the basalt. All rocks have a signature. Its composition can help us narrow down its origin, at least its geographic region.”
“You think—“
“Yes. She remembers this place. There’s something there.”
“Or someone,” said Darwin, bracing for a corner.
63
In just under an hour, they reached the ACA and ran upstairs to Eyrún’s office to get the bust. Darwin followed her as she carried it to the lab and set it on a worktable. After a preliminary study, she said, “I have to break off pieces to sample it.”
