Tuscan Hoax: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure Book 4), page 25
He brought up a live image on Darwin’s iPad that showed the megayacht to be the only sizable craft in the tiny harbor on Pantelleria’s northeast coast, facing Sicily. Unfortunately, the resolution was not high enough to show any human movement.
Eyrún navigated them toward the looming island, now fully lit by the morning sun. Greenery blanketed its volcanic peaks, whose height squeezed moisture from the humid air, irrigating the lower slopes. Ground-hugging vegetation covered the volcanic soil, and signs of cultivation appeared where the verdure had been arrayed in orderly rows, touches that had revealed lost settlements to archaeologists years later. The natural world was random. Humans arranged it.
Darwin folded sausages into an omelet in the galley kitchen. The butter and curing spices melded with the aroma of crusty bread wafting from the oven. He grabbed the loaf between fingertips and half-tossed it onto a cutting board.
“Damn. If the Navy served up luxury like this, I might never have left,” said Zac.
“I thought you said the Rangers were Army,” said Eyrún.
“They are. But we hitched rides from all the other services. Now that we have a Space Force, I might re-enlist.” Eyrún’s face screwed up, and he smiled. “I’m kidding.”
Darwin buttered a thick slice of bread and slathered it with a generous dollop of apricot preserves for Eyrún. He devoured his portion of the omelet and exchanged positions with her so she could eat.
Halfway through his plate, Zac said, “I’m sorry, Eyrún. I fucked up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
“No. Seriously, you guys. You tried to warn me. I’ve never been taken in like that, and after all my training.”
“You’re not in combat, Zac,” said Darwin.
“But that’s the point. I was taken in, not thinking about any danger. I…”
Eyrún put a hand on his arm. “It happened, Zac. We forgive you. Now, let’s turn it around. What did you learn that will help us get Lupita back?”
81
By midnight, Lupita’s algorithm had narrowed the photo of Jasmin and her mother to an area downslope from Monte Gibele, the second-largest volcano on Pantelleria. It most closely matched photos taken around a nearby historical site with four Byzantine tombs. Jasmin and Thierry had zoomed in and out of Google Maps and found only a handful of dwellings in the area. The most promising of them was up a dirt road on the dormant volcano’s steep southeastern slope, but there was no street-level view. Before going to sleep, Thierry had instructed the captain to make for Tracino, a village with a harbor close to their target, where they dropped anchor before sunrise.
As the early-morning sun climbed the cloudless sky, Jasmin and Thierry ate their breakfast and, through binoculars, studied the activity on the shore. A dive boat departed, and a few fishing vessels returned, but the tiny harbor was mostly tranquil. A light offshore breeze carried a faint smell of the maquis—similar to Corsica but with a dusty, volcanic undertone. Her light cotton top hung limply in the humidity, somewhat elevated from a light overnight rain.
She finished the last bite of her breakfast just as the tender returned. The thug who had jumped the wall with her in Bonifacio reported what they had found. “The village is small, just a few shops. People are curious about the yacht, but we made it clear you wanted privacy. We hired a car. It’s ready anytime.” He pointed at a sedan parked dockside.
Thierry leaped from the table, dropped his napkin on his plate, and ran to his office. Jasmin was glad for the time alone, as, over the last two days, he had increasingly acted like a child overexcited about a birthday party. He had talked incessantly about finding his mask.
Her gaze drifted from the shoreline toward the distant mountain, and her heart palpitated. For over three decades, she had thought of this confrontation. At times, she had imagined crushing her mother’s killer with a car or stabbing him with a kitchen knife. Just yesterday, while watching one thug clean his pistol, she had envisioned shooting the Albanian Master. Her chest tightened as she pictured coming face to face with him. God, I just want to get this over with. Revenge seemed much simpler in concept than reality.
“Are you ready?” asked Thierry when he returned from inside the yacht.
“Give me a few minutes.” She stood and moved towards her cabin.
“You’re sure you can recognize the place?” he called after her, but she ignored him.
Forty-five minutes later, the thug at the wheel steered them onto a dirt track that cut between knee-high basalt rock walls. The main road, Contrada Dietro Isola, had sloped upward from the harbor and through rolling hills terraced with basalt walls. Ground-hugging grapevines grew in a manner little changed since Roman times. The car rocked over the rough ground, causing Jasmin, Lupita, and the other thug in the rear seat to sway against each other like Newton’s cradle.
“That’s it,” said Jasmin, and she pointed as a steep slope angled to the right. All heads turned toward a white structure tucked behind lava rock walls. More than a dozen cacti, each twice the size of the largest thug, filled its front garden. Their pale-green ping-pong paddle blades angled every which way. Low shrubs surrounded the house, further isolating it from the road and the gravel track looked little traveled.
Except for electrical wires stretching between poles that ran up and over a hill, the property’s construction said nothing of its age. Two buildings sat in proximity. The larger featured a cover extending from its front. Both had water-collecting domed roofs, a practice introduced by Arabs in the late Middle Ages.
They stopped short of the shade structure. Its wooden slats protected a table and chairs that appeared recently used. Thierry burst from the car and ran into the house. Jasmin exited more slowly, and, as she ran a hand across the table’s clean surface, she said, “I know this place.” Her static post-card memories played: a dinner at the table, running through the garden, and getting pricked by a cactus. She reflexively rubbed her right index finger.
“Where is it?” Thierry’s voice carried from inside.
She walked to the place where the photo of her and her mother had been taken: the rock wall of a cistern built into the larger building’s side. It had seemed much taller to a six-year-old girl. She looked at the cliff across the road, rising thirty meters before sloping away toward Monte Gibele’s peak. As she moved into the house, Thierry passed her, coming out. “It’s not here. It must be in the outbuilding.”
Jasmin crossed the threshold, and the smells carried her back in time. She brought a hand to her chest, fingers tracing her breastbone to soothe a sudden heaviness in her heart. We were here. The kitchen where her mother had cooked, glass of wine in one hand, stirring a pot with the other. Jasmin’s fingers tingled as the memories eased her sorrow. She stepped lightly into the back of the house, stopping at the sound of footsteps. Mother?
Jasmin turned to the front room, but it was only Lupita and the back-seat thug walking in. Stop, she scolded herself. She’s not here. He killed her. Darkness cloaked the happy recollections, and she refocused on finding the Albanian Master. Where are you? Thierry can have his mask, but you’re mine. She glanced at the thug, picturing the gun tucked in his back waistband. Her earlier anxiety about her face-off with the Albanian Master vanished as she pictured shooting him.
“Jasmin!” the other thug yelled from the other building, his voice carrying through open windows. She tore out the front door and raced to the outbuilding to find Thierry frantically pawing through the shelves along one wall. They contained various works ranging from rough to nearly finished. A large table dominated the room’s center. The interior was completely different from the rustic exterior. Inside, modern lighting, a forge, and ventilated hood formed a combination of art studio and chemistry lab.
“It’s here. It must be,” said Thierry, panting and sweeping his hands over every object. He rapidly shifted things about until, pulling open a drawer, there was a flash of gold. He cried out and pulled away a cloth to reveal sections of a gold-leafed picture frame. His head dropped, and then he launched into a blistering invective as he swept the workbench’s contents onto the wooden floor.
Jasmin rushed over. Thierry screamed and pounded on the bench so hard that blood splattered over its surface. “Stop it. Stop it,” she said, grabbing his arm.
“It’s not here!” he yelled.
“Of course not. It’s his workshop. He put the mask and anything valuable someplace more secure.” She motioned the nearest thug over, and he locked his beefy arms around Thierry, restraining him from behind while Jasmin examined his bloody hand. She saw a small razor tool on the floor and guessed it was the source of the injury. After wiping away the blood with a towel, she tied it around his palm.
“It’s not deep,” she said, placing the wrapped hand in his other. “Squeeze. It’ll stop the bleeding.”
“He must keep it in another part of the house,” said Thierry.
“There’s nothing in the house. Calm down.” She looked out the only window. “It has to be someplace else entirely. Someone’s been in the house recently, probably even today from the water in the kitchen sink.” She scanned the room and then said to the thug near Lupita, “You, check anything that might conceal a cellar door.”
They returned to the house. Thierry and Lupita sat at the kitchen table while the remaining thug stood by the door. Jasmin put on a kettle to make tea as she considered the possibility that the Albanian Master may have left the house for the day. Which means he has no idea we’re here and could return at any moment. She turned to the thug. “Move the car up the road and park it out of sight.”
When he had left, she asked Lupita if she would like some tea, and she set out two cups upon hearing an affirmative answer.
“I’ll have coffee,” said Thierry.
“He doesn’t drink coffee,” said Jasmin, stiffening. How do I know that? She opened the cupboards to confirm her assertion. She put out another cup and poured hot water over the tea bags.
“He’s got to have ano—”
“Quiet! I need to think.” Jasmin carried her cup into the middle of the main room, letting her mind drift back again. She sipped the hot brew while moving to the bedrooms, and she paused at the smaller one. Slowly she entered and sat on a futon, compressing its tired cushion. From low down, she remembered playing with a dollhouse and then standing up and hiding behind the doorframe as she watched a man remove something from behind a painting.
The key! She had followed him once—gotten in trouble with her mother for running off without telling her—but she had seen the man cross the road to the cliff and enter a dark space. She had been afraid to go in after him, but she had later seen him replace a key. Moving to the doorway, she eyed the painting, still hanging in the front room.
“I know where it is,” she said, crossing the room and setting her teacup on the table as she passed. She pulled the painting away from the wall with one hand while feeling around its back with the other. A key hung on a small hook set in the wooden frame behind the canvas.
She turned, key in hand. “He keeps everything in a cave in the cliff.”
As soon as the thug returned from moving the car, they called for the other thug. Then Jasmin led them all across the road.
82
Darwin cleared breakfast as Eyrún throttled up. She would take them northeast of Tracino and cruise along the coast past Punta Rubasacchi, where Zac and Darwin would study the bay with binoculars. He had messaged Barry earlier and learned nothing had come back onto the workstation. Despite a long boring night at the ACA, they were still eager to do anything they could. Darwin asked them to update Max Keller in Vatican City on their position and alert the Carabiniere for help once they figured out the situation.
As Eyrún swung them parallel to the shoreline, she said, “The village is close to the foot of the two main volcanoes, but the slope there is too shallow for cliffs. The photo could have been taken anywhere along the steeper southeast slopes.”
“Once we make port, we’re going to need better intelligence and a bit of luck,” said Zac. “The locals will probably be curious about the megayacht and might know where its passengers went.”
“Won’t Jasmin recognize Hypatia?” Darwin asked.
“It’s possible, but she was only aboard once and approached it from dockside,” said Eyrún.
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” said Zac, “unless we want to make a frontal assault. Not a good idea with a hostage.”
Ten minutes later, they passed the bay at twenty knots. Eyrún glanced at the vessel, whose bow pointed into the shallow swells. The placid water contained a few fishing vessels and a beach. A clutch of buildings hugged one side of the cove. She turned her full attention back to navigating past Faraglione di Tracino, a tiny island barely detached from the main body.
She turned wide, throttled back, and let Hypatia drift as Darwin and Zac returned to the galley. “Damn, it’s going to be hot. I can feel it already. Africa’s less than twenty kilometers beyond the island,” said Zac, adding, “I saw a single crew member on the stern, smoking, but no other activity.”
“There are people on the dock and some guys in a fishing boat, but no one who looks like Jasmin or Lupita,” said Darwin.
“What about Thierry?” Eyrún asked.
“No middle-aged men fitting the description.”
“Okay. It’s time to play tourist. Eyrún, take us into the cove,” said Zac.
In less than five minutes, they had anchored Hypatia, and Eyrún took their tender to the Cala Levante beach to reconnoiter the town. She tightened her hair in a ponytail and put on a ball cap and dark glasses.
Darwin and Zac readied the jet ski to await her signal.
Eyrún tied the Zodiac beside a long cement boat-launching ramp as two curious boys with their mother watched. A long concrete patio extended from the ramp, ending at a pebbled beach that, at this hour, had only a few dedicated sunbathers occupying the lounges.
She walked past boats in various stages of decay and followed the ramp’s lane around to a hotel and dive shop. While most of the village slept or was quietly emerging, the shop had a handful of people going in and out with gear. She paused outside, looking around for signs of Jasmin, Thierry, or Lupita, then went in.
“Bonjourno,” she said to a woman behind the counter after a couple left with their tanks.
“Bonjourno.”
After exchanging pleasantries, Eyrún determined the woman spoke English, and she asked about any fishermen with fresh catches, saying she was buying for a yacht that had just docked.
The woman directed her to the larger harbor a short walk down the road. Eyrún reached it in two minutes, saw men unloading their catches, and let out a sigh of relief, knowing they could still stick to their primary plan.
“Bonjourno.” She chatted with the men, asking about their catch before steering the conversation to her purpose: “Would you like to earn some extra money this morning?”
“Who do you want us to kill?” one man asked with a laugh.
She explained the task. “Go to that megayacht and offer to sell fresh fish, and don’t take no for an answer.” She further explained that it was a practical joke. When they balked, she asked, “Would a thousand euros change your mind?”
Eyrún heard one of them mutter, “Crazy rich people,” as he pocketed the cash and pushed a boat into the bay with three large fish. Then she turned back to the village to avoid being seen by anyone on the megayacht and messaged Darwin:
Go now
83
It took Thierry’s group half an hour to locate the cave in the cliff after one thug climbed atop the house to see a hole in the greenery. The shadow cast by the steep rock created a microclimate that gathered rainwater and allowed vegetation to avoid the harsh sun. A path had been concealed behind overlapping branches that formed a crude gateway at the road’s edge.
Thierry pushed through, and Jasmin followed, but she stopped as Lupita cried out. She turned back to find Lupita on the ground, rubbing her knee as a thug helped her up. “I am fine. I only tripped,” said Lupita. She shrugged him off and pressed through the brush.
Jasmin looked down the road. Any car coming to the house would leave a dust trail. On impulse, she scoured the ground to see what had tripped Lupita. The dirt road was relatively smooth, mostly gravel in this part, but—a rock pile! Lupita has stacked three stones near the opening.
Nice try. Jasmin kicked the rocks and then checked for footprints. The gravel extended back to the house and, as best she could tell, had not been disturbed. She turned to the sound of Thierry yelling, “It’s locked!” Shaking her head at his stupidity, she grasped the key in her pocket as she made her way to the cave.
A narrow gap in the rock broadened into a modest portico-like entrance that ended at a stout wooden door. Basalt blocks had been mortared together to form a doorframe beneath a substantial lintel. She guessed the door swung on inward-facing hinges, as the rusted metal plate with the keyhole was the only exterior feature.
“Open it. Open it.” Thierry nearly danced with anticipation.
“Hold him,” Jasmin said to the thugs as she keyed the lock. She had expected difficulty, but the deadbolt slid with ease from the steel mortise on the doorjamb. The door opened with a groan, but otherwise, it felt regularly used. She fingered on the light on her mobile and peered into the darkness.
84
Eyrún took her tea and Sicilian brioche to a small table outside the cafe across the road from the dive shop to settle into her next role as the lookout. She, Zac, and Darwin were assuming Jasmin and Thierry were already on land, looking for the Albanian Master’s house, but if Lupita had been left aboard, they needed a well-executed distraction.
