The Mask of Troy (46 page)

‘Sounds about right.’ Costas pulled out his own Beretta pistol from a shoulder holster and snapped the slide, checking that a round was chambered, then holstered it again. ‘Good to go?’

Jack closed the lid and put the box in his khaki bag, folding the flap over. ‘Good to go.’

 

Ten minutes later they were at the entrance to the underground watercourse some two hundred metres south-west of the mound. It was a low dell, surrounded by trees and dense undergrowth, where a muddy trickle came through a narrow tunnel that went underground towards Troy. It had been found by the Austrian excavators several years before, and was part of a water supply system that allowed the ancient Trojans to tap into a spring beyond the city walls. Jack followed Costas to the iron grid door, shut but with the lock hanging to one side. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to Hiebermeyer for having left it that way. The two men had spoken on the phone from the Embraer on the way to Istanbul airport. Maurice had come down to this spot the previous morning, while the excavation was still ongoing and before Rebecca had been kidnapped, and had managed to make his way through the tunnel as far as a low portal blocked up with rubble. He had cleared that single-handedly and got into the underground chamber he had reached previously by its other entrance, the passageway Jack would be following shortly. And if Maurice could get through this smaller tunnel, then Costas could make it too.

Jack ducked his head away from the wasps that were swarming around the entrance. He flicked on Costas’ headlamp and gave him a Maglite for back-up. They heard the helicopter approaching, clattering loudly over the citadel mound towards the far side, where it landed and powered down. ‘Okay,’ Jack said. ‘That’s the cue. It’s 0535. I’m due to be in there at 0600. According to the time it took Maurice, you should be in position by then. Your entrance to the chamber will be on my right as I enter from the main passageway, and I’ll be looking for you. I’ll leave my bag outside and then return for it once I’ve made contact with the kidnappers. When you see me come back in and put the black box down, you might be taking a shot. I’ll try to make eye contact with Rebecca, warn her something is about to happen. We’ll have to play this as it comes.’

‘I’m moving now. Good luck, Jack.’

‘Good luck.’ Jack watched Costas slosh down the tunnel and disappear around a corner, then turned and made his way back towards the mound, walking openly once he had reached the main path, where anyone watching might have assumed he had come from the helicopter. He entered the deep trench where Hiebermeyer had been excavating, where they now knew Schliemann had worked as well. He passed the two gate guardians, the statues of ancient kings of Troy, and then went into the tunnel through the rubble, enlarged to over his height and shored up now with timber. He found a place to hide his bag. Maurice had told him on the phone what they had found, but nothing could have prepared him for it. There was a great bronze door, half ajar. He remembered how Gladstone had argued that the Treasury of Atreus at Mycenae once had a beaten bronze door. And there in the middle was the symbol, the impression of the reverse swastika in a roundel, exactly as Dillen had told him, from the story recounted by the old foreman to Hugh and Peter. There were columns of green stone on either side, with meander pattern decoration, again exactly as in the Treasury of Atreus. He stepped through into a cavernous chamber, and switched on his diving torch, flashing it round. There was no noise, only a slight hollow echo, but he knew he was not alone.

‘Rebecca?’ he said. ‘Are you there?’

Still nothing. He could only wait. He looked around. It was an astonishing sight. Just as in the Treasury of Atreus, the chamber rose in a beehive shape, with corbelled masonry, but it was what was on the floor in front of him that was so astonishing. It was a circle of stone seats, set halfway to the centre of the chamber, a dozen of them, all identical. They were like seats he had seen in Bronze Age palaces before, in Knossos on Crete, in Egypt, in the citadels of the Near East.
The thrones of kings
. He panned his light over them. Each chair had an inscription on the back. He saw hieroglyphs on one, cuneiform on another, Hittite, Linear B.
A council chamber of kings
. He glimpsed something lustrous behind the seats, around the base of the chamber, as if the lower courses of masonry had been gilded. He panned his light sideways, to the wall nearest him, and stared in amazement.

Ingots.
Metal ingots
. There were hundreds of them, stacked to his height and higher, row upon row, surrounding the entire circular wall of the chamber. They were copper, dull green in his torchlight. And there were ingots of tin, absolutely distinctive, their silvery surface covered in a fine white corrosion dust. Each ingot was about a metre long, with arms at the corners like flayed oxhides, just as he had seen them on shipwrecks of the Bronze Age. Ingots being brought to the great palaces of the Aegean, copper from Cyprus, from the Levant, from the west. He stared at a tin ingot on top of the stack beside him. It had a stamp that he recognized. A stamp of the Cornovii, the prehistoric tribe inhabiting south-west Cornwall. So it was true.
The Trojans were importing tin from the Cassiterides, the British Isles
.

He stared back at the thrones, his mind in a turmoil. A council chamber of kings. Kings who had kept the peace. Kings who controlled the supply of metals for weapons, who doled it out among themselves, keeping the balance of power. Until one came along whose ambition, whose lust for power, could not be contained within these walls. One who had found a new, more deadly weapon, a better metal, harder, which made all of this stockpile of copper and tin redundant.
Agamemnon, king of kings
.

A light shone blindingly in his face, and someone grabbed his neck in a lock, twisting his arm behind his back. He had been expecting this, and did not resist. He was pushed and kicked forward, and then his neck was released and he was frisked. A voice came from the other side of the circle of stone seats, somewhere near the light. ‘Dr Howard.’

‘Where’s my daughter?’ Jack snarled. The man behind him yanked his head back, and Jack strained against him. ‘I want to see my daughter.’ The man got his hand over Jack’s eyes, then pushed him forward roughly, releasing him. Jack blinked hard, and saw three figures against the stack of ingots on the back wall. One of them was Rebecca. A man was holding a pistol to her head. The figure on her other side stepped forward, put his torch on one of the seats with the beam angled upwards and stopped a few feet in front of Jack.

‘Dr Howard.’

Jack stared at him. ‘Professor Raitz.’

‘Fortunately Rebecca had her passport on her and we were able to fly to Istanbul first class, a distinguished architectural historian and his new girlfriend. I told her we would kill you and Costas if she didn’t behave.’

‘Why are you doing all this?’

‘Because you have something I want.’ His voice was suddenly shrill. ‘Where is it?’

‘You can keep the Goebbels impression for the bathroom mirror, Raitz. It really doesn’t work.’

Raitz clicked his fingers, and Jack was suddenly winded, on his knees on the floor, unable to breathe. He gasped, then struggled up, staggering forward, feeling the throbbing pain in his back where the man behind had slammed into him. As he got up, he scanned the other side of the chamber, facing south-west. He could see another opening in the wall, with rubble in front. That must be it. The entrance to the tunnel. Costas should be there by now. Jack would stall for another few minutes. Then he had to take a gamble.

‘Now. Again,’ Raitz said, bringing his face close to Jack. ‘Where is it?’

‘Why do you want it, Raitz? Your own private collection?’

‘For the Führermuseum,’ Raitz said quietly.

Jack pretended to stifle a laugh. ‘The Trojan swastika? The palladion? What does that have to do with the very dead little Austrian?’

‘It is the key to the greatest hidden art treasures in the world. I will find them, and they will be the centrepiece of my museum, to perpetuate the memory and vision of the Führer for all time.’

‘And your colleague? The one I spoke to on the phone?’

Raitz looked nonplussed for a moment. ‘Of course. He has his own interests. Family interests. Gold, antiquities, not art.’

‘You and I need to talk about that.’

Raitz snapped his fingers again, and the man in the shadows beside Rebecca grabbed her arm and shoved the pistol closer. Raitz took out his own pistol from his overcoat pocket, a small Walther that he fumbled with and cocked. ‘Now. You tell me or Rebecca dies.’

‘You’re getting better at this, Raitz.’ Jack gestured back to the entrance. ‘You didn’t think I was going to come in here with it, did you? I needed to see that Rebecca was here. I’ve hidden it outside. I’ll go and get it. It’s in the black box, as we discovered it in the mine.’

Raitz snapped again. The man behind Jack grabbed him by the neck and pulled him roughly back. ‘Get it,’ Raitz said.

‘By myself. This man stays in here.’

Raitz gestured impatiently. The man let go of Jack, and then moved around in front of him. He was another Russian, like the ones in the mine, a thug. Rebecca had said there were two. The second one was holding the pistol to her head. Jack had seen no others. He turned back towards the entrance, making a show of staggering, still being in pain. He reached the edge of the rubble and pulled out the black box, and then turned and went back, holding it in front of him, displaying the Nazi swastika emblem. As he walked slowly toward the centre of the chamber, he saw out of the corner of his eye something in the dark entrance to the right.
It was Costas
. Jack looked hard at Rebecca, who stared at him, then he nodded his head, almost imperceptibly. She lowered herself to the ground until she was squatting on her haunches, hands pressed against her ears, head bent over and eyes closed, and began sobbing, loudly. Raitz stepped back towards her, waving his pistol. ‘Shut up, Rebecca.’ She kept sobbing and wailing. ‘Shut up!’ he yelled.

At that moment Jack saw Costas’ Beretta aimed out over the stack of ingots towards the man beside Rebecca. He would have a perfect head shot, with no risk of hitting her as long as she remained crouched, hidden from Costas’ viewpoint. They just needed to divert the man’s attention, to get him to take his aim away from Rebecca, even momentarily. Suddenly Costas bellowed, ‘Hey! Where’s Chechnya!’ The two men and Raitz spun round, and the man beside Rebecca instinctively raised his pistol, aiming it into the darkness. There was a deafening crack from Costas’ Beretta and the man’s head disintegrated, leaving his body slumping over the ingots, his pistol falling from his hand. In the same instant Jack slammed backwards, sending the man behind him reeling. He fell forward, kicked open the box and took out the Webley, rolling over and aiming at the Russian’s chest, low and right as Ben had said. He pulled the trigger and the revolver kicked up, the massive report echoing through the chamber. The man remained upright, staring, a dark patch spreading over the front of his shirt, the hole where the bullet had gone through his sternum clearly visible. Jack saw that he had a Spetznaz tattoo on his wrist. The man suddenly dropped like a stone, leaving a spatter of blood all over the stack of ingots behind him. Jack turned, and saw Raitz staring like a scared rabbit, the Walther dangling from his hand. In one lightning movement Rebecca kicked upwards, catching Raitz full in the crotch. He howled in pain, doubled over and dropped the Walther, which Rebecca snatched up and trained on him. Costas was already there, aiming the Beretta at Raitz’s head. He rolled on the ground, groaning, and then slowly raised himself. Rebecca had come round beside Jack, who took the Walther and lowered the smoking Webley. He hugged her briefly, then pointed her to the entrance Costas had come in through, away from any further bullets. As she went towards it, Raitz raised himself up on his knees. ‘Don’t shoot. Please.
Please
.’

‘Nobody aims a gun at my daughter,’ Jack said coldly.

‘I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I never would have harmed her.’

‘Well then, I think we might have to let him live, Costas.’

‘Right-oh.’ Costas kept the Beretta trained.

‘Let me see,’ Jack said. ‘Attempted murder, extortion, kidnapping. On Turkish territory. That means a Turkish prison.’

‘No,’ Raitz whispered. ‘Not that. I’d rather die.’

Costas levelled the Beretta at his eyes, holding it with two hands and sighting it. ‘You’d rather die? Really? Have you got the guts to die?’

‘No, please.’ Raitz fell forward on his knees, sobbing. ‘Don’t shoot.’

Jack held the Webley ready. ‘Better still. We’re in a military zone. That means you come under the jurisdiction of the Turkish military. At least it’ll save you the public humiliation of a trial by jury. You’ll get a tribunal of Turkish officers. They’re good men. I know plenty of them personally. But I don’t need to call in any favours. They’ll see that justice is done.’

‘Just outside Diyarbakir, isn’t it?’ Costas said.

Jack nodded. ‘In the desert on the way to the Armenian border. Just about the worst place in the world. A sweathole in summer, freezing in winter. Maximum-security military prison. Murderers, psychopaths, homosexual rapists, that kind of thing. No human rights there, because the inmates barely count as human. You go in there, you don’t come out. Throw away the key. Simple as that.’

‘We can do a deal,’ Raitz said hoarsely, craning his head up, his eyes desperate. ‘I’ve got original documents, maps. Treasure maps.’

‘Das Agamemnon-Code?’ Jack said.

‘I know nothing about that.’

Costas waved his pistol. ‘We may as well kill him, Jack. This is getting us nowhere. Rebecca, block your ears.’

‘No!’ Raitz begged. ‘Please. I’ll tell you. In a safe in my house. Under the floorboards in the cellar. At the bottom of the stairs.’