The Whisper of Pialigos
a novel by
J Douglas Bottorff
Copyright 2007, J Douglas Bottorff, all rights reserved
To Elizabeth
You and I have walked before, Together on some distant shore
***
There is a voice. A quiet voice. It calls from the Aegean. Sublime, little more than a whisper. The whisper of Pialigos. Few can hear it, fewer still can understand. But those who hear, those who understand will not remain unchanged
Pialigarian verse
***
PROLOGUE
Light rose in faint shafts over the horizon and streaked the eastern sky with a hint of morning. Raphael looked up from the screen of his laptop computer and watched a sheet of black ripples make their way over the glassy expanse of the Sea of Crete. He waited as the gust nudged his rented Bayliner one or two meters. Annoyed, he glanced at the GPS to recheck his coordinates. Latitude: 36°09′55.49″. Longitude: 24°44′12.62″, well within the flight path of the Cessna 172P Skyhawk. He could see by the blipping asterisk on the laptop’s screen that the tiny transmitter he had planted inside the right wheel pant of the Cessna produced a strong reading. In a matter of a few minutes, he would have a visual on the plane. Everything was in place. The gust of wind had done no harm.
A work of pure genius, he admitted.
The drone of the Cessna’s engine drifted in with the cool morning breeze. Raphael removed a black ski mask from the pocket of his military jacket and slipped it over his head. He pressed the pound key of a cell phone followed by four carefully selected digits, an act calculated to trigger a series of electronic marvels.
The mind of sixty-seven-year-old Alexios Mikos had just begun to drift when an unexpected burst of static blurted through his headset. Startled, he blinked the glaze from his sleepy eyes. In the next instant, the engine of the 1981 Cessna Skyhawk sputtered.
So did his heart.
Alexios straightened to attention. He toyed anxiously with one sagging jowl while scanning the array of gauges beneath the brow of the Skyhawk’s instrument panel. No abnormalities. Forty-two gallons of usable fuel. Engine purring.
A bubble in the fuel line? Possible. The recent engine overhaul would explain it.
Alexios took a deep breath and adjusted the bill of the yellow baseball hat that covered his balding head. You are much too old for this kind of nonsense, he told himself. You should be home in bed with Celia.
Ten years ago, a solo departure over open seas at 0500 had been as routine as a drive to the office. Now the bane of a decreasing attention span and the handicap of poor night vision were taking their toll on the confidence of the aging pilot.
The journey … you must enjoy the journey.
He reminded himself of the bit of wisdom he’d tried to instill in the heart of his daughter. He’d had conflicting feelings about her decision years ago to follow him into the realm of archaeology. She would face many disappointments, countless dead ends. “Niki, you will survive in this business,” he had told her, “only if you learn to enjoy the process of archaeology. If it is but a single end that you seek, of what value is the journey? Something can be learned even from your failures.”
Now, with endless kilometers of vacant sea creeping beneath the Skyhawk, the mainland of Greece nowhere in sight, he was forced to take his own advice.
Alexios removed his trifocals and rubbed fatigue from his baggy eyes. After replacing his glasses, he adjusted the boom of the microphone an inch from his lips, and he punched the transmit button on the control yoke.
“Athens Tower, this is Cessna, Sierra, X-ray, Alpha, Oscar, Papa, requesting a radio check. How do you read?” Only the hiss of static came through the headset. Puzzled, he called again. “Athens Tower, this is Cessna, Sierra, X-ray, Alpha, Oscar, Papa, requesting a radio check. How do you read? Over.”
“Good morning, Dr. Mikos.”
The voice of an intruder bore the ghoulishly liquid characteristic of electronic alteration.
“Who … who is this?”
“Does the name Raphael mean anything to you?”
Alexios’s breath caught in his throat. Raphael was his reason for going to Athens.
“I have … heard the name,” Alexios said in as calm a voice as he could muster. He was careful to give no hint that he knew the identity of the man behind the alias, the mastermind responsible for the disappearance of thousands of artifacts from sites throughout the Cyclades. The intruder’s voice, he felt, belonged to Gustavo Giacopetti, the agent in charge of Santorini’s Department of Antiquities.
“You have heard the name?” The electronic alteration transformed the intruder’s laugh into something truly sinister. “I’m afraid with all your busy nosing around, you have done more than that. Look to the top of your left wing strut. You will notice a very small object—a micro video camera to be precise.”
Alexios visually followed the strut. Tucked beneath the left wing he saw a black, thimble-sized device that should not have been there. Turning, he stared straight ahead wondering what else Giacopetti had planted on his plane.
“I see you have lost your smile,” the ghoulish voice said. “And I am afraid the news I bear will bring little cheer. You see, I have equipped your plane with a substantial amount of explosives. It would be foolish for you to try to fly away.”
Explosives? Nothing had suggested that Raphael was a murderer. The intruder was bluffing.
“You have my attention … Raphael. What do you want from me?”
“Today, you have a meeting scheduled with the minister of the Department of Antiquities.”
Alexios felt his jaw tighten. How could Giacopetti know of this meeting?
“Your briefcase. I assume it contains some rather incriminating documentation?”
Alexios glanced at the brown leather case on the passenger floorboard and cursed himself for placing it in the camera’s line of sight. The briefcase contained enough evidence to prove that Giacopetti’s office had routinely altered records from the Mikos excavation at the Pialigarian temple ruins on Sarnafi. Artifacts of immense archaeological value—under Giacopetti’s direct supervision—were turning up in private collections from New York to Hong Kong.
“Two kilometers directly in front of you,” Raphael continued, “watch for a light.”
Alexios squinted anxiously into the distance. Two flashes burst from the predawn sea.
“I see it,” Alexios said.
“I assume you have a life vest on board.”
“Of course.”
“Secure the briefcase in the vest. Assume an altitude of three hundred meters—no less. When you reach my position, drop the case into the water near the boat. If you want to live, Dr. Mikos, do not attempt to empty the case. I am watching.”
Alexios glanced at the wing-mounted camera, and then he turned back to the spot where he had seen the light. He could barely make out a white cruiser sitting motionless in the water. As instructed, he dropped the Cessna to three hundred meters, circled, and squinted at the lone figure dressed in military fatigues. The man, apparently anticipating the visual encounter, had his face covered with a black ski mask. He had, however, neglected to hide the registration numbers of his boat, though the numbers were too far away to read. With the plane’s left door blocking the camera’s view, he eased a pair of binoculars from a pocket in the door and laid them in his lap. At the right moment, he would get the numbers.
“I do not see you equipping the briefcase with your life jacket, Dr. Mikos. Perhaps you are too busy gawking?”
The plane’s engine suddenly quit, and the prop stopped dead, leaving only the sound of slipstream just above the incredible silence. Alexios instinctively eased the control yoke forward, tilting the nose slightly down, keeping just enough speed to maintain lift and prevent a stall. He was at the mercy of a madman. Too low to go far, he thought of Celia. How would she get along without him? This is no time to lose your wits, he told himself. The madman is bluffing. It is a demonstration of control. Stay above fifty-one knots. Maintain a straight line until you drop into the sea—if that is what he wants.
The Cessna continued to sink: two hundred meters … one hundred meters … seventy-five … fifty … steady … twenty-five. At ten meters, Alexios snatched the life jacket from the rear seat, laid it across his lap, pulled snug his seat belt, and prepared for impact.
Suddenly, the engine sputtered to life, obliterating the deafening silence. The vibration tingled through the yoke and into his hands.
Alexios recaptured his breath, increased the throttle, and eased back on the yoke to reclaim as much altitude as his climb rate of 219 meters per minute would allow. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. I’m too old for this, he thought again, mopping sweat from his brow.
“Are we in agreement here, Dr. Mikos?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Alexios’s hands still trembled as he snapped the jacket securely around the briefcase.
“Very good,” said the voice in the headset. “When you make the drop, do not attempt to leave. We have one further item of business.”
One further item? Alexios did as he was told and watched as the case fell within five meters of the port side of the boat. The moment Raphael began to fish it from the water with a grappling pole, Alexios snatched up the binoculars and read the registration: NU739857. He burned the numbers into his memory.
“Excellent, Dr. Mikos,” Raphael reported, hoisting the briefcase toward the plane. “It would appear that you have no more business in Athens.”
He is telling you to go home, Alexios thought, wanting nothing more than to see the face of his wife of forty-five years. Do as he says.
“Yes, Raphael. I suppose Santorini would be the better choice.”
“Indeed. But before you go, our final item of business. I believe you have in your possession a certain scroll? I need to take it off your hands.”
The scroll! Giacopetti could only be referring to a one-of-a-kind parchment scroll written by the hand of a Pialigarian prophet. He could not possibly know of the scroll. Or could he? Cardinal Salvatore Sorrentino desperately wanted to bury the artifact in the bowels of the Vatican’s Secret Archives. It was said of the cardinal that he would employ any means to accomplish his end. Might not he have hired a scum like Giacopetti to locate and retrieve the Pialigarian parchment?
“I have only a photograph of the scroll,” Alexios said truthfully. “The parchment itself has not yet been located.”
“You are lying, Doctor. I know the scroll exists, and I know that you have it. But then, I assumed you would not be anxious to share your little treasure.” There was a pause. “How was your overnight visit with your daughter?”
Alexios’s breath grew shallow. Had his telephone been bugged?
“Leave my daughter out of this.”
“I understand that Dr. Nicole Mikos holds a key position at the excavation of Knossos. You were there to admire her work? You must be very proud that she has followed so successfully your own footsteps.”
Alexios felt the murderous flare of his nostrils.
“I told you to leave Niki out of this,” he demanded again. “She does not know where the scroll is.”
“Perhaps she does not,” the voice said.
Bastard! Alexios struggled to control his breath. “All right,” he said, desperate for a plausible story. “The scroll is locked in a vault in my business office at Fira. I will get it for you. I give you my word. But you must promise that you will bring no harm to my daughter.”
“Admirable behavior, Dr. Mikos. Now, go to your office. Wait for my call. Twelve o’clock sharp. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course,” said Alexios. “Twelve o’clock shar—”
The normal background chatter suddenly returned to the headset. His radio was back on.
The archaeologist banked the Cessna toward Santorini. He was free.
Or was he?
Dark feelings of foreboding fell over Alexios as he climbed slowly away from his tormentor. In the moments that passed, a sudden wave of pride for his daughter forced tears down his sunburned cheeks.
Then, his thoughts turned to Celia, and he wondered if he and his wife would ever again share an intimate stroll over the calming beaches of Santorini.
Raphael watched the Cessna assume its proper easterly course. He pushed the pound key on his cell phone and waited for a few moments before pressing another series of numbers: 0-3-1-0-5-9. He held his breath through the brief silence followed by the expected click that he knew would translate as another burst of headphone static. More silence. Then, in exactly five seconds, a small flash erased the landing gear of the Cessna, and a glorious globe of orange flame immediately engulfed the plane. The roar echoed delightfully over the stillness of the morning. The sequence had performed beautifully. Raphael made the sign of the cross and watched in congratulatory tears as the flaming debris plummeted into the sea.
Raphael pulled off the ski mask. The gentle breeze riffled the water and cooled the perspiration from his face. His hand shook with exhilaration when he smoothed his hair back in place. With a deep, satisfying breath, he clicked on the boat’s CD player. The haunting strains of Yanni rose from the speakers and moved out over the still waters.
For an artifact worth two hundred million American dollars, he thought, twisting the key that brought the boat’s engine grumbling to life, a simple vault would pose no problem.
Raphael eased forward the throttle and pointed the cruiser toward the wisps of pink that streaked the morning skies over Santorini.
J Douglas Bottorff 