Shortly after returning to London, Jade and Kellogg had caught an early train to Paris, and then transferred to a Eurostar train bound for Rom, followed by a third train ride and a trip on a ferry. The total journey lasted about thirty-six hours, including short layovers at the transfer points, putting them in Syracuse, Sicily shortly before midnight of the second day since the escape from the Kilmaurs fogou. Flying would have reduced the actual travel time, but trains offered a sort of anonymity that, given the ongoing threat from Islamic extremists — or whomever it was targeting her — seemed the most prudent method of getting to their destination.
The late arrival necessitated finding lodgings for the night. Citing security concerns, Jade insisted on a five star hotel. It would have been too easy for an assassin to slip into a hostel or budget hotel and dispatch her in the dead of night — but after days on the road and weeks of camp life in Peru, a long soak in a hot tub and eight hours—okay, maybe more like nine and half—sleeping on 400 thread count sateen weave Egyptian cotton sheets were just what the doctor ordered. Kellogg grumbled at the rate, but Jade suggested he write it off as business expense. She awoke feeling refreshed and ready to dive into the search. It didn’t hurt one bit that Sicily was warm and sunny, and not nearly as humid as her native Oahu.
From his research notes, it was clear that Roche believed the vault would be found somewhere on the island of Sicily, but he had little evidence to back this supposition up. Ever the conspiracy theorist, he claimed that there had been a systematic effort, either by the Changelings, or by the acolytes of the Society of Syracuse — or perhaps both, though for very different reasons — to erase any mention of the vault’s location from the historical record. Jade would be starting her search from square one, but she was counting on her lack of preconceived notions to give her a fresh perspective. Maybe Roche, in looking too hard for what he expected to find, had overlooked some important clue.
She began looking, as she almost always did, at a museum — specifically the Paolo Orsi Regional Archaeological Museum. Given the rich history of Sicily, and specifically Syracuse, it was not surprising that the city hosted one of the premiere archaeological institutions in Europe. The museum complex — situated on the edge of the historic Villa Londolina, where ongoing excavations continued to provide new insights into the Greek and Roman period — was unusual and a bit anachronistic. A top down view revealed a geometric design of conjoined hexagonal cells, a decidedly modern design for a repository of history. Archimedes would probably have approved, but despite his status as Syracuse’s favorite son, there was very little information about him in the Orsi. After two hours of touring the facility, Jade headed to the next museum on the list, which in hindsight, should have been at the top: the Arkimedeion.
The reason the Arkimedeion had not been her first stop was that it was not a history museum, but rather a science museum, showcasing the mathematical discoveries and inventions of Archimedes. According to a tourist guide website, the Arkimedeion had only been open a few years and the reviews described an ambitious tourist attraction that fell short of its promise. Jade’s hopes were not high as she and Kellogg made the trip by taxi to Ortigia, the small island district where the Arkimedeion was located. The museum occupied an elegant stone building on the edge of a cobblestone piazza, at the center of which was a marvelous fountain with a sculpted mermaid — possibly meant to represent the Roman goddess Diana — and a child riding on the back of a large fish. The setting would have been more impressive if not for the fact that stone buildings were ubiquitous in the Old World, and you couldn’t throw a Frisbee in Italy without it splashing down in a fountain. With appropriately low expectations, Jade headed toward the front entrance while Kellogg paid their taxi driver.
A smiling middle-aged man at the ticket counter greeted her in Italian. He was handsome enough, but like elegant buildings and fountains, that was nothing remarkable. Jade peered at his named badge and then addressed him in English. “Sorry, Paolo. I don’t speak Italian.”
“Ah, scusi. Fortunately, I speak your language well enough. And you are also fortunate that the museo is having free entry to beautiful ladies today.”
“How lucky for me.”
“Si.” He extended a hand like a game show host. Jade noticed a glint of gold on his pinky finger, a signet ring with an emblem she couldn’t quite make out. “And we are very slow today, so it will my pleasure to give you a tour.”
The door opened and Kellogg strolled in. Jade turned to him. “Good news, honey. Free admission today. And a guided tour.”
Paolo’s smile fell but he nodded gamely and gestured to the entrance. “Please, this way.”
Atash Shah watched Jade and Kellogg make their way into the museum from the shelter of a black Volkswagen van, parked on the far side of the fountain. Despite the dark tinted window, which ably concealed the six men in the passenger seats behind him from outside scrutiny, Shah felt exposed. Conspicuous. But if their quarry had noticed the vehicle tailing them through the city, they gave no outward sign.
“We can take them here,” Gabrielle said.
“In broad daylight?” Shah shook his head. “It’s too public.”
“Look around. There’s no one in there. We won’t get a better chance.” Her eyes flitted ever so slightly, looking over her shoulder at the men seated behind them, the implicit message: Send them in.
He understood why she wanted him to give the order. The men behind them, young Muslim immigrants who had answered Shah’s call to arms, needed to hear it from him, their leader, not from a woman and an infidel at that.
He had issued his summons in one of the Internet chatrooms where would-be jihadists flirted endlessly with the prospect of joining al Quaeda or ISIL. Most were poseurs, unwilling to make good on their boasts. Some were probably undercover policeman — FBI or Interpol — though they were pretty easy to unmask. But there were always a few who were willing, eager even, to embrace martyrdom. The trick was in separating the wheat from the chaff.
These six had come from Paris, carrying their own illegally obtained weapons, ready to do whatever he asked of them.
And Shah had to be the one to ask it of them.
He drove the van around the fountain and pulled up in front of the entrance, close enough that no one looking out from the surrounding buildings would see them bring their hostages out the front. Then, he turned to face his holy warriors. “Cover all the exits so they can’t slip away. And remember. We need them alive.”
Shah wondered if they heard the fear in his voice. Would they see through him? See how weak he was? Did they know that the real reason he wanted them to take hostages was that he was afraid to give the order to kill?
If they doubted him, they did not show. One by one, they filed out of the van and headed toward the entrance to the Arkimedeion.
Gabrielle’s hand close over his in a reassuring squeeze, and Shah felt some of the fear slip away.
“How about this one,” Jade said, gesturing to an exhibit that, if the poster was to be believed, was a reconstruction of Archimedes’ “heat ray.” One of his more famous — and probably apocryphal — inventions, the heat ray was an array of parabolic mirrors that the inventor had supposedly used to set enemy ships on fire in Syracuse harbor.
“So sorry,” Paolo said. “Is not working right now.”
“What a surprise,” Jade muttered, sharing a knowing glance with Kellogg. It was not the first time their guide had said those words.