In the state room that was located in the central part of the ship, Obsidian Hall was sitting on a cream-colored sofa made of the finest Corinthian leather. The room was large and opulent with luxuries from all over the world, including paintings and relics such as Dynasty vases and ancient scrolls that had been illegally appropriated from museums, only to end up in his private collection.
Opposite the sofa stood a ceiling-to-floor mirror he used to appraise himself during periods of working out. However, Obsidian Hall never lifted a dumbbell or even raised anything heavier than a glass of expensive cognac to his lips. He used the mirror as a tool of his own narcissism, forever scrutinizing his appearance with casual tilts of his head to view every angle of his face. He was tall and lean with a tanned complexion in contrast with hair so blonde it was like corn silk. And his eyes were as blue as Jamaican waters.
As he sat there looking over his features, raising an occasional hand to graze the tips of his fingers along his jaw line, he was engaged in a phone conversation in speaker mode.
“The news of Professor Moore’s disappearance was nothing but tabloid fodder,” he said evenly, “until the administration at the AIAA confirmed his loss along with eight others. Now I say his disappearance and not his death, mind you.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Hall, that Professor Moore is unfortunately deceased. I can further assure you that his findings are most likely credible.”
“And how likely is ‘most likely’?” he asked.
The voice that exited the speakers throughout the room sounded confident. “I believe that he found Eden,” he said. “I believe it exists.”
Obsidian Hall got to his feet and began to pace the room. “Where? And don’t say Turkey, either. I gathered that from the reports. What I need to know is where in Turkey.”
“I’m afraid that’s a secret possessed by the surviving member of the professor’s team.”
He stopped pacing and looked up at one of the speakers. “You’re talking about this Montario guy?”
“He would be the one, yes. He was being detained by the Turkish authorities regarding the disappearance of Professor Moore and his team. But since there is no actual consideration of foul play, they released him.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s on his way to New York.”
“Then tell me this,” he said. “Why didn’t he surrender the location of Eden to the Turkish authorities? Certainly they would want to follow up on the matter considering that nine people disappeared.”
“They did press him,” he answered. “But Mr. Montario claimed that he could not quite pinpoint the location after wandering the desert for two straight days.”
“And you believe that he was being untruthful?”
“I’m saying that I believe Mr. Montario knows where it’s at since, after all, he was there.”
“And the expedition? How did he explain their disappearance?”
“He’s claiming they were killed by something within the tunnels.”
Hall brought the glass of cognac to his lips, sipped from its edge, then lowered his hand while maintaining focus on his mirrored image. Then, more to himself, he whispered, “Something… within the tunnels?”
“From my understanding, he also informed Ms. Moore that there was a chamber within the temple that contained crypts.”
“Crypts?” He took another sip. “It appears that Eden is getting more interesting by the moment,” he said.
“He insists that the crypts contain a dark secret.”
“And that would be?”
“Apparently the truth is written on the chamber walls.”
“The truth about what lies within?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
Obsidian Hall began to pace the room. “And what is it that he believes killed the professor’s team?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“It sounds like Mr. Montario doesn’t know much about anything, does he? What about Ms. Moore? Does she know the location?”
“No. But she’s perusing her father’s records for a directional guide.”
“I see.” He stood before the mirror but didn’t acknowledge his presence since his mind continued to deliberate. The prospect of Eden existing was inconceivable. More so, he had the means to be standing upon its threshold within days, if not hours, if he had the coordinates.
All of a sudden the treasures within the state room mattered little.
“I need those coordinates,” he said, looking out the window and at the slight swells of ocean waves. “Can you get them for me?”
“Only if Ms. Moore finds them, but it’s not promising since her father kept such things hidden.”
“Find them, and your rewards will be great.”
“My only reward is to see that Professor Moore gets the recognition he deserves.”
“Professor Moore can get whatever posthumous sentiments the institutes deem fit to present him with. My only concern is Eden and what lies within.” Obsidian Hall moved before the mirror and squared his shoulders, then stood sideways to measure the profile of his flat stomach. “Since Ms. Moore is a non factor at this point in time, we’ll begin with the survivor,” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Montario’s memory is not as bad as he claims it to be. I’m sure his memory will become quite clear the moment I press him for the answers I need.”
“All I ask of you—”
Hall cut the caller off without as much as a valediction by disconnecting the line. Within moments he contacted his valet, a small Hindu man whose dark complexion was in stark contrast to his pristine white clothing, and informed him to ready the chopper for travel to the nearest airport, where he would charter a jet.
“When I make reservations, sir, where shall I tell them that you’ll be departing to?”
“To New York,” he said. “I’m going to New York.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Even now, on a flight to New York, to look at Montario one would think that he had been wandering for days beneath the desert sun, rather than the two days he actually meandered about before a Turkish shepherd took note of him.
When he was discovered wandering in the desert he was in an obvious state of confusion and greatly dehydrated, speaking of the expedition and of things that didn’t make any sense whatsoever, the ramblings of a fevered mind.
When the Turkish authorities arrived, however, Montario was given a saline solution, which brought him back to a normal range of cognition.
Two men from the Emiyet Müdürlüğü, the area’s District Directorate, wore the blue uniforms and ranking silver stars of their position — that of lieutenant — who openly questioned him on the subject of Professor Moore’s missing team. The nature of their interview was insinuating rather than curiosity. Were they accusing him of criminal activity? No matter the answer he gave them, they accused him of lying, which puzzled him greatly.
“Why would I lie?”
The officer with the sparse mustache on his upper lip smiled. “Because nine people are missing,” he told them. “We need to know what happened, since you were there.”
More questions revolved around criminal insinuations, the officers pointing an accusing finger at him saying that he was responsible for their deaths. And if he wanted to prove otherwise, then it would be in his best interests to tell them where the bodies were.
He gave the coordinates as best he could recall, resulting in several search attempts by Search and Rescue with negative results.
Subsequent questioning sessions came in waves for the two days he was hospitalized; the line of questioning becoming more intense when they realized that Montario was sending them in endless circles. And should he not give them what they wanted, they promised him that he would serve the balance of his life in a Turkish prison.