“Poseidon and Amphitrite,” Mitch said. “I know it well. It’s one of my favorites.” He turned to Lea and lowered his voice, suddenly all business. “You know, what I wouldn’t give for the other half of that pair!”
“And where is the other half?” Hawke asked.
“Athens. National Archaeological Museum. A damned shame, if you pardon my French.”
“Consider yourself pardoned,” the Englishman mumbled.
They reached the top of the stairs and walked along the mezzanine. It was lined with six foot-high glass cases filled with ancient artifacts from plates and bowls to flasks and vases. Some even contained jewellery and weapons, and all lit by tiny ceiling lamps which shone bright white lights on everything.
“Here it is,” Mitch said.
The Poseidon Vase.
“Is that what all the fuss is about?” Hawke said dismissively.
The vase was less than a foot high, and not dissimilar from all the others in the room. It was a simple black and orange-red vase depicting a figure holding a fishing rod in the ocean.
Mitch said: “It's unusual because it’s rather late for the black-figure style.”
Hawke stepped forward. “Eh?”
“I’m sure you noticed,” Mitch began, “that some of the vases depict red figures on a black background, while others depict black figures on a red background.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lea said. “We noticed that.”
Mitch gave her a withering glance.
“This is what we call the bilingual painting style because of the red and orange. The red-figure style started around the fifth century BC through to the second century BC, while black figure was much earlier. This vase is black-figure, but dates to the fourth century BC. We have no idea why the Vienna Painter did it this way.”
“Fascinating.” Hawke looked at his watch. “Can we look at it now?”
“You are looking at it,” Mitch said.
“I mean really look at it. Hold it.”
Mitch looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure…”
“Open the case, Mitch,” Lea said, stroking his forearm. “For me.”
Behind Mitch’s back, Hawke rolled his eyes at Lea.
Mitch opened the case and handed Lea the vase.
She looked at the vase and handed it to Hawke. It was light in his hands and painted in a simple style to depict a black Poseidon sitting on a rock holding a fishing line which dangled into a black ocean.
“So this was one of a pair discovered on Crete in the eighteenth century?”
Mitch’s eyes widened. “You’re remarkably well informed.”
“Yeah.” Lea jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at Ryan. “Thank the nerd, not me.”
“Someone taking my name in vain?” Ryan asked, walking over to them from the mezzanine. “Some amazing artifacts in here, Mitch.”
“Gee, thanks. We like to think so.”
Ryan’s gaze was immediately drawn to the Poseidon Vase. “Now that really is beautiful.”
Lea nodded. “But how can it help us?”
“Give Uncle Ryan a look,” he said, snatching the vase from Hawke’s hands.
“Hey, watch out!” Mitch snapped. “That’s worth hundreds of thousands of dollars!”
“It’s fascinating,” Ryan said, pushing his glasses up on the top of his head and peering closely at the artwork. “Rather late for a black-figure work, isn't it?”
Mitch nodded appreciatively, now calm in the knowledge that anyone who knew such a fact could not possibly drop such an ancient piece of art.
“So what’s the deal, Sherlock?” Hawke asked impatiently. “What has that vase got to do with Professor Fleetwood’s dying words?”
“Dying words?” Mitch went pale. “What’s going on here, exactly?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Hawke said reassuringly.
Lea looked at Ryan. “Well?”
“I have no idea…” Ryan said. “I need more time. All I see is an ancient vase painted in the bilingual style, featuring Poseidon holding a damned fishing line.”
“Is there anything written on it?” Hawke said.
“Look underneath,” said Lea.
Ryan turned it upside down but drew a blank. “Sorry, nothing — look.”
The others peered at the bottom which was a standard, unmarked base, not glazed.
“I could have told you that and saved you a flight,” Mitch said. “And no, before you look there’s nothing inside either.”
With these words, the three of them peered into the vase, maneuvering it so one of the spotlights illuminated the interior. Nothing.
Lea sighed. “What was that damned quote again?” she said.
“I think you mean quotation,” said Ryan. “A quote is what the plumber gives you to fix the toilet.”
“Shut up, Ryan,” Lea said. “You know what I mean.”
“All right — the quotation was Those Who Seek His Power, Will Find It Buried In His Kingdom.”
Mitch scratched his head.
Hawke and Lea stared at the vase in Ryan’s hands.
“Quite the riddle,” said Ryan.
“Those Who Seek His Power, Will Find It Buried In His Kingdom,” Hawke repeated, staring at Poseidon, sitting on the rock, fishing, looking into history. Casually ignoring their plight.
Lea looked at it again. “Maybe there’s some kind of code hidden in the picture.”
“What do you mean?” Hawke asked.
“Like if you look at it upside down or in a mirror or something.”
Hawke shook his head. “Look at him, sitting on his rock with all his future ahead of him. Immortal.”
“Actually,” Ryan piped up, “the ancient Greeks saw time the other way around to us. For them, the past receded away in front of them, while the future was approaching them behind their backs, which makes a lot of sense when you consider you know your past but not your future.”
“How has this guy not got a girlfriend?” Hawke said.
“Hey!” Ryan said. “And who says I haven’t got a girlfriend?”
“Inflatable dolls don't count,” said Hawke.
Lea rolled her eyes. “Save it, Joe.”
“I’m just saying how does that help us right now?” said Hawke, backing down.
Silence all round. Now it was Mitch looking at his watch. “Listen, if you guys have finished I’ll have to ask you to hand the vase back to me so I can lock it up again.”
Then the sound of screaming echoed up through the atrium into the mezzanine level.
“What the hell?” Mitch said, stepping forward to take a look.
“Why do I get the feeling this whole thing’s about to go arseways, Joe?” said Lea.
More screaming, and then a man shouting orders at people, followed by several gunshots and the sound of smashing glass. Chaos had come to order at the New York Met.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Oh my God!” Lea craned her head over the mezzanine rail and then back to Hawke. “They’re here.”
“Who are here?” Mitch asked, confused.
Hawke turned to Mitch. “You don’t want to know. Suffice it to say they want that vase and not for its aesthetic value, either.”
“This vase?” Mitch asked, turning the pottery over in his hands. “I don’t understand. It’s unique but hardly the most expensive item in the collection. There are artifacts downstairs worth millions of dollars — some are priceless.”
“They don’t care about money,” Hawke said. ‘They already have that.”
Another round of gunfire, this time automatic rifles, filled the atrium and then the sound not of screaming but terrified silence. Lea’s mind raced with possible options, but with a museum gallery full of frightened civilians the choices were limited.
“Mr Hawke!” shouted a voice from below the mezzanine. “I know you are here with your friends, so don’t be shy.”
Lea looked at Hawke and could see he was considering options just as she had done. She was aware of the others staring at him, looking desperately for some kind of lead. She thought about the accent of the man who was shouting — definitely Germanic, probably Bavarian or Swiss, she thought.