This time the fight on Eden’s face between reluctance and desperation for help went the other way: “There are some things I just cannot explain to you at this time about the nature of the tomb and its contents, and you’ll just have to live with it.”
Hawke was used to being cut-off — it was part of life in the marines, but he realized that this was different. “Come off it, Richard.”
Eden sighed. “You were a very accomplished Special Forces soldier for many years and you served on a great deal of top secret missions. We both know you would not have been aware of the strategic significance of many of them, and we both know you were able to work with that. You can consider this the same thing.”
Hawke was hoping to hate Sir Richard Eden, but already the old man was making it difficult for him. He appreciated frank, honest talk, and it looked like Eden did too. “I can live with that — for now, at least.”
“Good. I was impressed with how you handled yourself today, with the exception of that little stunt with the tour bus — we’ve already had the Japanese Embassy on the phone to the Home Office by the way, so thanks for that — and if you want to see your little jaunt it was recorded by dozens of tourists and it’s all over YouTube.”
“It was my only play…”
Eden sighed. “And as for the destruction of a police helicopter over the Thames in broad daylight, let’s just say Prime Minister’s Question Time is going to be a bloody nightmare this week.”
“Like I said, we had no choice.”
“If you say so, but either way I need someone I can trust to get to the bottom of this. I’ve known you all your life, Lea, and I trust you totally. Hawke — I’ve run a check on you and you seem like a solid type. I’m sure the two of you can work together on this.”
“As one door closes…” Hawke muttered.
“We don’t have much to go on,” Eden said, “but thanks to the quick-thinking of Professor Fleetwood we do have something — both her translation regarding the ultimate power being buried in some kind of kingdom, and also her reference to New York and the amphorae.”
“Which isn't much, let’s face it,” Hawke said. “And oh yeah — what the hell is an amphorae?”
“What the hell are amphorae — it’s plural. They’re vases.”
“Vases?” Lea asked.
“Ancient Greek vases.”
“That’s still not what I would call a lot to go on.”
“But it’s a start,” Eden said coolly, regaining a little of his infamous composure. “The Ionian Texts are supposed to confirm not only the existence of the vault but also its location. According to legend, a daring raid was made on the tomb thousands of years ago by unknown forces.”
Hawke was starting to wonder what the old man was smoking, but kept his thoughts to himself.
“Afterwards the keeper of the vault — a worshipper of Poseidon whose name was lost to history, but we know he was a potter and we refer to him as the Vienna Painter — hid all traces of its location.”
“Why?”
“It’s possible that the tomb could guard one of the greatest secrets known to man.”
“And what would that be?” Hawke asked, eyes fixed on Eden.
“For now, that will have to remain classified.”
“Oh, come on…”
Eden was not moved. “The potter left only one small inscription to reveal the tomb, and according to legend he hid it inside a vase. We thought the Ionian Texts would confirm this and it looks like they have, at least if Professor Fleetwood was right.”
Lea nodded. “So that’s where we need to start. Finding these inscriptions.”
“And I suggest you get moving. Professor Fleetwood’s killers are clearly very serious about getting their hands on the vault and everything in it, and I just can’t let that happen.”
“Do you have any idea who’s behind this?” said Hawke.
Eden nodded. “A few days ago a man named Hugo Zaugg was released from a prison in Zurich where he had been serving a two year sentence for perjury and perverting the course of justice during a famous tax evasion trial in Switzerland.”
“Sounds like a charmer,” said Lea.
“He is a recluse and the world knows very little about him, except for the fact he has practically limitless wealth, very powerful connections in international agencies like the IMF, and also…”
“And what?” Hawke asked, sensing yet more reluctance on Eden’s part.
“His father was Otto Zaugg.”
Hawke shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
“Unsurprising, but you would have had you lived in Greece during the Axis occupation in World War Two. He was a ruthless SS tank commander and went on to be a very high-ranking member of the Nazi Party before fleeing to Switzerland at the end of the war where he lived out his life in search of…”
“Let me guess — the vault of Poseidon?”
“Exactly.”
Hawke studied Eden’s lined face. “But what interest would a man like that have in an archaeological find? Sounds like a mystery to me.”
Eden looked away from his desk. “Quite, yes.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me something?” Hawke said.
“Only that if it really is Zaugg behind this then watch out. He has extensive contact with the European underworld and among his associates are these two men.”
Eden swivelled the computer monitor on his desk and showed Hawke and Lea grainy black and white photos of two men taken from a distance. “The man you see coming out of the gambling den is Kaspar Vetsch. He’s a dangerous psychotic with no fewer than three European arrest warrants out on him. His speciality is torturing people for information and he's been known to work for Zaugg.”
“He looks like a proper psycho,” Hawke said.
“Creeps me out,” said Lea, sincerely hoping their paths would never cross, but knowing if they did that he would come off worse.
“The other man — the one climbing into the back of the cab in this picture here is Heinrich Baumann, former Kommando Spezialkräfte — the German Special Forces. A sergeant with a lot of experience and a penchant for killing people in amazingly original ways.”
“He looks even worse than Vetsch,” said Lea.
“He has one eye?” Hawke asked.
Eden nodded. “Lost the other in a knife fight in Mexico City. The attractive metal hand is courtesy of a machete-wielding people trafficker in Budapest. We know more about these two than we do about Zaugg himself, so that’s the only briefing I can give you at this time.”
“I’ve had worse,” Hawke said.
Eden rose from his desk. “When you arrive in New York, you’re going to have to work fast. I’ve already asked a contact in MI5 if they’ve heard any chatter regarding any of this, but they’ve drawn a blank so whoever it is knows how to dodge the security services. That tells me they’re powerful, rich and clever, which makes a formidable enemy. My money’s on Zaugg.”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” Hawke said.
Lea looked at him. “Maybe not this time.”
“She’s right — don't get cocky or you’ll get dead,” Eden said bluntly. “We don’t know who they are, but we do know they’ve killed an innocent woman, stolen the Ionian Texts and their translations, and are probably already on their way to New York to search for the vase.”
“I just need to make a call,” Hawke spoke as they waited for a taxi. He stepped across the road and sent a text to an American cell phone number: Are you there, Nightingale?
A few seconds later came the reply: “What do you want, Joe?”
He texted back: “Can you do something for me?”
“Oh God.”
Hawke could almost recognize the tone behind the text — she was in one of her moods. He only knew the woman by the codename Nightingale. She was former CIA in the way he was former SBS. They had worked together on many cases back in the old days, but never met, and she remained a mystery to him. But she had saved his life more than once, and he had saved hers once in Cartagena, so they trusted each other totally.