Authors: Gilliam Ness
Boston, Massachusetts.
Dr. Gabriel Parker tilted the bottle
and watched as the golden liquid tumbled over the ice in his glass. It was shimmering in the halogen light of his bedside lamp. He threw himself back onto the oversized pillows, bringing the glass to his lips and inhaling deeply before downing its contents in one gulp.
Gabriel looked up to see a beautiful young blonde working her way into a pair of tight jeans at the foot of his bed, and then watched expressionlessly as she strapped a lacy bra over her perfect breasts. A second later she was back on the bed, straddling him, and giving him a deep and sensual kiss.
“Yum,” she said, pulling away and savouring the whiskey on her lips. “You taste like a man.”
Gabriel’s hands explored her curves, travelling over her body and down to her buttocks.
“I taste like whiskey,” he said, giving her bottom a squeeze.
The girl kissed him again. When she pulled away Gabriel noticed she was pouting.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked, stretching over to refill his glass.
“What’s wrong with you, Gabriel?” she said, her eyes downcast and sultry.
Her fingers were tracing over a dime-sized scar at the centre of his chest. It had always fascinated her. Gabriel took a gulp of scotch and then lifted her chin to have a look at her.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m just tired.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve never been tired before…”
The girl ran her fingers through his shaggy brown hair, and then traced them over the stubble on his chin. He had a strong jaw; perfectly at home with his rugged features. Hidden behind the stubble on his throat she found the other scar, and then pushing aside a thick lock of hair, she traced her thumb over the one on his forehead.
“Are you getting tired of me?” she asked.
Gabriel put down his glass and sat up.
“Listen, Mica—”
“Mica’s my working name,” said the girl, pouting. “You know that. I’m Mary.”
“Mary— “ began Gabriel, but she cut him off.
“You still haven’t told me about these scars,” she said, kissing the one on his forehead.
Gabriel felt the usual pang of discomfort at the mention of the scars, and it annoyed him as always. He was thirty-two years old. Should he not have got over this nonsense by now? A recurring scene played itself out in Gabriel’s mind.
“Hey, Ashtray!”
cried one of the bullies who surrounded him.
“Has daddy been using you to butt out his smokes?”
“Ashtray did it to himself!”
said another.
“Faggets love pain!”
The group of boys exploded into laughter.
“Ashtray’s gay! Ashtray’s gay!”
“Earth calling Gabriel…” said Mary, looking down at him intently. “The scars…?”
Gabriel drained his glass and then feigned severity.
“Electrode torture marks from the Iraqi prison.”
She slapped him playfully.
“You’re never going to tell me, are you!”
Gabriel reached over and poured some more scotch into his glass. Time, and his general hairiness, had made the scars almost imperceptible, but it had not been like that when he was a boy. Back then they had stood out starkly; like bumpy red cigar burns. Gabriel told himself that the mysterious scars had made him strong, but the truth was they had only made him proud. As a boy, the pain of the constant taunting had turned into apathy, which in turn became arrogance; a defensive trait that still plagued him to this day.
“Tell me,” whispered the girl, nibbling at his ear. “You know how much I love you.”
Gabriel forced himself to be patient. He hated hearing this kind of thing. It was not necessary.
“You don’t love me, Mary,” he said. “I’m a regular customer who treats you well.”
Mary smiled naughtily, her pretty hands finding his crotch.
“You treat me
very
well.”
Gabriel gave her a gentle shove that sent her tumbling to the other side of the bed with a squeal. He got up and pulled on a pair of baggy brown pants and a sleeveless undershirt, securing his belt as he made his way to a nearby table. Gabriel had a flat stomach and strong arms, his legs, back and shoulders shaped by a lifetime of deep sea diving. He took hold of the battered leather duffel bag that lay on the table before him, opening it slowly and double checking the things he had packed inside.
He was not having a great day, or a great month for that matter. Something in Gabriel ached with emptiness, and he knew it was not entirely due to the recent death of his father. Gabriel was feeling a general weariness with the world, as though everything were losing its meaning. He could not understand what was causing it. Nothing had changed. He had been happily living like this for a decade now; lecturing at the university, researching and locating sunken ships and lost treasures, entertaining beautiful women in every port, and getting together with his friends and colleagues on a regular basis. Life was full and exciting. Even still, Gabriel could see that something was not right. He would be turning thirty-three soon. Something was changing in him, even if he could not say what it was.
“Where are you going this time, Gabriel Parker?” asked Mary, her voice sounding timid as she came up behind him. “Take me with you. I hate Boston.”
Gabriel turned around and looked at her, forcing himself to smile. It was not difficult. The girl was riveting. Her blonde hair was falling like satin over her perfect, suntanned shoulders, making the silky strands almost glow in contrast. Gabriel took her by a belt loop and pulled her to him, giving her an assertive kiss. When he was done he opened her hand and gave her a roll of banknotes, carefully closing her fingers around it.
“You don’t have to pay me this time, Gabriel,” she said quietly. “We haven’t done anything.”
He walked her to the front door, producing his phone as he did so. It was buzzing. His electronic boarding pass had just come in.
“I’m sorry to kick you out,” he said, opening the door for her, “but I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Rome, Italy.
To anyone else, the distant
knocking would have been impossible to hear, but even in his eighty-third year of life, Fra Bartolomeo’s hearing had remained as acute as it had been when he was a boy.
“A blessing and curse you have given to me, Father,” he prayed aloud.
His accent was thickly Italian, but years spent in the service of a British-born Bishop had made English his habitual tongue.
“Where is Suora when one needs her?”
The old Christian brother gave a long sigh of resignation. He was in the kitchen’s pantry, attempting to extricate a box of tea biscuits from the back of a cluttered shelf. The distant knocking was persistent, and he knew that it was coming from a rarely used service door located at the back of the rectory.
“Nobody ever knows which door to use.”
He made his way along ancient hallways belonging to what had once been a small monastery, centuries before. Located in the centre of Rome, it was now the private residence of the retired Bishop Marcus Di Lauro, a man whom despite his advanced age was still very active in church matters, especially those pertaining to the paranormal.
Fra Bartolomeo accelerated his pace, arriving at the door just as the knocking stopped. Opening it, he saw a delivery man walking away.
“Si, pronto!” he exclaimed, scratching the back of his head where a little bit of silver hair still grew. “Can I be of assistance?”
“I have a delivery for the Bishop,” said the courier, turning around.
“I will take it to him, my son.”
The old, white-bearded Bishop Marcus was at his desk when he heard the quiet knock on his door. He took one last look at the framed photograph he had been studying, and then turned to place it back on the credenza behind him. It was an image of himself standing before Mont St. Michel, in the company of his two dearest friends: Father Franco Rossi, and Professor Agardi Metrovich; both recently lost.
“I am an old man now,” he whispered, producing a well used handkerchief from his pocket.
“I will see you both very soon, my friends.”
He vacated his nose in a series of short, staccato salvos, and then cleared his throat.
“Come in,” he said in perfect British tenor.
Fra Bartolomeo appeared at the door. As always he wore threadbare corduroy pants, a flannel shirt, and a tattered woolen cardigan, each article a different shade of the same muted grey. He held out a small parcel in both hands.
“A package has arrived for you, your Excellency.”
“Thank you, Fra,” said the Bishop, smiling kindly. “Come in, come in. What say you to having our Cognac a little early today?”
When their drinks were done, and the old Brother was off on his business again, Bishop Marcus leaned forward and picked up the package.
“Father Franco,” he said quietly. “What could you possibly have sent me?”
In the package the old Bishop found the battered leather-bound journal he had so often seen the Professor with. He picked up the accompanying letter and scrutinized it through a brass rimmed magnifying glass. It was from Father Franco, and written on the day of his death. He held it under his desk lamp and proceeded to read.
Istanbul, November 29.
My dear friend,
The exorcism was a complete failure, the victim dying just hours into the ritual. We were shocked to discover that he was intersexed; a hermaphrodite. Impossible as it seems, last night’s possession reflects the myth perfectly. The Professor is now convinced that the Cube of Compostela still exists. He claims that it is residing in the archives of the Museum of Antiquities in Tangiers.
As I write, we are awaiting a chartered plane that will be taking us to the place of the hermaphrodite’s conception. It is an island on a small lake in the mountains south of Santander. We fear that this is the island mentioned in the prophecy. There is a deep dread in me.
The Professor believes the time has come to unite Gabriel and Natasha. He does insist, however, that the two of them be united before the Cube is recovered. He has asked that I send you his Cube diary so that you might study it with them. As you know, everything he has learned concerning the artifact is contained within it. Enclosed you will find the name of the Professor’s contact at the Vatican museum. He will assist you in obtaining the Cube.
Your faithful friend, F.R.
The old Bishop laid the letter out on his desk and fell back into his chair, releasing a long, drawn-out sigh.
“I feel you are here with me, my old friend.”
He reached forward and took hold of the journal. On its tattered cover were the remains of what had once been a gold embossed stamp.
The Cube of Compostela
Reality or Myth?
Bishop Marcus hesitated a moment, and then taking a deep breath, proceeded to immerse himself in the mysterious lifetime obsession of his dear friend and colleague, the late Professor Agardi Metrovich.
The Atlas Mountains, Morocco.
Gabriel grumbled under his breath.
He was dragging himself through a copse of dry bushes that was serving as his only means of cover. He knew that the lack of a moon, coupled with the dark fatigues he was wearing, would make him invisible to the armed guards, and he was glad of the fact. Right at this moment they would be scanning the castle’s perimeter, including the place where he now found himself.
Gabriel pulled down his cap. Invisibility was a good thing, and he thanked the dark night. If he were spotted, here in the shrubs, casing out the villa of one of the most powerful drug lords in North Africa, he would most certainly be skinned alive.
Completing the last leg of his approach, Gabriel arrived at his final position. He was high on a rocky perch now, hiding safely behind the cover of a dense grouping of shrubs. Below him, a panoramic vista of the Atlas Mountains spread out in all directions, lit from above by a star studded sky that seemed to hover only inches above his head.
Sandwiched as he was between that infinite glowing cosmos, and an earth that seemed to almost embrace him as he lay upon it, Gabriel felt a sense of safety that he had never before experienced. It seemed ludicrous to him. This was by far the most dangerous expedition of his career, yet instead of feeling anxious or worried, he was perfectly at peace. He whispered into his radio.
“I’ve reached the entry point.”
“Well done, Boss,” came the muted reply.
It was his trusted assistant Amir who spoke, his Moroccan accent giving life to a peculiar fusion of British and American English. Amir was high in a tree, gazing at the castle through a pair of binoculars, and chewing, as always, on a hot cinnamon toothpick. His build was agile and muscular, his groomed dreadlocks shoulder length and adorned with a few dark beads. He brought the radio to his mouth and whispered into it.
“They still haven’t left the conference room, Boss.”
“What’s been going on in there?” asked Gabriel. “I thought I heard a gunshot.”
“You did. Nasrallah shot one his guys in the stomach. The poor bloke’s still in the room. They sat him right next to Nasrallah.”
Gabriel shook his head in amazement.
“Let me know when they leave that room. As soon as it’s empty, I’m going in as planned. Over and out.”
Gabriel settled in for what he knew could be a very long wait. Apart from illustrating Najiallah Nasrallah’s cruelty, the shooting was an indisputable sign that trouble was afoot in the castle, and where there was trouble, routines would almost certainly be upset.
Gabriel knew that it could be hours before the smugglers vacated the conference room and settled into their nightly pastime. It was a ritual that would take place in what Gabriel had dubbed
The Opium Den;
a room filled with rugs and cushions, where the men would lie nightly in drug-induced stupors. Across the gorge he could see the room’s uninhabited window, a tiny black dot in a massive stone wall.
Almost two weeks had passed since Gabriel had left his home in Boston, and if anything, the feelings of world weariness he had begun to experience there were only getting worse. Adhering to his new habit, he locked away the painful emotions, focusing instead on the many tasks at hand.
Over the past nine days he and Amir had photographed, filmed and recorded every event that took place in the castle, going to great lengths to gain every scrap of information possible. At one point they had even entered onto the grounds in the guise of electrical repairmen, using the opportunity to map the areas of the castle pertinent to their mission.
Gabriel considered how the unexpected crisis in the castle might affect their plans, but he knew that ultimately it did not matter. It was too late to abandon the mission. Amir had laid explosive charges all over the castle grounds. Removing them would be impossible to do without being detected, and leaving them behind to be discovered at daybreak would make returning impossible. There was no turning back. All Gabriel could do was wait and hope for the best.
For more than ten years Amir had been a close and trusted friend of Gabriel’s. They had originally met in the port of Tangiers when Amir, then just a boy of fourteen, had approached Gabriel as his ferry had landed. Amir had been wearing a tie-dyed Bob Marley shirt, his messy head resembling a tangled brown mop. He had offered to be Gabriel’s guide, and even though Gabriel had told him to go away over a dozen times, he had followed him all the way to the marketplace, singing
Everything’s Gonna Be Alright
while jogging happily at his side.
“I will show to you the medina!” he had said in broken English as he bounced around. “I know best places to shop!”
To this day, Gabriel could not be sure if it was the long climb to the old Arab quarter that had finally broken his will, or if he had indeed taken a liking to the kid. In the end he had given in. It was the best thing he could have ever done.
“Very well,” Gabriel had said, “but you won’t get a dime out of me. You’ll have plenty with all the kickbacks from everything I buy. Now, where can I get a decent drink around here anyway?”
“Kickbacks? No kickbacks!” the young Amir had said, a twinkle in his eye. “I work for free! I take you for drink! Very illegal. Best place!”
The medina’s narrow streets had bustled around Gabriel in a dizzy tangle of crowded shops and bellowing merchants, and before long, Amir had led him into a secluded courtyard café. No sooner had Gabriel sat down than he was brought a forbidden bottle of Johnny Walker Black, coincidentally his favourite scotch. It had been the start of a great friendship.
Gabriel studied the castle through a pair of infrared binoculars, all the while thinking back on their long friendship. How many artifacts had they retrieved together? How many times had they narrowly escaped with their lives? The reggae-loving Arab was truly fearless, and had saved his life on more than one occasion, despite all the hashish he smoked. What was more, Amir had been a favourite of Gabriel’s adoptive father, Professor Metrovich, and that in itself was a very difficult standing for anyone to have achieved. The Professor had been very selective with those he consorted with.
Gabriel put away the binoculars and reached sadly into his pack, unfolding a loose sheet of paper covered in his father’s scribbled handwriting. He had found it stuffed into a notebook in the old man’s desk; a letter to his colleague, Father Franco, that he had obviously forgotten to mail. Gabriel’s mind went over the mysterious events for the hundredth time. The Professor had been on an assignment in Turkey with the priest. For some unknown reason they had chartered a plane to Santander. Two days later Gabriel had received a phone call from the Spanish Civil Guard, informing him of their deaths. That was all there was. He was still reeling from the news.
It was thanks to his father that Gabriel had the unique career he had. Just as Professor Metrovich had been in his younger years, Gabriel too, was a treasure hunter, and a very good one at that. His father had taught him everything there was to know about locating and retrieving lost artifacts, especially those found in sunken ships. Being on the board of directors for the Vatican Museum, the Professor had also ensured that Gabriel’s pieces would be purchased with no questions asked. In this way, Gabriel had become a very wealthy man. Even still, he would have given it all up if it had meant getting his father back again.
The Professor had been everything to Gabriel. He had rescued him from an orphanage when he was an infant, and had over the years taught him what it meant to be a man. Under his constant support and tutelage, Gabriel had grown up to become a noted archaeologist. As a child he had practically lived on the Harvard campus where his father worked, spending his nights on the restored, turn-of-the-century schooner that was their home. Growing up, Gabriel’s life had revolved around sailing, diving, travelling, and above all else, studying. He had read more books than the most diligent of scholars, and had visited more countries than he could keep track of. To Gabriel, acquiring knowledge was an effortless pastime, like eating or drinking. Travelling, treasure hunting, diving, and sailing were just the things he did in the time that was left over. It had always been that way.
Under the stealthy red light of a military flashlight, Gabriel scanned the letter until he found the part he was looking for. He had studied it countless times, but seeing it here, on the top of that ridge, high in the Atlas Mountains, renewed his sense of purpose, and gave him the stamina he needed to go through with the task at hand. In the letter before him, scribbled in the Professor’s barely legible hand, was a short paragraph concerning something that Gabriel was totally unfamiliar with. It spoke of a legendary artifact known as the Cube of Compostela; an artifact Gabriel had never heard of before.
I’ve been turning over some rocks here in Istanbul and have made an important discovery. The long lost Cube might still exist. I have narrowed its location to one of three places. If it is found, the legend will be validated, and there will no longer remain any doubts concerning the mystery surrounding the births of Gabriel and Natasha, and their birthright to the inheritance of the Cube.
Below these notes, was a crude drawing of the cube that had been referred to. It appeared to be a medieval quadriform, measuring fifteen centimeters on each of its sides. In essence, it was a simple box. Jotted down next to it was a name.
“Gutierrez de la Cruz.”
Priest/Cartographer.
835 - 901 A.D.”
Below that, three more lines had been written. Two had been scribbled over and were illegible, but the last line was easily read:
The Museum of Antiquities, Tangiers, Morocco.
Gabriel folded the letter carefully, and put it away. That was all there had been to go on, but given his passion for relics, and the knowledge that his father was not one to speculate on anything other than facts, it was enough to start him on a quest to find the Cube. Even still, there were so many questions left unanswered.
What was this Cube? It appeared to be an important artifact, but if this were the case, in all his years of study, would he not have heard mention of it? And who was Natasha, and why was this artifact
their
birthright? Was it possible that he might have a sister? If only the Professor were still alive.
All of his life Gabriel had seen his father working in an old battered diary, but he had never been permitted to look inside it. His gut told him that the answers to any question he might have concerning the artifact would be found in that book, but where was it? Gabriel had turned the boat upside-down, but had found nothing. He was perplexed. His desire to learn more about the Cube had taken on an almost obsessive quality.
Within a few days of finding the scribbled letter in his father’s desk, Gabriel had boarded a plane to Tangiers. At the Museum of Antiquities, he had learned that the Cube had been stored in the archives for as long as the museum had existed, but had never been displayed to the public.
“It was a beautifully illuminated quadriform,” the curator had told him, “but not particularly impressive when compared to other illuminated artifacts from the same period. For that reason I was very surprised when the museum was broken into last year, and only that piece was stolen.”
Not knowing where to begin his search, Gabriel’s thoughts had naturally gone to his assistant. Amir had grown up in the streets of Tangiers. If anyone could find out who had stolen the artifact, it would be him.
It was not very long before Amir and Gabriel were sitting in a busy café, sipping mint tea and talking to an informant that Amir had arranged to meet with. He was a giant of a man, with a fleshy scar that bisected the entire left side of his brown face. His massive head was shaven clean, and a patchwork of scars and bumps covered it as though it were a piece of battered luggage. On his neck was the symbol of a moth; an artless image brought into relief by the crude branding of a primitive hand. Gabriel was impressed. Despite his rough appearance, there seemed to be a profound dignity to the ugly giant. There was a quiet wisdom in his eyes.
“Najiallah Nasrallah,” he had said, his voice as deep as a diamond mine.
He spat in disgust.
“He is a dog, living in the palace of a king.”
Gabriel could still remember the informant’s face in every detail, and the way he had scowled when he had spoken that name. Amir had put a roll of banknotes into the enormous hand, and exchanged a knowing look with the man. Moments later the dark giant had vanished into the milling crowds.
“Nasrallah’s a powerful drug lord, Boss,” Amir had said, squinting up through his dreadlocks. “He’s said to have a taste for archaeology. I should’ve known it was him. He employs a lot of people in this town, but everybody hates him.”
“Where can we find him?”
Amir had slugged back the last of his tea and was holding out the glass, admiring the bright green leaves that filled it.