The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2)

The Collectors

Book Two

by

Ron A. Sewell

ISBN-13:978-1500187699

ISBN-10: 1500187690

EAN
             

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

'The Collectors – Book Two' is published by Appolonia Books:

'The Collectors – Book Two' is the copyright of the author, Ron A. Sewell, 2012. All rights are reserved.

The cover is designed by Berni Stevens Design. All rights are reserved.

http://www.bernistevensdesign.com.

All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

In an abandoned village there is an ancient chapel dug deep beneath the earth, its entrance known to one man.

Chapter One

Petros Kyriades glimpsed the flash of the seat belt sign. He turned to the small window on his left, where in the distance the sandstone plateau of Table Mountain loomed majestically and appeared to move progressively closer. His hands tightened on the armrests as the hydraulics droned, and the undercarriage descended and locked.

Dry mouthed, a wave of relief washed over him when the tyres made contact with the main runway of Cape Town International Airport. He nudged his friend, a giant of a man with the build of a rugby player.

“Wake up, Bear.”

Bear stretched his arms upwards. “I’ll be glad when we can travel around like those characters in Star Trek. Beam me down, Petros, and we’re there.”

“We’ll be long gone before that happens.”

“Whatever you say, PK.”

The fasten-seat-belt sign went out and the senior member of the cabin crew approached. “You may now disembark,” she said with a smile.

With their backpacks over their right shoulders, the two men proceeded through the jet bridge with the rest of the first class passengers and entered the terminal building. Once through immigration and baggage collection, they strolled into the bright sunlight of a warm March day and waited at the pick-up point.

*  *  *

Peter Johnson paused to glance once more at the photograph in his hand. That’s them, he murmured to himself.
One white, wearing an Armani jacket, and a big black with a shaved head.
With large strides he marched towards the two men.

“Mr Kyriades and Mr Morris?” he said, in a broad Afrikaans accent.

“Yes,” said Petros.

“Peter Johnson. Captain
Eachan Eliopoulas of the
Morning Glory
sent me to collect you.” The three men shook hands. “Grab your bags, my car’s over there. Good flight?”

“I hate flying but all things considered, not bad.”

Johnson’s BMW six series cruised out of the multi-storey car park and headed for the city and Duncan Dock.

Petros and Bear lay back on the seat. Johnson drove sedately, observing the speed limit and pointing out landmarks of interest.

“You’ll be sailing first thing tomorrow,” he said. “Eachan told me to tell you that everything’s arrived.”

For the duration of the journey, they discussed the weather and the South African economy. As if rehearsed, Peter ranted about the empowerment deals that required companies to sell stakes to black investors. From his tone, he was not a happy man.

Half an hour later the car stopped on the jetty at Duncan Dock in Table Bay. “There she is,
Morning Glory
.”

Petros’s
eyes scanned the one thousand feet of rust-streaked hull.

“Could do with a paint job.”

Peter laughed. “Paint costs money. So long as she’s fit for sea. Paint’s for fancy cruise liners. It’s a luxury we can’t afford. Believe me, in a force eight she’s a good ship.”

Petros and Bear grabbed their bags, thanked Peter and exited his car.

“Duty calls. Must get back to the office. Have a good trip.”

The two men stood on the jetty. The deafening roar of crane motors resounded as cargo found its way into the holds.

The noise stopped. “Don’t stand there. Get on board,” shouted the crane boss.

Without replying, they ran up the gangway to the main deck.

“Can I help?” said a young man who barred their way.

“Petros Kyriades and William Morris.
Your Captain’s expecting us.”

The man’s mouth tightened and he frowned. He turned a page attached to a buff folder.

He was still checking when a middle-aged man approached. “Mr Kyriades and Mr Morris, welcome. Captain Eachan Eliopoulas.” They shook hands. “Follow me and I’ll show you to your cabin. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it’s clean and functional.”

“If it’s got a bed, that’s fine by me,” said Bear Morris.

Although cramped and austere the cabin contained two bunks, a washbasin, two chairs and a small fold-down table.

“Sort yourselves out. When you’re ready, come to my cabin and we’ll discuss the finer details of your trip.”

“This will do nicely, Captain,” said Petros.

“Definitely, home from home,” said Bear.

“Okay, I’ll be off.”

Petros let his eyes drift around the tiny cabin.
“Top bunk for me. Don’t want your fat arse falling on me during the night.”

“Funny, I was going to suggest that.”

“Not exactly the Ritz. I’ll lie on my bunk while you unpack.”

“That’ll take five minutes.”

A knock on the door interrupted their banter. Bear slid it open. In front of him stood a tall thin man wearing a white jacket. “The captain sends his compliments. He’s gone ashore to speak with the Harbour Master. I’ve made a plateful of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. Please follow me to the officers’ lounge.”

Bear’s eyes shone at the thought. “You lead and I’ll be right behind you.”

Petros followed, noting their cabin and deck numbers. They clambered up two flights of steel stairs before entering a large comfortable room. Down the centre and secured to the deck was a long table. Bear went to pull out a chair but found it also shackled to the deck. He smiled.

“Makes sense.
You don’t want stuff crashing about at sea.”

Both men sat in silence, ate the sandwiches, and enjoyed the coffee.

“I wonder if the captain’s back?” said Petros.

“There’s one way to find out.”

They found him on the bridge talking to an officer. “Mr Kyriades and Mr Morris, let’s stand out on the bridge wing. That way I can see my junior cargo officer at work and talk to you at the same time.”

A fresh breeze blew from the east, tumbling a big white cloud across the top of Table Mountain. An assortment of tugs manoeuvred across the other side of the harbour, berthing a bulk carrier.

“We sail in the morning but you’ll be pleased to know that all your equipment is in the forward hold. Tomorrow, once we’re clear of prying eyes, my bosun will assemble both craft. In addition, my men will build the false deck you requested. If there’s anything I’ve missed or forgotten we have most of tomorrow to rectify it.”

“Captain,” said Petros. “
we mustn’t keep you from your duties.”

“Thank you. You’re right. Make yourselves at home but until we finish loading stay off the main deck. Dinner won’t be until completion of all loading.”

“No problem, Captain. After our flight a good rest is what we need,” said Petros.

“Could someone give us a shout for dinner?” said Bear. “I’m starving and I’d hate to miss a good meal.”

“How unusual,” Petros added sarcastically.

“It’s all right for a bag of bones like you.”

The captain smiled. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said.

They left the bridge and returned to their cabin.

“Come on,” said Petros, “let’s get some rest.”

“Fairy fluff,” said Bear.