Tomb of the Lost (68 page)

“
But it is out there somewhere.
”

Alf heard the engine as Johnny started the boat they had been working on.

“
I have work to do,
”
he offered his hand smiling. Koenig stared down at it for a moment then took the handshake firmly.

“
Good bye Alfred.
”

Alf only got a few steps when he turned back.

“
Oh I nearly forgot,
”
he fished in his trouser pocket, removing something and throwing it to Koenig, who caught it. Alf raised his hand once more in farewell and was gone.

Koenig slowly opened his hand to reveal the dog tags.

“
Major Otto Wurtz, SS,
”
he said aloud,
“
Elsa
’
s husband. And the most evil bastard I
’
ve ever encountered.
”

He continued studying them for a moment running the tags and chain between his thumb and forefinger. Then grunting with the pain he drew his arm back and launched them into the sea. They fell into the water with a gentle plop. Koenig stood watching the small ripples until they disappeared then turned and headed for the square as the first of General Tuker
’
s jeeps entered the town.

PART FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY

PRESENT DAY

Peter Dennis, award winning journalist, freelance photographer, writer, author and top columnist in half a dozen magazines and periodicals, sat wearily at his desk. He had just got back from Malaga, Spain, where he had been interviewing an English businessman, an ex-pat, who was widely rumoured by newspapers and tabloids to also be a crime boss. Dennis had been at university with the man
’
s son and had been granted a very rare interview.

He glanced at the clock on his desk. He had been up now for twenty two hours. The flight back from Spain had been delayed by five.

On his desk was the previous month
’
s edition of
‘
The Country
’
a magazine distributed in English in many countries for British people living overseas. It
’
s biggest selling was in Spain and the Balearic islands.

On the cover of the magazine was a note from the editor congratulating Dennis for his two page article entitled
‘
The Lion and the Wolf
’
which was about the whereabouts of the lost sarcophagus of Alexander the great. The note said simply
‘
Well done Peter. Half a million copies sold. Our best month yet.
’

Dennis knew it was because of his article that sales had almost doubled.

The story of Alexander the great. A subject he had known nothing about until five weeks ago. He had received an urgent call on that Thursday night. His grandfather who had been in and out of hospital for the last eighteen months had been receiving treatment for a week and had
‘
taken a turn for the worse
’
as had been described over the phone by his uncle.

Peter Dennis had jumped into a taxi during rush hour and had gone to Salisbury hospital in Wiltshire and straight to his grandfather
’
s bedside. Everyone had been there. The whole family. Relatives he hadn
’
t seen in twenty years. He had been there for over half an hour, his grandfather had lain the whole time on his back, presumably sleeping. His pyjama jacket had come open and Dennis was staring at the age old scar on the old man
’
s chest, a scar caused by a German sniper decades ago, when the old eyes suddenly flickered open. He turned his head and said in a weak voice.

“
I would like to speak to my grandson alone.
”

Dennis waited patiently until everyone had left the room. The only sound to be heard was the clock ticking. Finally Dennis broke the silence.

“
Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?
”

“
No thank you. I don
’
t think anything will help.
”

Alfred Dennis closed his eyes again. A flicker of pain flashed across his face. Then he opened his eyes and said.

“
I want to tell you something about the war.
”

Peter reached out and grabbed his grandfather
’
s hand.

“
Don
’
t upset yourself about it now
…
.
”

“
No listen to me
…
.
”

Alfred began wheezing. He coughed a few times but the wheeze didn
’
t clear.

“
I want to tell you something now, something I
’
ve kept a secret for nearly seventy years. I
’
ve never spoken about this to anyone ever.
”

“
Then why now? And why only me?
”

“
Because you
’
re the only one who will understand the significance, to know what to do.
”

So in a small hospital room with the sky growing dark outside journalist Peter Dennis listened to the most incredible story he
’
d ever heard.

He
’
d booked into a hotel room that night and used his laptop to search the internet for Alexander the great until he
’
d fallen asleep. His phone ringing just after 3a.m woke him. His grandfather had passed away.

Peter had returned to London, gone back for the funeral and in that time despite other projects had begun compiling a file on Alexander. He had bought every book he could find on the subject and found the whole story fascinating.

“
And to think you played a part in all this,
”
he said to his grandfather
’
s photograph on his desk. A photograph he was very fond of.

Dennis pushed a key on his computer and after a few seconds his desktop came up. He clicked on mail and saw that there were thirty seven new messages. He clicked on open, then as an afterthought decided he was too tired, closed down the page, got up and went for the coffee pot. The phone on his desk started ringing. He glanced at his watch.

“
11.15p.m. Who the bloody hell will be trying to call me at this hour.
”

He poured himself some black coffee and in no hurry returned to his desk and picked up the phone.

“
Dennis,
”
he said.

The line was silent but he sensed someone was there.

“
Peter Dennis,
”
he said again. He removed the phone from his ear to see if the digital display was showing the caller
’
s number. It wasn
’
t. Dennis shrugged, was about to press the end call button when a voice said.

“
Mr Dennis please don
’
t hang up.
”

Dennis brought the phone back to his ear.

“
Who is this? Do you know what time it is?
”

“
Yes I
’
m sorry to call so late. The time where you are will be about a quarter past eleven,
”
the voice said in a heavy accent.

Dennis guessed it was German or Dutch.

“
Yes it
’
s late and I
’
m tired. Now perhaps you would like to tell me what you want. How did you get this number?
”

“
All in good time
…
.
”

“
Time is something you don
’
t have.
”

Dennis went to hang up when he heard the voice say.

“
I read with interest your article in the country magazine.
”

“
Oh good. Perhaps you
’
d like to leave a comment on our website.
”

“
I am no messenger Mr Dennis
…
.
”

“
That
’
s great,
”
Dennis said, cutting the voice off,
“
I appreciate your well wishes. Perhaps you would like to leave your name and details and your reason for calling with reception. I
’
m sure somebody will get back to you.
”

“
Mr Dennis I am an archaeologist and collector of fine antiquities and I would like very much to recover the Alexander sarcophagus which you yourself wrote about so eloquently. I am prepared to pay whatever it costs.
”

“
Really?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Then might I have your name.
”

“
My name is irrelevant at this time. I will of course
…
.
”

“
Then in that case I
’
m not interested. Don
’
t ring this number again!
”

Dennis slammed the phone down.

The man on the other end smiled to himself when he heard the line go dead.

“
My dear Mr Dennis I sincerely hope you don
’
t live to regret that.
”

Dennis took a swig of his coffee. All tiredness gone now with agitation. He opened his e-mail page again and scanned his eyes down them. Then he saw fifth from the bottom an e-mail from
[email protected]
and he clicked on it.

“
Hmm! I haven
’
t heard from you guys in a while,
”
he said reaching for his coffee.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

THE IONIAN SEA

The diver lifted her left hand again to check the time on her watch. Five minutes left, five minutes before they
’
d need to surface.

Natalie Feltham, Marine Archaeologist of the Oceanic Archaeology Institute, glanced across at her two colleagues, George Roussos, a Greek, and Jack Dobson, a fellow Englishman. She got their attention and they both gave her the thumbs up.

They were diving off an ancient wreck near the Greek island of Zakynthos. The timbers of the ship had vanished over the two thousand years that it had lain in the sixty feet of water on the ocean floor. All that was left were Amphorae of various sizes, plates and cups. Nothing of value but exciting for the group of tourists they were accompanying. Each guest diver was now prepared by the three to begin the one minute ascent to the boat above. Once they were all in a ring Natalie led them slowly up. Her head broke the surface of the water and she lifted her facemask.

Alex Lafitte, the only Frenchman in the group was waiting on the diving platform for their return. He smiled down at Natalie as he extended his hand to her. She grabbed it and he lifted her from the water. She sat down to take off her equipment as Alex helped Jack next. Jack quickly removed his Scuba tanks, let them bump gently to the deck, and began helping the tourists out one by one.

Soon they were all seated and Natalie took the clipboard with the passenger list and did the head count. She recounted, then happy with the result she ticked the sheet and signed it. She replaced the clipboard and nodded to Tom White the third Englishman on board. He pushed a button on the control panel and the electronic anchor began winding in. Once it was secured Tom started the twin engines and pushed forward on the throttle and the fifty foot Endeavour III moved away from the buoy marking the wreck.

Natalie stood in front of the group.

“
Did everyone have a good time today?
”
she asked, turning her head from side to side so that everyone could hear her clearly.

There was a chorus of yes
’
s and general agreement.

“
Did you all manage to take your photographs?
”

Again the same response.

“
Excellent. That
’
s what we like to hear. On behalf of the crew I
’
d like to thank you all so much for coming with us today and thanks to our crew members, George, Jack, Alex and Tom,
”
she said clapping, leading the applause.