New York
Present day
It was an August morning in New York, unusually rainy for this time of the year, under an overcast sky that, combined with the rising heat, stifled the city. John Halland woke up with a start and sat up in bed. His dream was still very vivid in his mind and it was unlike anything he had experienced before.
He dreamt he was in a strange place that reminded him too much of Cappadocia in Turkey that he had visited only two years earlier. He dreamt he was walking in an underground cave, when he was suddenly snatched, a hood placed over his head, and led to a place that smelled of damp and rotting corpses.
He could then remember hearing some voices he could not make out, then seeing a plaque with an indecipherable inscription and then being placed in a sarcophagus, the lid safely fastened into place and all going dark. He was entombed and he was having difficulty breathing and he was falling in and out of consciousness and drowning and then a vacuum, silence.
As a final act, a face flashed before his eyes, a face he thought he recognised, and then a voice and something he could just about remember… He could almost touch it, but it was not meant to be.
Whatever it was it kept slipping further and further away, like sand through his fingers, and then he was awake and it was gone. But he was glad he was saved, that he was alive.
He was in his bed. The bedroom was quiet and dark with the curtains drawn and the blinds secured. It took him a while to recover. A part of his brain was dismissing it, but another was drawing him to it, as the nightmare’s vividness kept bugging him.
He looked at the clock. It was time to get ready and go to work. Damn, he had overslept again. And damn, he had no time to go for a jog. Again. He fumbled for the lightswitch, then rubbed his eyes, threw off the bedcovers and jumped out of bed like a spring or as if someone had set him on fire.
He sprinted to the bathroom, probably breaking the hundred-metre record in the process, from where he emerged five minutes later, showered and shaved and he started to get dressed like a maniac.
It was as if he was a space shuttle and the ten-second countdown to launch had began or as if he was trapped under the space shuttle, desperate to escape, but fighting a losing battle against the countdown to the launch that would vaporise him. He was running against the clock and any remnant of his dream flew from his mind. It was later that month that he would remember his dream.
He was running severely late. Within fifteen minutes he was out of the door, down the uneven steps. He cursed. He had to have those steps fixed. They were a challenge and a death trap if you were half asleep or very drunk.
He ran the short distance to the subway without breaking a sweat. He had to thank his intense fitness regime and his crazy climbing expeditions to far-flung placesfor that. That was something he had in common with his boss, James Calvell. Once he was inside the train he relaxed for the first time since waking up. It was only six stops.
Arriving at the Metropolitan Museum, he was greeted by the guard and was waived through.
Later in the day, John was busy restoring a Byzantine icon, part of the Metropolitan Museum’s famed collection, when suddenly a small piece of wood popped out, revealing a secret compartment. Inside was a ring bearing a seal.
He studied the ring. It could not be anything but the Imperial seal, and the style was typical of the Palaiologos dynasty. It appeared to have some traces of blood on it.
He picked up the phone.
‘James, it’s John. You know I’ve been restoring this Byzantine icon. Well, I’ve found something. I think you’d better have a look at it.’
‘Come right up.’
A few minutes later John Halland was sitting opposite James Calvell. Between them, James’ desk was the temporary stage for the presentation of an item that, most probably, had not seen the light of day for a very long time.
John was observing James studying the ring and the icon that had been the ring’s secret home. John half-smiled to himself. James’s fascination with the two items was written all over his face.
He looked up at John in time to catch John’s expression in the split second before John’s miserable attempt at changing it. James was amused, but chose not to comment. The two men exchanged a knowing look indicating they were, probably, thinking along the same lines. James took the plunge.
‘I think we should speak with Giorgos in Athens. It’s his specialist field and I bet he’d be very interested in seeing this too.’ John nodded in agreement.
James dialled Giorgos’ Athens number. While waiting for Giorgos to answer, James’ mind wandered to his old friend. They had been at university together and had been like brothers ever since. Although they ended up separated by an ocean and a continent, their bond remained strong.
They had shared dangerous experiences, climbing peaks and rock faces around the world that would have defeated lesser men. And they had saved each other’s lives too numerous times to count during those risky expeditions.
Theirs was a bond without petty jealousies or squabbles. Any chinks or scratches inflicted on each other’s armour quickly healed, as they were the result of humour or honesty.
James greatly admired this archaeologist who he knew was worth twenty times all of his rival archaeologists put together. He was glad that Giorgos was down to earth and did not share the pretensions that many of his rivals had adopted, behaving as they did with an academic arrogance that was not justified by their lack of vision and achievement out on the field and on the ground, and with no intention of belittling activity outside fieldwork, the real frontier of archaeological endeavour.
Giorgos had thick skin, which stood him in good stead, as he very often was the target of rival archaeologists’ unfair criticism and mockery. The seasoned and upstanding members of the archaeological establishment somehow could not resist the impulse to rush to deride him, his work and his opinions, without even properly analysing his findings, a reaction, James had no doubt, born of jealousy for this upstart who threatened to upstage them at every turn, and perhaps permanently stand above them, if he made that great discovery he was so obsessed about.
Those knee-jerk reactions and attacks on Giorgos was proof, if any was needed, that his rivals were genuinely afraid of his brilliant mind and relentless pursuit of his theories, which were always backed by meticulous research.
James was devastated and helpless to intervene when Giorgos had to abandon the Cappadocian expedition and return to Athens, resigning himself to a cushy desk job, a mundane life of hard graft teaching at the University, day in day out.
He had since then pestered him not to give up or give into the lazy routine of the daily life he led lately. He was much too talented to waste himself like that. Just because an expedition went wrong due to no fault of his, it was unacceptable for him to give up his life-long dream.
He only wished that Giorgos would chew this one up to experience and move on. Being young and ambitious meant he still had not acquired the cynicism that came with age and kept seasoned archaeologists sane. Then again, how many archaeologists of a certain age and experience had he met who had lost their mind waiting for the big discovery that never came?
He had noticed his spark snuffed out, nothing left to ignite his ever present adrenaline rush, that signature infectious energy gone up in smoke, a defeated man, aged beyond his years.
He could not remember the last time he heard warmth in Giorgos’ voice, the last time he heard that laugh that could melt anyone he met. He now hoped that Giorgos had kept the small flame of his dream alive.
Finally the phone was picked up eight thousand kilometres away. James felt a clutch at his heart as he immediately detected the mechanical note in his friend’s voice.
James decided to avoid pleasantries. The only way to drag Giorgos out of his slumber and trigger his interest was to get straight to the point.
‘Giorgos, it’s James.’
‘Hi, James. How’s your entombment in that most famed of institutions?’
‘Keeping me young and fresh, thank you very much dear Giorgos.’
‘The air is thin there, my friend. You should get out whilst there’s still time and you are still young. There’s hope for you yet, but running out of its hourglass faster than you think.’
James laughed. He would not let Giorgos get away with that. ‘Look who’s talking. I’m following your glorious example.’
‘Have you considered that I may actually enjoy what I’m doing?’ Giorgos sounded defensive and he knew it. And he had no doubt that James had picked up on it and would punish him for it.
‘Yes, I’m sure you are; going through the motions and whiling away the time filling young minds with your knowledge and wisdom and pandering to an ungrateful and sclerotic academic bureaucracy instead of being out there chasing your dreams, trusting your instincts and taking chances on your brilliant theories and at the same time raising two fingers to the sceptical and conservative rival archaeologists mocking you for your wild and bizarre ideas. If it were not for archaeologists, both trained professionals and amateurs, following through on their wild goose-chases, many of the greatest archaeological discoveries of all time would never have seen the light of day. Giorgos, you are lying to yourself and you know it.’
James finished, fixed his eyes on Giorgos and waited. He hoped that something of what he had just said would get through to Giorgos. It was time for him to come to his senses.
As soon as the words about enjoying his work left Giorgos’ mouth, he knew they sounded hollow. He did not need James’ outburst to starkly show him his grim and sad situation for what it was.
Who was he trying to fool? James was right. He had seen through Giorgos’ words, which were more full of self-denial and delusion than fact. Hell, he didn’t believe them himself.
However much he had tried, Giorgos simply could not bring himself to show passion and optimism for his current job. There was no denying the fact that he was in a professional and personal dead end, his life put on hold, frozen until the Great Ice Age passed, which left what? Another few thousand years to go, which in his case, being human, as things stood, with no end of the mundane in sight, meant for the rest of his life.
His friend’s silence since his outburst was telling. James was clearly waiting for him to come clean, and briefly roll in his last bout of self-pity and constructive introspection, before recovering spectacularly, the real Giorgos reborn.
‘When are you going to follow your dreams instead of preaching to the unconverted?’
Giorgos’ question was so unexpected when it came that James was suddenly lost for words, a rare occurrence indeed. For a brief moment he felt disappointed that he had failed to wake his friend from his one-hundred-year sleep, but when he saw the amusement in Giorgos’ eyes he realised that he had broken through the shell that Giorgos had so diligently built around him since the failure of the Cappadocian expedition. The question was pure Giorgos taking his revenge by throwing James’ own words back at him.
James directed his steely gaze at Giorgos in a fake reprimand. ‘I am actually enjoying my job which is more than I can say about you. You seem content to allow yourself to slowly waste away.’ James paused. He was a disciple of the school of tough love for those about whom he cared deeply. ‘Anyway, I didn’t call you to exchange commiserations. I found something that may interest you. Do you still believe your Palaiologos theory has legs? I think I’ve got something that may help you prove it.’
‘I doubt it could be anything that important.’
Whatever hint of excitement James believed he had engendered in Giorgos was well past its expiry date. Whatever flame James thought he had lit, seemed to have been just as quickly snuffed out.
To James’ chagrin, the resigned-to-his-mundanefate Giorgos’ was still there. What would it take to get him to snap out of it, damn it? James was losing patience with his friend, but he believed he held an ace up his sleeve and couldn’t wait to play it.
‘Well, I’m no expert on Byzantine history, that’s your field, but I’d like to think that I’ve gleaned something from you, that something’s stuck, and even with my limited knowledge I can tell this is big.’
Giorgos was intrigued. ‘I should’ve known this was no courtesy call. Come on, don’t torture me. What have you found?’
‘I’ve got John Halland here with me. You remember him, our specialist icon restorer. I think he’d better explain. I’ll put him on speakerphone.’ James pressed the button.
‘Hi, Giorgos.’
‘Hi John. What have you got for me?’
‘I found a ring inside a hidden compartment in an icon I was restoring. The ring carries what looks like the Byzantine double-headed eagle. From historical accounts I’ve read, it is a match for the Imperial ring worn by the Palaiologos dynasty.’
‘Could it be a fake?’
‘No, I took the liberty of dating it. It is at least about six hundred years old. I know about your interest in the last Emperor, Konstantinos XI Palaiologos. I would be venturing into speculative territory, but it is possible that it could be his. Chronologically and design-wise, at least, it fits. But I cannot find further proof. Maybe together we could crack it.’
‘You want me to come over.’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me see it. Get onto skype.’
‘James is connecting as we speak.’
Giorgos accepted the invitation and they were connected. James was stunned by how haggard Giorgos looked, a lot worse than he had expected. He chastised himself for his disappointment. He should not expect a complete change overnight.
He was comforted by the thought that he had at least got Giorgos hooked on something other than his self-inflicted misery and that was a start. He said nothing and hid his worry for another time, when they would be alone together.
John held the ring in front of the laptop’s camera lens. Giorgos gasped and for a few seconds was rendered speechless.
‘John, show me the icon.’ Giorgos studied the icon. ‘Look at the bottom right-hand corner. That looks like a figure of an Emperor. Is there any inscription to give us a clue as to his identity?’
‘No. But I’ve only just started the cleaning of the icon. It will be another two days before anything that maybe there is revealed.’
‘Perfect. It will take me a day to wrap up things here and fly over.’
‘James came in front of the lens.
‘Giorgos, it’s all been arranged already. I’ve booked you on tomorrow’s 6.20 American Airlines evening flight to New York. Your ticket will be waiting for you at their desk at Athens Venizelos International Airport.’
‘Mr Calvell, how dare you assume that, because you want me to, and assuming I could, I would drop everything at a moment’s notice and travel halfway around the world just to give you an expert opinion? Should I feel flattered and humbled that there is no other suitable expert in the whole of the United States?’
It was a cheap shot, but Giorgos was only feigning hurt. Inside he was beaming and the smile breaking across his face was proof of that.
James couldn’t be happier. ‘There’s just too much love between us. What did you think? That I would let you stew and wallow in self-pity for the rest of your life? God knows I’ve tried everything I could think of to get you out of your stupor. My efforts went unrewarded, but my prayers seem to have been answered. This could be the breakthrough you have been waiting for. Look at this as your lucky break, the chance that you should not let get away.’
Giorgos was very glad for this life-changer that James had thrown his way. ‘You rascal. You know me better than I know myself. Thanks, James. I owe you one. See you tomorrow.’
Even after the skype connection was severed James continued looking at the display for a little while longer, smiling to himself, a glorious sense of achievement rippling through his whole body. He was happy for the transformational effect his phone call had had on his friend.
When he looked up at John Halland he saw from his amused expression that he knew what had just happened and shared his feeling of elation for a job well done.
It only took Giorgos a phone call to take five days leave from his job and fifteen minutes to pack when he got home that evening. He would be going to the airport straight from work the next day.