John Sneeden: The Hades Conspiracy

Hamid walked down an aisle to a tapestry affixed to the back wall. Thankfully, it hadn’t been disturbed. If only the looters had known… Rather than ripping it off, he gently pulled it free, folded it, and placed it on a nearby shelf. Just as he’d been told, the concrete wall behind it was engraved with large, decorative rectangles. Hamid stepped back and aimed his beam at each one. He soon found one that was darker than the others. The secret door. He approached and slid his fingers into the gap on the left. As he pulled, he could tell the panel was not concrete at all, but a light veneer. It slid easily to the right, exposing a dark opening.

Hamid directed his beam inside. A steel door appeared at the end of a short tunnel. He approached and found the keypad on the right. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and entered the sequence of numbers on the keypad. A loud click followed.

As he placed his hand on the handle, a noise came from somewhere out in the museum. Although distant, it sounded like the thump of footsteps. Had the boys returned? Maybe they’d brought some of their friends. He doubted it, but one thing was certain — someone was out there. Hamid returned to the veneer wall and pulled it back into place, sealing off the tunnel. If someone happened to enter the storage room, they’d never notice the secret panel.

Returning to the steel door, he opened it carefully. After stepping inside, he closed it behind him and followed a narrow corridor to a set of stairs, which he took down into the darkness. A minute later, he emerged into a cavernous chamber. He shone his light around, scarcely able to believe the sight that met his eyes. Gold masks, weapons, shields, chests, and other relics filled rows of shelving. Other larger artifacts were stacked against the walls. Hamid marveled at the vast quantity of treasure surrounding him. If he had more time, he would love to walk through and examine each one.

According to Omar, the cabinet he was looking for was on the far side of the room. He took two steps. A click carried down the stairs behind him. He turned, his chest tightening at the sound. Had someone found the door? His mind spun through a dozen different scenarios. Perhaps someone had noticed the tapestry was missing. Perhaps he’d left footprints on the dusty floor.

Another click sounded, this time followed by the groan of a door hinge. Someone was coming. His heart thumping wildly, Hamid looked around. To his left, ancient armor hung from a rack. A small sign indicated Assyrian soldiers had once worn the metal covering. It wasn’t a perfect place to hide, but it would have to do. Sprinting over, he slid behind the rack and turned off his light.

He was just in time. Boots thumped down the stone steps. He leaned to his right and peered out. Several beams of light stabbed through the darkness at the base of the stairs. Voices followed, and Hamid’s brow furrowed in confusion. They spoke English, a language he knew from watching American and British television shows with his mother.

As the voices grew louder, Hamid pulled back behind the shield.

“Good heavens,” someone gasped in a distinctly American accent.

“Welcome to our real collection, gentlemen.” The man spoke in English, but Hamid guessed he was an Iraqi.

One of the flashlight beams swept across the armor. Hamid froze. Once it passed, he peeked out again. His eyes widened in surprise. A short Iraqi man wearing pleated trousers stood in front of a dozen U.S. soldiers. The muscular, stern-faced men wielded rifles mounted with lights. One of them — a man in his late fifties or early sixties — carried no weapon and wore a camouflaged cap. Hamid guessed he was the commanding officer.

“There are untold treasures here,” the Iraqi man continued. “It’s—”

“We don’t have time for the grand tour.” The officer cut him off. “Let’s get what we came for and leave.”

“As you wish. This way.” The Iraqi man gestured toward one of the aisles.

“If it’s not here, you can rest assured you’re not getting…”

As the men disappeared from sight, Hamid frowned. What were the Americans doing in the museum? A battle waged several blocks away. It didn’t make any sense.

Burning with curiosity, he slid out from behind the armor. He had to find out what was going on. After a brief glance around, he entered the aisle next to the one the men had taken. He saw the glow of the soldier’s lights one row over, so he followed quietly. The room was much longer than he’d realized.

He stopped near the end of the aisle. The men were only a few feet away.

The Iraqi man spoke again. “You have nothing to worry about. Once we—”

“Just open it,” the officer said. “We need to hurry. We’re in a war zone, and my closest support is a quarter mile away.”

“I understand.”

A door groaned.

There was a long pause, then the officer spoke. “Let’s see what’s in the box.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the soldiers said.

After another pause, Hamid thought he heard someone gasp. Or was it a yawn? He thought of peeking around the corner but knew he couldn’t risk it. If he were spotted, he’d be shot on sight.

“You see? It’s right where I said it would be,” the Iraqi said. “As we agreed, I expect final payment tonight.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be paid,” the officer said.

A few more inaudible words were exchanged, then the door swung shut, and the men marched off. A minute later, Hamid heard the steel door at the top of the stairs slam shut.

They were gone.

After switching on his light, Hamid continued to the end of the aisle. He splashed his beam across the numbered metal cabinets lining the rear wall. The one he was looking for must be near the one the Americans had opened. A few seconds later, he found it. The locker was fitted with a simple lock. Using the combination he had memorized, Hamid spun the dial back and forth, stopping on the final number. He removed the lock and opened the door.

After shining his light inside, his eyes widened in surprise. It was empty.

Take a deep breath. Don’t panic. It’s here somewhere.

Hamid closed his eyes and thought. Maybe there was a false wall or hidden compartment. Omar hadn’t mentioned one, but he might as well check. He dropped to his knees and ran his hands around the interior. The entire surface was smooth. No ridges, no levers. Nothing.

Omar had been concerned about one of the other curators. Perhaps…

His pulse quickened as he remembered what the Iraqi man had said just a couple of minutes earlier. “You see, it’s right where I said it would be. As we agreed, I expect payment tonight.”

He was the curator Omar had spoken of. He must be selling the relic to the Americans. But why? Why would the Americans risk coming here? Maybe he was doing it to protect the treasure.

As Hamid turned to leave, Omar’s cryptic words echoed in his mind. “This relic has a dark secret. It must be brought back to me, whatever the cost.”

Dr. Richard Pauling nervously scanned the crowded square, looking for a place to hide. The man was still close on his tail, but with any luck, Pauling figured he might be able to lose him in the mass of humanity.

A large group of tourists assembled in front of St. Mark’s Basilica. He stared at them for a moment, pondering an idea. For now, it would have to do. Slipping behind them, he took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. At this point, he had no one to blame but himself for the danger that was closing in. He’d heard from reliable sources that a shadowy group was searching for him, but instead of staying in hiding, he’d made the arrogant and reckless decision to attend the 26th Annual International Conference on Ancient Cultures. In his defense, Pauling had done all he could to mask his presence at the event. He knew the organizers and had asked the administrator to register him under an alias. Unfortunately, the group must have had an inside source who’d tipped them off to his presence.