The Mask of Minos: Bruno's Inferno

By Robert Walton

What would make a retired, independently wealthy archaeologist want to leave the comforts of his retreat in Costa Rica, join forces with an accountant from the Bureau of Audits and Reclamation, and fly to Europe in search of a mysterious relic with no foundation in reality, all while being chased by nefarious killers from a secret society older than Herodotus? Well, for starters, the accountant is coercive and, oh yes—she’s a knock-out.

Harry Thursday has been in trouble before in Robert Walton’s first novel, Fatal Snow. Now THE MASK OF MINOS takes the reader through an allegoric story retelling Theseus’ journey to becoming the ruler of Greece. Along that path, he is besotted by enemies and finally battles the son of Zeus, ruler of Crete, father of the Minotaur—half-man, half-bull. With the aid of his patron god Poseidon, Theseus brings down the once mighty kingdom in a fiery earthquake, freeing all from its oppressive dominance. And so Harry Thursday battles the secret society known to only a few as the Hyperboreans in his attempt to find—and keep them from finding—the powerful mythical mask.

This page-turner will keep the readers on their toes through to the end. For readers, who are already fans of Harry Thursday, this will quench their thirst of adventure and his quirky attitude. -- ​Serious Reading Magazine​

What Others are Saying
The Mask of Minos is a quick read, and can be easily enjoyed even by those that didn't catch Walton's first novel, Fatal Snow. Highly recommended for fans of Douglas Preston and James Rollins. --  Bella Wright, Best Thriller​

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781620069271

Robert Walton

Robert Walton is a retired teacher with thirty-six years of service at San Lorenzo Middle School. He and Phyllis, his wife of 40 years, reside in King City, California. They have two sons - Jeremy, professor of Anthropology at Georgetown University, and Jon, artist and photographer in New York City. Robert is a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer. He’s made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite. Three of his short stories about climbing were published in the Sierra Club's "Ascent". His short story "Dogwood Dream" won first place in New Millennium Writing's 2011 short fiction contest. His novella "Vienna Station" won the Galaxy prize and is available for Kindle on Amazon. Most recently, his short story "Like a thorny Child" won the Central Coast Writers spring writing contest.

Book preview

1.

1941 March

The man named Victor felt the stiffness as he lay in the dark, a dim light shining from the other room. A soft bed, some old medical facility stinking with the smell of formaldehyde and pine. He woke suddenly gasping for breath, alone. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, and his feet dangled far from the floor. He winced from the pain in his shoulder and reached his hand to it and rubbed gently, then glanced at it under his tunic. The pain of his wounds slapped him into consciousness. The tattoo on his leg was exposed, and it should never be seen. He looked around for clothing.

His hands were sore and badly scratched, the scars reddened as blood pumped through his veins. He was thirsty. On the table next to his bed he saw a plate with bread and butter and some dark jam as well as a pitcher of water. He poured the water into the empty glass and drank it slowly. It tasted sweet and clean. His dry mouth seemed to absorb the liquid leaving little for his throat.

The cold echoed as the visitor walked the long stone hallways. He remembered very little of how he arrived at the Abbey. Someone called Dagon gave him a tiny box with instructions to bring it to the Abbey in the Hallstatt See. It must have been weeks he was lost, starving and chased by dogs, shot at, tired—sleepless and starving. They didn’t buy his story. He knew they’d catch on eventually. He had to get away, so he took the stuff out of the box and stuffed it into his pockets and kept going. He finally ditched them, he thought, across the border.

The early morning light slipped in through the tall narrow arrow-slits. Cool moist air brushed into the hall making his breath visible and he stopped to look outside at the forest below. From where Brother Amos stood he could see the Hallstatt See in the distance, the lake nestled deep in the Alpine meadows of the Bavarian Alps. The tapestries that once lined the walls and floors of the ancient castle long ago were gone, taken back to Rome.

His lamp flickered in the breeze as he walked past the open windows. He stopped near the top of the stairwell to listen to the faint sounds coming from the cathedral as the other monks prayed and chanted. The man’s name was Victor; that much they got out of him before he fell into a deep sleep that lasted for three days. Victor’s condition was deplorable; his clothes were torn and bloody and his feet shoeless. He had been shot, the wound was new and swollen with puss from an infection that had set in, and Amos tended to that immediately, cleaning it with witch hazel and he changed the bandages frequently until the infection abated.

Amos and the Abbott, Brother Christian, examined the things he had on him while he slept. The most striking object was the beautiful gold and silver bracelet adorned with precious gems carved to depict a crumbling Greek Temple, and a burning trireme in a smoldering body of water. There was a small bible in German, and a gammadion made of silver and black onyx, along with a few gold coins, and a key.

Keep these things safe, said Christian, And don’t leave him alone too long. You should talk to him.

Amos’ curiosity gained the better part of him and he showed them to Brother Joseph. If anyone could decipher the meaning of these baubles, it was Joseph, who prided himself in knowing every detail of every book and parchment in his care. Brother Joseph was an immense man with a large frame who towered over his fellows. They would all joke that he looked like their father and they his young children. He had a balding pate, making him look like a tonsured monk—although this order did not shave theirs.

Amos entered the dark room pushing open the large wooden doors with ease. Joseph sat hunched over his desk as usual and Amos startled him with a touch of his shoulder.

Were you sleeping? he asked.

When do I have time for that? he said with his deep baritone voice. He stood and smiled at Amos and walked to the large fieldstone fireplace, and picked up a poker and stoked the logs, throwing another on top. The fire blazed. What can I do for you tonight? Stuck again?

Well, in a way I am, Joseph, he said and held the satchel out for him. Joseph took it, and turned to the desk and opened it, pouring the things out onto the already cluttered table. He looked over at Amos who stood close by looking over his massive shoulder.

They belong to the visitor, Victor. He carried this with him. I thought they were curious. What do you think?

I think he has secrets, Joseph said, When you brought him in here earlier it struck me that he was troubled, nervous like a caged animal. Joseph picked up the bracelet first and turned it in his hands looking closely at it. He reached for a magnifying glass and studied the details. He sat at the desk and pulled the lamp closer, never saying a word.

Amos watched closely as Joseph stood and went into the stacks. His large frame squeezed through the narrow bookshelves. The vaulted ceiling rose above the light and faded into blackness. He disappeared into the dimly lit room. While he waited, Amos took the liberty to thumb through Joseph’s desk. He saw a piece of paper that had fallen out of the small bible. He opened it—It said, Jericho Jimenez, 23 Rua Remolares Lisbon.

There were also many drawings done with great skill and detail, and copies of books left open on the table. Joseph was a fine artist.

The librarian returned moments later with a large leather bound tome and placed it gently on his desk. He opened the dusty book, turned some pages, and pointed to a drawing of an island.

"This has to be a depiction of the bull dance. The structure here is the ruin of the Palace of Knossos, the home of King Minos who according to Greek legend would take a tribute of teenagers from the mainland, in exchange for protection from pirates and warships. Here they became dancers to entertain the lavish residents of the island. They tended the bulls, sort of like modern day bullfighting, except the children would leap over the bulls often using the horns as platforms. So the legend goes. It is said that Theseus, the heir to the throne of Athens, was the last of the bull dancers and that he called upon Poseidon, his patron God, to help bring down the kingdom of Minos and destroy the Palace, thus setting the dancers free.

Of course such actions have consequences. He looked to see if Amos still listened, then continued, With the stability of the Mediterranean compromised by the destruction of the Cydonians, pirates reclaimed their once profitable practice of raiding and looting at will. Justice had been served, but the world lost a protectorate.

Yes, said Amos trying to show his knowledge, the son of King Aigeus of Athens born out of wedlock and raised in Troizen by his grandfather and mother until he was old enough to reveal the gift Aigeus left for him.

He traveled to Athens, continued Joseph, to claim his heritage and was besotted by trials on the way. He finally came to Athens and fought for his rightful heritage.

Joseph examined the bracelet running his finger over the details as if to pull knowledge from it.

They sat for a long time. Joseph looked through the book he had referred to and sneezed from the dust. Oh these old books try my health sometimes. He looked up at Amos. You haven’t anything for the sneezes do you?

Well, I have an extract from my Butterbur plants. It seems to help. But you could ask Brother Shultz for something if he could spare it.

He hasn’t gotten any mail in months. I think his brother stopped sending him things after his last visit from Germany.

That must have been two years ago.

Yes. So what do you make of our visitor and his mysterious jewelry?

I’m afraid he is hiding something. I also found this, he said as he produced the key from the things on the desk. It looked familiar to him, old yet unrecognizable.

The prayer bell rang slowly, and solemnly.

It is time for prayer, said Joseph. We’ll talk later. He stood up and leaving the things on the desk, the two monks left for the evening meal.

As they left the library, a dark figure watched from the hallway, hidden in the shadows of the old stone Keep. His plans and hard work had come to fruition, but these two could spoil them. He entered the chamber where Joseph spent his life and laid out his next move. This could work, the dark figure thought. He smiled at the grim task ahead of him and hurried to join the others for the evening meal.

The monks stood waiting for the Abbott. They wouldn’t sit until he did. Five minutes went by and they whispered amongst themselves. Finally, he came rushing into the hall and sat down quietly and with no explanation. He kept his eyes on Amos and Joseph. He listened. He waited.

2.

Later that night in the deep silence that shrouds the old stone structure, Brother Joseph sat bent over his desk looking at the things Amos had brought to him that evening. Thirteen beeswax candles sat on the corner of his desk dripping tiny beads of melting wax onto a glass plate. He turned the key over in his hand and suddenly realized what it was. There were such keys in the basement. Keys used to lock the doors to the old caves there. Each the same yet each minutely different opening its own lock. No one had been there in years and he struggled to remember if there were any rooms yet explored. He had the maps of the entire monastery in his keeping, and hadn’t looked at them in twenty years since he joined the Abbey, when he first ventured down here to have a look at the ancient rooms.

He took the key, and a lamp with him, and walked to the basement to see what he could find. He wondered if Brother Amos would like to go with him, but he was sleeping. Anyways, it was probably nothing. The moonlight shone in the thin windows as he passed them down the long spiral stairwell at the back of the Abbey. The frigid air smelled old and musty because no one ever went into this part of the building. The air he breathed was hundreds of years old. He sneezed. His body feeling the difference immediately.

At the bottom, the heavy iron door opened more easily than he thought it should. After years of neglect the hinges should have been rusted, but he could see they weren’t. And the air was thick and cloudy. A draft perhaps had disturbed the dry dust and thrown it into the air. He sneezed again and blew his nose on his kerchief.

Every room had been opened before, he remembered the old Abbott saying, but one chamber had in it, amongst the bookshelves there, a box built into the natural stone hidden behind a tapestry. No one has seen it since Count Bruno, the original owner because he died with the secret, the Abbott had said to the young Joseph.

Now, Brother Joseph found the tapestry and pulled it aside and there he saw the iron door. The key fit and turned with some effort, and he pulled the door open and inside was a single book; a hand-written leather bound book. The language was strange to him but he seemed to be able to make out the name—Count Bruno, Knights Templar. He closed the safe and returned to his library with the book tucked under his cloak, his blood pumping with excitement at his discovery. He studied it long into the dark night.

Brother Joseph looked like a large black shadow to the man who silently entered his study. The man opened the door inch by inch and stepped inside. A bat flew in through the opened door and silently circled the ceiling several times before landing on a tiny gargoyle that decorated the fireplace that now burned with the embers of what had been a blazing inferno hours earlier.

He pushed the door open just enough to step inside. The only sound was Joseph scribbling onto a tablet with a self-made feather pen. The man walked unnoticed until he stood directly behind the dark giant. As he raised his hand, the cold steel of a surgical knife glistened in the candlelight. The monk looked over at the fireplace. The dull embers seemed to grow and feed off the emotion of the stranger behind him or perhaps to say; ‘You are not alone, look fool before it is too late.’ And as if taking the warning Joseph turned to look over his shoulder and he recognized the man holding the knife behind him and said; Brother Abbott. But before he could even raise an arm to defend himself, Brother Christian, the beloved Abbott of the peaceful Abbey pulled his head back and slid the surgical-blade across the monk’s throat.

Joseph’s body slumped onto the desk, his hand fell, dropping the pen to the floor. Death came quickly as the blood poured out of the gaping wound. Then with the precision of a surgeon, he slid the small steel knife into each of the sockets of his skull and removed the eyes completely, throwing them into the fireplace—deep in the burning embers. Moving quickly, the killer dropped the knife on the floor and took the book and the satchel with him pulling the door behind. The bat flew from its perch perhaps alarmed by the exsanguination of Joseph, or was it just looking for insects to eat and cared little for the blood?

Brother Amos volunteered to fetch Joseph for breakfast as he had missed dinner the night before. Amos had left the scribe in his library with the promise to decipher the items left in his care by morning. Excited, he hurried down the long hallways and up the dozen steps to the library through the open door and found his friend slumped over his desk.

Just like him to sleep where he works, the beloved man, he thought. He approached the silent figure and called his name. There was no response.

Bookworm wake up or you’ll miss every meal. He stood behind him and tugged at his shoulder but the large man did not move. He pulled back harder and the monk slid over to the side and fell to the floor. The chair flipped over beneath the body’s weight and slid towards the fireplace.

Blood covered the desk where his body had lain, and spilled down the front and onto the floor. Kneeling down next to him, he examined the body. Instinctively, he felt his wrist for a pulse. His eyes were missing, cut from their cavities with clean medical precision. He had seen worse, of course, during the Great War. Bodies mangled and torn to pieces by bombs and large caliber shells. He had seen the effects of mustard gas and cyanide and other terrible poisons used during that horrible engagement. He had seen what the long triangulated bayonet could do to the human body, but the thought of his own friend, a peaceful monk at that, murdered in his own house nauseated him.

He looked down at Joseph’s lifeless form, blessed his spirit to the hands of God and looked around the room as if perhaps to see the killer standing there still, knife in hand cowering in the corner of the library. Amos ran quickly down the hall to the service bell. He rang it ten times, a signal that something was wrong, a signal never meant for violence, but perhaps the peaceful passing of a monk in the night.

As he walked back to the room, he turned up the oil lamp in his hand and waited for the others. He searched the room for the eyes.

Who could do such a thing? They suspected Victor immediately, Of course, the stranger seemed terribly interested in the library when I showed it to him earlier. But why?

Then Amos noticed something missing, something he had forgotten about. He could not find the reference book Joseph had been using, and the key was missing and the bracelet too. He searched the desk, but the items were gone. He noticed that Joseph had scribbled onto the ink blotter that covered a small writing portion of the desk the word Hyperboreans. He tore that piece of paper off the blotter. He must have jotted this down while working last night. He’d have to do a little research himself later on.

Yes, it had to be Victor. Make sure, look all around, perhaps he had finished with it and put them away. He opened the drawers looked under the desk itself, nothing but the thick tacky blood that covered everything. The sweet sickly smell nauseated him. He ran out of the library to the nearest arrow slit and breathed deeply the cool air.

Brother Christian was there moments after the bell and he entered the library right behind Amos. I worried when you did not return with Joseph. What happened?

He saw the body, and gently walked to it and examined it. What in the name of our Creator. He said. Amos?

Yes Brother.

His eyes.

I know. They’ve been removed. Amos explained what he thought happened and Christian suggested he go to the infirmary and fetch the visitor. Tell no one of this yet. It is far too disturbing, please.

While Brother Christian examined the body, Amos hurried quickly to the hospital hoping to find Victor and confront him, but he was not there. Exactly, he said aloud and then he searched the hospital bed and the closet for anything Victor may have left behind. He found nothing, the visitor had disappeared. Amos began to suspect that Victor had done this to Joseph, and now had run away, but why. It made no sense. He found the Abbott and told him what he thought.

Keep this between us, Christian said, Tell no one else. Then he patted Amos on the shoulder and smiled. The Lord will provide the answers. No need to alarm the others. And they parted.

Evening came and a young monk named Peter ran quickly to his mentor’s room and knocked on Amos’ door with an urgent message. When no one answered he waited the respectable amount of time and knocked again and slowly opened the door and found Amos slumped back in his chair. An unfinished letter to his sister sat on the desk in front of him. Dried blood covered his open neck and his eyes were gone. Peter recoiled. Disgusted and frightened he nearly fainted as the blood rushed from his head. He turned and stumbled out of the room and ran down the hall to the patio below praying on his beads as he went.

The other monks stood by the stairs that lead down into the forest below, huddled together like frightened children, they watched the pale Peter hurry past them and down to meet the Abbott Christian who was standing by the body of Victor; his recent wounds they so meticulously cared for were reopened and bloodied by his fall. His skull crushed and his neck shattered. No one would ever know who the killer was. The Abbott would tell the others that Victor had killed the brothers and fell to his death trying to escape, but only he would know the truth.

3.

Spring 1979

The woman walked as quickly as she could through the international terminal of BWI Airport in Baltimore Maryland. Her instructions were specific; turn left from the off ramp and walk toward the double doors at the end of the walkway. Do not stop and do not talk to anyone. Above all, Do not lose the package. Be sure to stay left and follow the exit signs. These would take her to the waiting line of taxicabs where she was to look for the one numbered—61-84ADC, numbers not usually given to Taxi’s running in the DC area. It was actually one used specifically by the Secret Service. The cab would take her to a safe location. The driver would identify her by her purple knapsack.

Her name was Maria. They were always Maria. They liked the poor ones, the destitute and lost. Prostitutes worked best, they were always lowly, and listened well, eager to make a clean break. Maria was a marginal hooker, barely making enough to get by, barely enough to pay the rent on her room. Her mother had disappeared some time ago, and her father she never knew. The Sisters would have nothing to do with her because of the trouble she caused, and she fended for herself and got by well enough most of the time, but grew tired of trading herself for cash. She knew nothing of whom she was working for, only that it paid well.

She had never been to the United States before, had never seen the inside of a large airport, such a big place, now she felt overwhelmed and determined to stay focused and follow the instructions she had memorized.

The people moving about so close together reminded her of the festival time, the Dia de los Muertos. Don’t stop for anything, they told her before she boarded the plane in Lisbon, don’t talk to anyone and especially do not look at anyone. Never make eye contact, even with the man in the taxi. He is to ask only your name and your flight number. Do you understand? Sim, eu entendo completa-mente.

Now she was thirsty and wanted to get something, a coke. Do not stop, do not talk to anyone. When she came to a small stand selling papers and sundry items, she was alone. What harm could it do? She hadn’t eaten since two hours before the flight. Those instructions were specific, but now she was thirsty and had to have something. Who would see her, it was so crowded, assim, muitas pessoas. She approached the man behind the rack of magazines and asked for a Coke and handed him a five-dollar bill hoping it was enough. She took the soda and change.

She turned to leave afraid that someone had seen her stop. It seemed that no one was looking at her as she stood there, but she didn’t see the man across the crowded foyer who stood against the far wall next to a boarding area with a long coat and dark glasses, or the janitor down the hall with his vacuum cleaner not in use, or the tourist with a camera who kept moving closer. She felt at ease with herself.

Taking a sip from her bottle, she turned to leave when a man with a wool coat and faded corduroys bumped into her pushing her back a step. Without her knowing it or feeling anything, he had administered a lethal dose of toxin into her blood stream through a tiny needle that he stuck into her arm. She pushed onward and walked toward the exit certain she would succeed. She would be rich. She could finally get her family out of that stinking slum and perhaps here to America. To freedom.

She walked on looking for the taxi stand. Queer feelings came to her then quite suddenly. She felt sick to her stomach and sweat beaded on her forehead. She felt dizzy. When she turned her head, everything moved in slow motion and left trails behind them like a hand swiped through paint on a canvas. She felt as though she was in a tunnel, an empty tube and the voices and background noises around her seemed to echo. Then everything started spinning, and very quickly, she lost consciousness.

People rushed to her side and a worker came over and using his radio called for help. A little girl took a picture with a Kodak instamatic. Her mother grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

The man in the cab routinely called to confirm the arrival time of his next package. It would arrive 10 minutes late, and that would make it 11:25 After ten minutes, he got out of the car, smoked a cigarette and waited, looking for someone that fit the description of a young girl between the age of 16 to 20, long black hair, olive skin, plump and carrying a purple knapsack. He looked at his watch—11:30. He went inside. A crowd gathered around a girl. Medics placed her on a stretcher, there was a purple knapsack on her legs. He followed them down a service hallway to the waiting van, wrote the number down BLT1009 Dulles County Paramedics.

Three minutes had passed since he saw the girl on the gurney and he waited on the side of the road. The ambulance sped by and he pulled after it. As he drove, the traffic quickly thinned out and the darkness closed in around him. A set of headlights suddenly appeared behind him and drew near. The turning signals went on; they were passing. A large van pulled up next to him. The cabby glanced over and saw nothing but a dark cabin lit dimly by the soft blue glow of the dashboard. The van pulled alongside and did not pass, but moved with the cab. He accelerated and the van accelerated with him. Frustrated he kept the ambulance in view at all times—this joker couldn’t intimidate him, after all he had worked in this city all