By A. J. Hartley
An vague museum's lifeless owner lies in a mystery room surrounded by means of one of many world's such a lot miraculous collections of Greek antiquities. just a worthwhile Mycenaean dying masks has been taken, in addition to the bones of a mythical hero inspiration to exist merely in historic fantasy. Looted via the Nazis, the treasures are nonetheless being sought through these whose desires of glory stay undefeated. The masks is an exceptional discovery that would be a strength for devastating retribution within the flawed arms. yet by the point museum curator Deborah Miller learns the reality, it can be too overdue not just to save lots of herself--but to bare to the area the notable mystery she's exposed.
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Nevertheless, it was obvious that whoever he was, whatever he wanted, he was somehow tied to Richard Dixon’s death. She had said as much to the emergency operator, a claim which had worked like adrenaline on a conversation which had, to that point, been sluggish, even dubious. Was she sure the man was dead? “He has multiple knife wounds to the chest and abdomen,” she said. “His . . body was in a kind of secret room. He had made a note about Atreus, and it made me think about Troy, so I tried a copy of The Iliad, and the bookcase opened—” “Slow down, honey,” said the operator.
The piece of pottery,” he replied. ” “A fragment of a vase or pot,” she said, turning away from Keene. “It looks old, but it could be fake. Maybe Greek. ” said Cerniga. He sounded . . what? Impressed? Intrigued? Something. ” said Keene. “Over there. ” She pointed into the corner of the room where the other fragments lay scattered. ” said Cerniga. “Depends whether it’s real,” Deborah answered. “Old, I mean. If it’s fake, it’s worthless. If it’s real . . ” said Cerniga. “Everything this old has to be stuck back together.
She touched her fingers to it, and they came away tacky. She knew before she had smelled it that it was blood. CHAPTER 5 Her heart suddenly racing, Deborah got down even lower so that her cheek was against the floor inches from the crimson smear, and she could see that the carpet was flattened into a narrow track as if something had trodden upon it. No, not trodden: rolled. Something heavy had rolled over it, and though the drop of blood was not smeared, she thought there was a thin track of something else in the flattened fibers, something brownish and viscous: oil.