The Atlantis Stone Read online

Benjamin removed the wood and then re-chucked it in the lathe so that it spun off center in a noisy, blurring whirr. Archie stepped back in alarm.

  “Don’t worry, it’s safe. I want to carve a pattern into the top of the spinning wood. If you look over my shoulder, you’ll see the shape begin to appear.”

  Archie stepped closer and watched as Benjamin began to carve. “Impressive,” he said, nodding.

  “Spinning the wood off center lets you carve all sorts of interesting shapes.”

  A bell tinkled behind them as the workshop door opened. Benjamin had bought the spring-mounted bell from a second-hand shop that morning and installed it first thing after they had arrived. He turned around with the chisel in his hand. He saw, with relief, that his visitor was an elderly woman—quite harmless. She was wearing a navy twin set, blouse and skirt. A brooch was pinned in front of the frilly mandarin collar of her white blouse. She looked neat and totally out of place in his workshop.

  Benjamin punched the ‘off’ switch on the lathe and turned back to face the woman. “Can I help you?”

  The woman’s eyes danced over the workshop, then looked Benjamin up and down. “I hope so. I bought this from the craft shop in town. They told me you made it. Is that true?”

  Benjamin saw that she was holding a wooden candlestick. He recognized it immediately. He had made it from blackheart sassafras—a good wood to work with, full of dark streaks and character. “Yes.”

  “Can you make me a pair of these but much larger, perhaps about half a meter long, for a dinner table?”

  “Oh…umm, I think so. Let me check if I’ve got the wood.”

  Benjamin rummaged around his wood rack as the woman walked across to the lathe and inspected the half-finished bud vase. She nodded to Archie, “Hello.”

  “G’day, ma’am.” Archie nodded toward the lathe. “I’m being given a wood-turning lesson.”

  “How intriguing. I would like to have watched.”

  Benjamin joined them. “I’ve got the wood, so, yes, I can make your candlesticks.” He guided her to a stool by the workbench. “I can show you some options for shapes…even find you a cup of tea, if you like.”

  Bright eyes fixed themselves on him from under her bob of gray hair. “Thank you. I would appreciate that. Black, no sugar.”

  Archie volunteered, “I’ll get it for you. Then you two can talk.”

  Benjamin nodded his thanks and pointed to the kettle. He sat his visitor on a stool, slid into the other, and pulled out a piece of paper.

  “How do you begin to design a piece of work like this?” the woman asked.

  Benjamin furrowed his brow. He was unused to explaining things that had become instinct for him over the years. “Oh…ahh…it’s got to feel balanced. There are, um…only about six basic shapes, and you mix and match.”

  “How do you know what works?”

  “Gut feeling, really. The shapes need to be ordered so that each sits on the next in a balanced way. Each shape should introduce the next.” Benjamin picked up a pencil. “The classical shapes that have stood the test of time work well…or you can do the sweeping, long curves of modernism. Both can be beautiful. Which do you want?”

  “Classical please.”

  “Okay.” Benjamin began to sketch. “Good classical carving has long quiet shapes that lead into busy sections. The proportions have to be right. It’s all about dignity.”

  She looked at his drawing. “That’s good. I like it.” She smiled, and then surprised him by asking, “What is it, do you think, that makes beauty?”

  Benjamin shrugged. “One person’s beauty is another person’s disdain.”

  “And yet there is some sort of consensus…as the existence of art galleries attests.”

  Benjamin screwed his face up. “Some of their art is brutal, ugly, shocking.”

  “That art celebrates brokenness. It is making a statement rather than trying to be beautiful.”

  “Some see it as beautiful.”

  “Then they’re broken.”

  “Isn’t that…” Benjamin wanted to say “arrogant,” but he didn’t have the courage. He glanced at the visitor, noting the high carriage of her chin—the determined self-control—and said nothing.

  She sniffed. “I think, Benjamin, that there is truth in beauty. We have an indication this truth exists because we have a general consensus about what beauty is, even in our brokenness.” She caught his eyes. “I dare suggest that this points to a fundamental rightness. Exploring the origin of that rightness is a worthy life quest.”

  Ideas began tumbling around in Benjamin’s heart until his head cried, “Enough!” And that delicate new thing—the brilliant, incandescent beginnings of things profound and important in his life—died. He picked up his pencil and continued to draw.

  Something, however, piqued his curiosity. “How did you know my name?”

  “The craft shop.”

  “Ahh.” Benjamin tapped his pencil on the bench. “And may I ask your name?”

  “My name is Marjorie; Marjorie Eddington.”

  Chapter 4

  The kettle was whistling as the bell above the workshop door tinkled again. Benjamin looked around, both puzzled and surprised. He hadn’t had any visitors to his workshop in eight months. Now he was having two in the same day…and some glaziers were coming later in the afternoon.

  Benjamin recognized Felicity immediately. Her petite frame and feminine curves were squeezed into jeans, a white tee-shirt and a short black jacket. He had been wondering what her hair would look like when it wasn’t wet. It now tumbled down her shoulders in luxurious waves almost to her waist. He had a mental image of a waterfall, photographed with long exposure…soft and blurred.

  Felicity began diffidently. “Er…the sign on the door said you were open.”

  Benjamin nodded. “How’s the arm?”

  “Sore.”

  Silence.

  “Why do you dive alone? It’s dangerous.”

  “I don’t usually.”

  “But you did.”

  “I wanted to test out a hunch without people knowing.”

  “The um…” What delicate, beautiful eyes.

  “The Atlantis stone, I think you called it.” Felicity smiled. “It’s soaking in a cleaning solution at the moment. I’ll start work on it tonight.”

  A polite cough reminded Benjamin that Marjorie Eddington was behind him. He turned as she stepped down from the stool. The elderly lady smiled at him. “I think it’s time I left,” she said. “When should I come back?”

  “Can you give me five days?”

  She nodded and looked up at him. “Beauty is found in all sorts of surprising places, isn’t it?”

  Archie walked over, holding a tin mug of black tea. He had taken off his camouflage jacket and was in his shirt sleeves. It hadn’t diminished his bulk very much. “No tea, then?” he inquired.

  Marjorie smiled at him. “I think you’ll find a good use for it.”

  Archie turned to Felicity. “How do you have your tea?”

  Felicity’s somewhat bewildered expression broke into a smile. “Milk, no sugar.”

  Benjamin consigned the information to memory. Milk, no sugar. “Archie, you’ll find milk in the bar fridge beside the timber rack.”

  Archie nodded.

  Benjamin escorted Marjorie to the door and opened it for her. She held out a delicate hand. He took hold of her fingertips in what passed for a handshake.

  “I’m glad to have found you, Benjamin,” she said, and made her way down the steps.

  Benjamin closed the door with a puzzled frown. He had an odd sensation that he’d missed something. Turning around, he discovered Felicity watching him from across the workshop. She was holding one hand over her heart…and the other was holding a familiar object.

  “You forgot your dive knife,” she said.

  Benjamin walked over, took the sheathed knife from Felicity, and placed it on the bench. He was unsure why he’d left it with her—but he kn
ew it wasn’t forgetfulness.

  “Thanks.”

  Silence.

  She drew a breath and said, “When you said you were a woodworker, I thought you were a builder, not a…a craftsman, an artist.”

  “I do lots of things. Why do you ask?”

  “I wanted to ask if I could employ you to help finish my house.” Felicity avoided his eyes and looked away. “I need a couple of builders for a few months to clad the outside and put a bull-nosed veranda up along the front.”

  “When would you want to start?”

  “As soon as possible.” She lowered her eyes. “Well, as soon as I’ve sold my car, actually.”

  Benjamin nodded. “You’re selling your car so that you can pay for your house to be finished?”

  Felicity avoided his eyes. “It’s important that the outside of it gets finished.”

  Archie placed the mug of tea in front of Felicity.

  “Thanks Archie,” said Benjamin. “Can you grab that thin board over there and cut Felicity a drink coaster—eleven centimeters by eleven? You’ll find a handsaw on the rack.”

  Archie nodded and turned away.

  Benjamin watched Archie covertly as he set to work but reserved most of his attention for Felicity. “What does the doctor say about your arm?”

  “The doctor—my brother, actually—tells me that the mouth of a moray eel can house all sorts of interesting bacteria.” She shrugged. “He’s filled me with antibiotics. I’ll be fine.”

  “Money’s tight?”

  “Divorce. Didn’t come out of it very well.” Benjamin allowed his silence to invite Felicity to say more. She cleared her throat and continued. “I trained as an historian and worked for the Melbourne museum in Carlton Gardens for two years.” She gave a shy smile. “Now trying my hand at being a writer. Disastrous financially.”

  Benjamin didn’t know what to say. His feelings were in some turmoil…but he trusted his instincts to give him counsel. He waited. They were silent…and then there was the stirring of something.

  “Where are you?” asked Felicity with a frown.

  “Oh…” Benjamin nearly caught himself saying “at home,” but he knew she wouldn’t understand. He smiled. “Sorry, just thinking.”

  Felicity put her hand out, reaching for his. She steered it away at the last moment and took hold of the edge of the bench. “Thank you for saving my life, by the way.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Archie walked over to join them. “Here you are, mate.” He held out the drink coaster that he had made.

  Benjamin inspected his handiwork, noting the accuracy of the cut, the symmetry, and the care taken with sanding the edges. “Archie, would you be interested in helping me with a building job for a couple of months?”

  Archie frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “How do you see that working?”

  “You could sleep where you like, out the back…or in here. Certainly, you could eat in here with me.”

  Archie regarded Benjamin with his pale blue eyes. “Mate, I wouldn’t want to cramp your style. I’d better tell you that I’m on the road because I choose to be. I’m not broke. An investment banker is renting my flat in Hawthorn East, and I draw a government pension. I eat pretty well at cafés.”

  “Then only eat with me when you want.”

  “How about I buy the groceries, you teach me a bit of woodwork—and we both do the building job?”

  “Sounds good.” Benjamin turned to Felicity. “When do you want us to begin?”

  Felicity dropped her head. “As soon as I sell the car. I’ve advertised it, but I don’t know how long it will take to sell.”

  Benjamin watched Felicity closely. She was wringing her hands together in her lap. Her face was lowered, hidden by a mass of tumbling hair. He asked her at length, “What’s the matter, Felicity?”

  Felicity sniffed and tossed her head back. “Oh, nothing.” She tried a smile, but it didn’t work very well.

  “Felicity?” Benjamin insisted.

  “Oh, just stupid divorce things.”

  He waited for more.

  She sighed. “It’s just horribly ironic. My ex bought a car the day before I closed our shared bank account. It was an either-to-sign account.”

  “And…”

  “He bought a luxury sports car, a Corvette Chevrolet. Now he’s selling it…and will take the proceeds. He…he’s a lawyer. He knows how to…”

  “That’s unjust. Did you confront him?”

  Felicity’s eyes began to well with tears. She looked away and bit at her knuckles.

  “Felicity.”

  There was no response.

  “Felicity,” Benjamin said again.

  “He hit me,” she cried. “There…are you satisfied? He hit me.” She hid her face in her hands.

  “He hit you?”

  Silence…then she nodded.

  “Didn’t you report it?”

  “What was the point?” she said with exasperation. “I didn’t need to take out a restraining order against him because I was never going to see him again.”

  Archie took out a box of matches, selected one, and put it in his mouth. He chewed on the end of it for a moment before saying, “So this geezer nicks half the cost of a Corvette from you…and you’ve got to sell your car?”

  Felicity dropped her head.

  Benjamin was conscious of something dangerous coming to life inside him. It was something he knew had always been there, something he’d always been a little bit afraid of; something he wasn’t sure he could control. It was anger. It was bitterness at having to stand by helplessly while his sister was defiled and destroyed. It was a hatred of all things evil. Bloody, bloody, bloody evil. It was…he ran out of words.

  Benjamin pushed his hands into the pockets of his canvas fisherman’s smock. Inside his head, a mocking voice jeered at him. Who do you to think you are, Throwback? You can’t do anything about it. It’s what happens…and it doesn’t concern you.

  No! he screamed back. Listening to you killed my sister.

  You’re nothing, Throwback!

  Benjamin glanced at Felicity’s bowed head. She held one hand to her chest and was sobbing.

  I am…he paused. What was the truth that he could throw at his tormentor? I am…angry…and I choose to ignore you.

  He eased himself upright…and discovered Archie watching him. Archie’s face was implacable. He simply chewed on his matchstick.

  “Has your ex sold the car, yet?” asked Benjamin.

  “No,” she whispered. “He’s advertised it again in The Age. He’s asking a lot of money for it.”

  Archie moved the matchstick to the corner of his mouth. “So we’ve got a job, then.”

  He was reputed to be the best forger of antiquities in the world…and he was Swiss. Doran Khayef approved. The Swiss were careful. They’d also had a lot of experience in handling and dating antiquities. The strongrooms and deposit boxes in their banks were filled with items of historical importance that had no right to be there. This particular man was also one of the best in the world at radio carbon dating antiques.

  Khayef glanced at him. The forger didn’t look the best in the world at anything. He was stick-thin, stooped and balding. The crisp white lab-coat could not hide his physical shortcomings or the unhealthy blue-gray pallor of his face. He was slumped forward at the stainless steel bench rubbing his eyes.

  But the job was done.

  Khayef looked around at the man’s laboratory. It had cost him a lot of money to hire the antiquarian and his lab. The Swiss man had insisted on using his own laboratory. It contained an accelerator mass spectrometry unit, a micro laser cutter, humidifier, and various microscopes.

  Khayef had been equally insistent that the antiquarian work alone.

  The antiquarian had, non-stop, for the last forty hours.

  Khayef’s assistant, Eddie, stood behind his right elbow, ready to hear any instructions. He looked uncomfortable in his disposable coveralls and blue shoe
coverings. They’d both had to wear them. Eddie would not enjoy being unable to get his hand inside his jacket—where the particular tools of his trade were kept. His swarthy face and fashionable three-day stubble seemed at odds with the sterile white room around him.

  Khayef caught sight of his reflection off the glass of a laminar flow unit. He was shorter than he wanted to be and slightly more ‘full-fleshed’ than his doctor was happy with. But his hair still looked good. It was slightly blacker than nature had intended, and it swept back over his head in a slick wave. That, and his gold-rimmed spectacles, made him present well…plus the fact that his annual income was measured in the tens of millions.

  He glanced down at the piece of vellum that was sandwiched between two pieces of glass. It looked very old. One corner had been cut off so that the various carbon isotopes it contained could be measured. The test would destroy the tiny piece that had been removed, but that didn’t trouble Khayef. The only thing he wanted to know was whether the vellum—the ancient calf-skin with the treaty written on it—was what it purported to be.

  “It is real?” he asked the antiquarian.

  The Swiss man lifted his head from his hands. “Yes. No one can doubt it. The carbon dating is accurate to within thirty to fifty years.” He pointed to a box file on his desk. “All the evidence any jury will need to be convinced of is in there. The information is also backed up on three memory sticks. They are inside the box as well.”

  “There are no more copies?”

  “No.”

  Khayef turned his head to Eddie and pointed to the box file. “Get it.”

  Eddie nodded. As he stepped forward, he pointed to the Swiss man and raised an eyebrow.

  “Kill him.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Archie.”

  Archie sat back and regarded Benjamin without comment.

  “You shouldn’t. I’m not even sure how to pull it off…or if I’m breaking the law…or whether I can do it.”

  “I reckon that’s a pretty good list of reasons for why I should get involved, then.” He grinned. “This is the sort of thing I do.”

  “It might get difficult—maybe even physical.”