CHAPTER THIRTY.

PRESENT DAY.

Peter Dennis, award winning journalist, freelance photographer, writer, author and top columnist in half a dozen magazines and periodicals, sat wearily at his desk. He had just got back from Malaga, Spain, where he had been interviewing an English businessman, an ex-pat, who was widely rumoured by newspapers and tabloids to also be a crime boss. Dennis had been at university with the man's son and had been granted a very rare interview.

He glanced at the clock on his desk. He had been up now for twenty two hours. The flight back from Spain had been delayed by five.

On his desk was the previous month's edition of *The Country' a magazine distributed in English in many countries for British people living overseas. It's biggest selling was in Spain and the Balearic islands.

On the cover of the magazine was a note from the editor congratulating Dennis for his two page article entitled *The Lion and the Wolf' which was about the whereabouts of the lost sarcophagus of Alexander the great. The note said simply *Well done Peter. Half a million copies sold. Our best month yet.'

Dennis knew it was because of his article that sales had almost doubled.

The story of Alexander the great. A subject he had known nothing about until five weeks ago. He had received an urgent call on that Thursday night. His grandfather who had been in and out of hospital for the last eighteen months had been receiving treatment for a week and had *taken a turn for the worse' as had been described over the phone by his uncle.

Peter Dennis had jumped into a taxi during rush hour and had gone to Salisbury hospital in Wiltshire and straight to his grandfather's bedside. Everyone had been there. The whole family. Relatives he hadn't seen in twenty years. He had been there for over half an hour, his grandfather had lain the whole time on his back, presumably sleeping. His pyjama jacket had come open and Dennis was staring at the age old scar on the old man's chest, a scar caused by a German sniper decades ago, when the old eyes suddenly flickered open. He turned his head and said in a weak voice.

"I would like to speak to my grandson alone."

Dennis waited patiently until everyone had left the room. The only sound to be heard was the clock ticking. Finally Dennis broke the silence.

"Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?"

"No thank you. I don't think anything will help."

Alfred Dennis closed his eyes again. A flicker of pain flashed across his face. Then he opened his eyes and said.

"I want to tell you something about the war."

Peter reached out and grabbed his grandfather's hand.

"Don't upset yourself about it nowa."

"No listen to mea."

Alfred began wheezing. He coughed a few times but the wheeze didn't clear.

"I want to tell you something now, something I've kept a secret for nearly seventy years. I've never spoken about this to anyone ever."

"Then why now? And why only me?"

"Because you're the only one who will understand the significance, to know what to do."

So in a small hospital room with the sky growing dark outside journalist Peter Dennis listened to the most incredible story he'd ever heard.

He'd booked into a hotel room that night and used his laptop to search the internet for Alexander the great until he'd fallen asleep. His phone ringing just after 3a.m woke him. His grandfather had passed away.

Peter had returned to London, gone back for the funeral and in that time despite other projects had begun compiling a file on Alexander. He had bought every book he could find on the subject and found the whole story fascinating.

"And to think you played a part in all this," he said to his grandfather's photograph on his desk. A photograph he was very fond of.

Dennis pushed a key on his computer and after a few seconds his desktop came up. He clicked on mail and saw that there were thirty seven new messages. He clicked on open, then as an afterthought decided he was too tired, closed down the page, got up and went for the coffee pot. The phone on his desk started ringing. He glanced at his watch.

"11.15p.m. Who the bloody hell will be trying to call me at this hour."

He poured himself some black coffee and in no hurry returned to his desk and picked up the phone.

"Dennis," he said.

The line was silent but he sensed someone was there.

"Peter Dennis," he said again. He removed the phone from his ear to see if the digital display was showing the caller's number. It wasn't. Dennis shrugged, was about to press the end call button when a voice said.

"Mr Dennis please don't hang up."

Dennis brought the phone back to his ear.

"Who is this? Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes I'm sorry to call so late. The time where you are will be about a quarter past eleven," the voice said in a heavy accent.

Dennis guessed it was German or Dutch.

"Yes it's late and I'm tired. Now perhaps you would like to tell me what you want. How did you get this number?"

"All in good timea."

"Time is something you don't have."

Dennis went to hang up when he heard the voice say.

"I read with interest your article in the country magazine."

"Oh good. Perhaps you'd like to leave a comment on our website."

"I am no messenger Mr Dennisa."

"That's great," Dennis said, cutting the voice off, "I appreciate your well wishes. Perhaps you would like to leave your name and details and your reason for calling with reception. I'm sure somebody will get back to you."

"Mr Dennis I am an archaeologist and collector of fine antiquities and I would like very much to recover the Alexander sarcophagus which you yourself wrote about so eloquently. I am prepared to pay whatever it costs."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then might I have your name."

"My name is irrelevant at this time. I will of coursea."

"Then in that case I'm not interested. Don't ring this number again!"

Dennis slammed the phone down.

The man on the other end smiled to himself when he heard the line go dead.

"My dear Mr Dennis I sincerely hope you don't live to regret that."

Dennis took a swig of his coffee. All tiredness gone now with agitation. He opened his e-mail page again and scanned his eyes down them. Then he saw fifth from the bottom an e-mail from jim@oai.org and he clicked on it.

"Hmm! I haven't heard from you guys in a while," he said reaching for his coffee.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE IONIAN SEA.

The diver lifted her left hand again to check the time on her watch. Five minutes left, five minutes before they'd need to surface.

Natalie Feltham, Marine Archaeologist of the Oceanic Archaeology Institute, glanced across at her two colleagues, George Roussos, a Greek, and Jack Dobson, a fellow Englishman. She got their attention and they both gave her the thumbs up.

They were diving off an ancient wreck near the Greek island of Zakynthos. The timbers of the ship had vanished over the two thousand years that it had lain in the sixty feet of water on the ocean floor. All that was left were Amphorae of various sizes, plates and cups. Nothing of value but exciting for the group of tourists they were accompanying. Each guest diver was now prepared by the three to begin the one minute ascent to the boat above. Once they were all in a ring Natalie led them slowly up. Her head broke the surface of the water and she lifted her facemask.

Alex Lafitte, the only Frenchman in the group was waiting on the diving platform for their return. He smiled down at Natalie as he extended his hand to her. She grabbed it and he lifted her from the water. She sat down to take off her equipment as Alex helped Jack next. Jack quickly removed his Scuba tanks, let them bump gently to the deck, and began helping the tourists out one by one.

Soon they were all seated and Natalie took the clipboard with the passenger list and did the head count. She recounted, then happy with the result she ticked the sheet and signed it. She replaced the clipboard and nodded to Tom White the third Englishman on board. He pushed a button on the control panel and the electronic anchor began winding in. Once it was secured Tom started the twin engines and pushed forward on the throttle and the fifty foot Endeavour III moved away from the buoy marking the wreck.

Natalie stood in front of the group.

"Did everyone have a good time today?" she asked, turning her head from side to side so that everyone could hear her clearly.

There was a chorus of yes's and general agreement.

"Did you all manage to take your photographs?"

Again the same response.

"Excellent. That's what we like to hear. On behalf of the crew I'd like to thank you all so much for coming with us today and thanks to our crew members, George, Jack, Alex and Tom," she said clapping, leading the applause.

"And let's hear it for our lovely group leader Natalie," George said.

"Thank you," she said smiling at George "Now as we make our way back to Zante we'll be doing the drinks bill so if you could all come up one at a time and pay me it would be appreciated. Once again thank you and it'll take us about forty minutes to get back to Zante town so it'll give you a last chance to enjoy the views, take some pictures or just do a little sun bathing."

The tourists applauded once more and Natalie took a towel from her bag and dried her long blonde hair with it. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, the first week of May and the wind was cooling. Natalie looked down at her skin as it goose pimpled. She rubbed her arms with the towel until hey disappeared. The first tourist came up to pay his bill wearing a bum bag. Most of the group were English, Americans, Germans, two Dutch Doctors, an Italian and a Spaniard. The Dutch Doctors were husband and wife.

"Did you enjoy yourselves today?" Natalie asked them as they came up to pay for two colas and two lemonades.

"Yes very much," the husband answered "We learned to Scuba dive last year on holiday in the Dominican Republic. They had a diving school in the hotel and we were bored one afternoon and they were offering a first lesson free and we thought 'Well why not'."

Natalie nodded and smiled as she took their fifty Euro note and fished through her bum bag for change.

"Have you ever dived in the Caribbean?" Inga, the wife asked.

"Sure to have," her husband, Ruud added.

"Yes of course many times," Natalie answered "I've dived all over the world."

"Oh you're so lucky," from Inga "To have a job like this. Taking tourists out to wrecks. Do you do those shark dives also?"

"Sometimes. Not often and only for the more experienced students. I'm actually a marine Archaeologist."

"Really? Now that is interesting," from Ruud.

"It's quite boring actually. Spending all day at the bottom of the sea, sometimes finding nothing for hours. It's like a needle in a haystack out there unless the wrecks appear on charts."

"It must be exciting when you make a discovery though."

"Yes of course. Archaeology is my field. I used to work in Egypt for the institute and then a vacancy came up for the Marine field and like you I thought well why not."

Inga was smiling at the glamorous woman before her, listening to her, wishing she could be just like her. Inga looked at her long, blonde hair.

"You have such beautiful hair. How do you keep it so nice with all this sea water?"

"Conditioner. Lots and lots of conditioner," Natalie replied making her guests laugh.

"So why are you out here taking tourists to wrecks and not excavating?"

"Money," came the answer "The institute has very limited income, very little funding. We rely very much on private sponsors. Doing these trips or tours if you like bring in quite a bit of income for the institute."

Inga gave a small yawn.

"There I'm boring you with my work," Natalie said smiling past them at the next customer waiting to pay. The husband and wife politely moved out of the way. The next customer was English and when Natalie turned her back for a minute to get change he was looking her up and down and making suggestive faces to his friends who were laughing. Inga watched the man with distaste, wishing she could push him over the side. Inga and Ruud went back to their seats.

"Attractive woman," he said carefully.

"Yes she's absolutely stunning isn't she. Did you see the way they were looking at her?"

"She's probably used to it."

"No woman likes to be leered at no matter how beautiful she is."