Nicholas Sharpe and the Mystery of Atlantis
Part 1:
The Thief and the Goddess
Hırsızlar Liman was located in a small island port in the Eastern Mediterranean; it had sprung up around an old Turkish fort that dated back to the time of the Crusades, according to local history records. Buildings of various shapes and sizes surrounded the area, carrying the designs of the cultures from all over the region along with the peoples from those walks of life. But no one claimed ownership of the tiny spec of land, due largely to the fact that the mishmash of peoples gathered there where men of ill repute.
Even though he had arrived on the island by way of a smuggling ship out of Cairo and carried a Cooper Repeating Revolver openly in a shoulder holster, Nicholas Sharpe hardly considered himself the same as the usual brigands and cut-throats that, even at one in the afternoon, stumbled drunkenly between bars, using the tarts they where paying for company of as support.
Nick moved swiftly down the street, a man on a mission as it were, here for a specific purpose, to locate a specific person and had not real time to stop and indulge himself in the pleasures the city had to offer. One hand clung tight to the strap of the rough canvas bag that hung from his shoulder, guarding it against the legion of pick pockets that he knew from experience roamed the city streets.
The doors of a bar further up the street where thrown open and a gaggle of large, inebriated men collapsed into the street, punching, kicking and cursing at each other. Drunken street brawls where a common sight in Hirsizlar Liman and were always dangerous for anyone who happened to get in the middle of it - whether they were involved or not, forcing Nick to hang a left and detour through a narrow alleyway to the next street over. Pretty, tired eyed whores clad in far less clothing then society would usually allow threw inviting smiles his way as he hurried past, shooting them a polite, lopsided grin back.
The Cracked Tankard sat the end of the street, just another bar severing watered down booze while an aging phonograph in the corner squawked out music. It was far from the biggest place on the island, a dozen tables, most of which had dirty, bleary-eyed men huddled around them playing cards. A hazy cloud of stale cigarette smoke hung above the place along with the smell to go with it. The aging batwing doors let out a squeal of protest as Nick shoved them open, his eyes taking several moments to adjust. Amid the dangerous and filthy looking hordes of men he picked out the lone woman in the place, sitting at the far end of the bar.
As he approached, a man flushed red with drink sauntered up to her, leaning in close he whispered something to her… only to have a glass shattered in his face and the barrel of a gun shoved into his mouth. Eyes wide with fear, the man slunk away to lick the bloodied wounds left by the broken glass.
Obviously, Freia was happy to embody the nature of the Norse goddess for which she was named. She stood just short of Nick’s own six foot frame with a figure full of inviting curves and full, round breasts that where well framed by the snug fitting linen shirt she wore. Her blonde hair hung to her shoulders, tied back loosely to keep it from getting in the way.
When the ship he had arrived on had been pulling into port Nick had gotten sight the mid-sized airship she captained, easily identified by the two great cats painted on the engine housings, and knew where he could find her once he touched down. And for what he had planned, her ferocity as a smuggler was just what he needed. He helped himself to the empty stool next to her, eyeing the ivory gripped pistol hanging from her hip with caution. Seconds ticked past and she said nothing, and he decided to break the ice himself, “If I offer to buy you a drink, Freia, is it going to lead to my jaw being broken?”
Her pale blue eyes shifted from the back wall she had been watching so intently to him, a sigh of annoyance escaping her full lips, “I might just break your jaw for fun.”
Nick threw his hands up in a defensive gesture, “Come-on now, what’s with the hostility?”
Freia’s hand tightened around the fresh drink that had placed in front of her and he braced himself against the potential drink to the face, glass and all, which may very well have been coming his way.
“Last time I saw you, Nick, I narrowly avoided getting arrested.”
Over a year beforehand, the two had been working a job in Panama, moving select pieces out of a private collection when the third member of their team, a man named Harry Cutter, took the loot and turned tail, leaving Nick and Freia to the authorities. She had managed to slip through but he hadn't gotten so lucky.
“At least you avoided it,” he shot back, “I spent three months in a Panamanian jail pissing in a bucket and worrying about whether my cellmate was going to feel lonely in the middle of the night.”
His outburst made her smile. He felt his knee joints buckle weakly.
“You still haven’t told me what you want, Nick.”
He shrugged, “I saw your ship in the port when I landed, thought I would swing by your favorite watering hole and say hello.”
“You never stop by just for pleasantries.”
“I’m a kind fellow, I stop in for hello and a chat with people sometimes.”
One thin eyebrow perked at his response, “Name me the last time you just came to see me to chat.”
Nick sat there wracking his brain for the answer to her question and only remembering one time he had bumped into her in New Orleans a few months before the disaster in Panama and had resulted in an evening of heavy drink. He had awoken the next morning in a drainage ditch several miles outside the city, wearing a floral print day dress, and no recollection of how he’d gotten there.
“…you win. I've got a lead on something big, something that could be worth several fortunes, but I need a trustworthy ship.”
Her brows perked. The mention of money was always a quick way to get Freia’s attention.
“And what is this big find?”
He grinned, “I have a lead on the location of Atlantis.”
Friea was red in the face and had tears in her eyes by the time she finished laughing, choking out a request for proof, and the insistence that they carry on conversation at her ship, as anyone overhearing what was bound to come next would think Nick was insane.
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Freia’s ship was a small twin engine craft designed for a crew of no more then six, but normally crewed by just one. The living quarters where located right behind the flight deck and where fairly cramped, a small kitchen crammed towards the back of the round room and a series of cots bolted to the wall, only one of which showed signs of use.
She sat with her boots propped up on the edge of the table, staring carefully across the table at Nick, arms crossed over her chest, “So where is this proof you were talking about?”
He dug into his shoulder bag, pulling out a dozen wooden frames and laid them out on the table between them. Each frame continued a page, covered in varied forms of archaic writing and several containing rough sketches of machines and what resembled a free-handed map, “These are pages from the journal of a ship’s captain sent by Alexander the Great from Alexandria in 331 shortly before his departure for Mesopotamia in search of what the log calls ‘The Lost Kingdom.’ According to these pages, whatever they found out there scared, pardon me, absolutely out of their shit, and they refused to return to Alexandria after their voyage.”
Her eyes were not longer on him and instead now eyed the pages spread out on the table, “Where did you get those?”
“Cairo, but you’re missing the point here. What’s descried in these pages is a city that exists under water and machines that sound like they’re far beyond anything we have today. The right people would pay out the nose for this information!”
“So why aren’t you just selling the directions?”
“And pass up the chance to be the first one there myself? Freia, do you have no sense of adventure?”
She sighed and swung her feet down from the table, leaning forward till her face hovered inches from his, intensely staring into his eyes, “You actually believe you’ve found Atlantis.”
A childish, excitable nod came in response.
“You’re certain this isn’t going to be some wild goose chase.”
Another nod.
“Listen very carefully to me: If this ends up being a bust, you are PERSONALLY going to be paying me back the costs of any supplies this is going to use up, PLUS any work I could have picked up instead of ferrying your crazy arse off on a treasure hunt. Am I clear?”
“That is not at all unfair.”
She reached out and patted him on the head like a dog, “Good boy. I still have some cargo awaiting pickup, shouldn’t be more then a day or two before all of that is cleared up, in the mean time, be a good boy and stay out of trouble.”
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Hırsızlar Liman’s market place was the only place on the island that could be considered honest, but only in that merchants couldn't afford competing amongst themselves with outrageous prices for their goods, most of which were stolen, or, in the case of the Aztec statue Nick had been eyeing for the last ten minutes, a forgery, and a badly labeled forgery at that because it was clearly Mayan. He set the thing back down on table it had come from amid the plethora of other falsified goods, noticing a hallow thud from the figure further confirming his suspicions of its authenticity.
Earlier that morning, Freia had received word from a prior client that he was ready to collect the cargo that had been sitting in her hold and she had taken off to meet with him, leaving Nick to his own devices after their chat in her airship. He had made his way through the marketplace, moving erratically between the stalls, picking up a few books from one that where shoved into his shoulder bag before moving over to a stall with racks of guns from just about every major manufacturer in the world. Before the had a chance to browse the wide selection of implements of destruction that had been so neatly arranged cold steel pressed against the bottom of his spine and an Irish accented voice growled at him,
“Would greatly appreciate, if you behave yourself and just come along quietly.”
The voice was familiar and Nick let out a sigh of irritation, “Haven’t seen you since Panama, Cutter.”
The gun barrel was pressed harder into his back, “Nothing personal, just business.”
A hand grabbed at his shoulder bag, slipping it away from him, “Lord Philmore wants what he paid for. Long as you don’t try fighting back, I won’t have to kill you.”
Nick followed instructions, cursing his own stupidity for carrying the pages around with him in public. He should have just left the damn things on the ship where no one could just put a gun to his back and make off with them, then cursed himself even more for leaving his note book in the bag with the pages. Cutter was about to make off with everything he had on Atlantis and it was all his own damned fault.
To Be Continued in
Nicholas Sharpe and the Mystery of Atlantis
Part 2: Crimson Skies
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