The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,100
means ‘the Gray People.’ Some scholars think this referred to a dark-skinned tribe.”
“As in Africans,” Mac said.
“And then there’s this,” Gray said.
He set down his tablet and picked up the golden piece of the map. It depicted the chunk of Africa south of the Strait of Gibraltar. He held it up and tilted it to better highlight the three-dimensional topography sculpted into its golden surface. He ran a finger along a row of ridges that cut across Morocco, a near mirror to what was shown on the topo map on his screen.
“These represent the Atlas Mountains,” he said. “Created by the African plate diving down and pushing up the edge of the Eurasian plate. The centermost gold ridge, closest to this subduction boundary, is the High Atlas Mountains, below it the Anti-Atlas Mountains. Between them lies a deep valley. If you look closely, you can see a river draining out of those highlands and emptying into the sea. That’s the Sous River basin.”
He passed the section of the gold map around so the others could get a better look.
When Bailey got his turn, Gray asked, “What do you see upriver, buried among the High Atlas Mountains near the coast?”
Bailey pushed his nose closer. “I see a little ruby. Is that what you mean?”
“On the map, what do rubies represent?” Gray asked.
Kowalski answered, “Volcanos.”
Gray straightened. “I looked it up. There are no volcanos in the mountains where that ruby is sitting.”
Maria clutched Kowalski’s arm.
“Hunayn marked that spot for a reason,” Gray said. “While it might not be a volcano, if you wanted to represent the fiery underworld, a ruby would serve nicely for that, too.”
Bailey pursed his lips, clearly bothered by something, which he finally voiced aloud. “But I thought the Phaeacians lived on an island.”
“No, that’s a common misconception,” Gray explained. “Nowhere in the Odyssey does Homer say they live on an island, only that they live close to the sea.”
“Which would fit a city situated near the coast,” Maria said.
Voices and footsteps drew their attention out of the galley. Commander Pullman approached with the plane’s tactical coordinator. Pullman eyed their group with a deep frown. Clearly he did not like being in the dark and wanted answers, too.
“We’re about to pass over the Strait of Gibraltar,” the commander said. “I need to know where we’re going next.”
Gray had already picked a spot, a town near the mouth of the Sous River, the gateway into the maze of mountain waterways.
“Agadir,” Gray said. “It’s a seaside resort three hundred miles south of Casablanca on the Moroccan coast. We need you to drop us off there. Then stick close by.”
Pullman looked like he wanted to ask why, but Gray silenced him with a hard stare. The commander huffed, turned on a heel, and headed off with his tactical coordinator. Pullman groused to his second-in-command. “Feels like we’re being hijacked.”
Gray turned away. He knew it was risky using this large plane as a transport vehicle versus some private jet, but the Poseidon was equipped with the latest sonar, radar, and tracking equipment. Gray wanted those sophisticated eyes in the air, looking down from above, helping his team below hunt for the lost underground city, for the mythic Tartarus.
“So, we’re heading somewhere south of Casablanca,” Maria said.
Kowalski grinned. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns—” Then he stopped and turned to Maria with a serious frown. “Wait. This Agadir place has gin joints, too, right?”
29
June 26, 10:22 A.M. WEST
Agadir, Morocco
Yes, Agadir had gin joints.
As the rental SUV bumped over a pothole, Maria shaded her eyes against the glare of the midmorning sun. She was still nursing a slight hangover. Her head pounded; her stomach lurched with every sway. Slouched in the front seat, she clutched a thermos of coffee. She suspected a fair amount of her fuzziness was less from the combination of gin cocktails than from the lack of sleep.
By the time the jet had reached Agadir, the plane had to circle as Gray coordinated with Painter in the States to get permission to land at a royal Moroccan air base outside the city. They had finally touched down on a remote strip at midnight. The area had been cordoned off. The story: just an American jet refueling on a base friendly to U.S. interests. Any other information about the new arrivals was kept on a need-to-know basis.
Still, Gray had shuttled their group quickly off the base and over to a nondescript hotel near the ocean. Unfortunately, there had been a