The Volcano That Changed The World (6 page)

“The Geology Department
office admin can provide you with that.”

“
Can you think of anyone else who might want to harm you?” Carter persisted.

             
After a moment, Mark replied, “No, I can’t think of anyone.” Yet the image of Sara Jo drifted through his mind just as he said it. She also might know the code from her father, but…

             
Carter changed tack. “Who knew you were working late last night?”

             
“No one in particular. But it’s common knowledge that I work late hours, especially when I’m on a roll with my research.”

             
Detective Carter closed his notepad. “Dr. Malloy, thank you for your time. I will keep you posted on the progress of my investigation. In the meantime, if you think of anything else that may be helpful, please contact me.” He handed Mark his business card.

             
As he walked toward the door, he turned back, saying, “Dr. Malloy, I’d be careful if I were you. This was not a random act. This person or persons observed you and knew you were in the lab last night. It looks as though someone really wants you dead.”

He turned and left
, leaving Mark with a confusion of emotions. His body hadn’t fully recovered yet and his mind was reeling.

              A doctor entered his room and asked, “How are you doing?”

M
ark was still thinking about what the detective told him. He felt like saying that he just learned that someone had tried to kill him, so he didn’t feel so great. Although the news was terrifying, oddly, he felt embarrassed by the revelation that someone hated him enough to want him dead.

He said instead,
“I guess I’m warming from the inside out. How much longer do I need the IV?”

“Not long.”
The doctor went on to say, “But we want to keep you here overnight for observation. Your body seems to be recovering well, but sometimes the brain takes longer to return to normal. If there are any brain function problems, they should be revealed by morning.”

             
With that news, the doctor left. Temporarily distracted from the fact that someone had tried to kill him, Mark now wondered what other parts of his body might not work if his brain was still not certain to be one hundred percent.

Immediately, h
e reached down between his legs, and was surprised to feel a catheter attached. At least there was something to which the catheter could attach. Relieved, he thought, well, that makes sense, one tube feeding in liquids and another tube taking fluids away.

             
Mark lay in his bed watching the IV slowly drip. Had someone really tried to kill him? It seemed surreal, but if it were true, who could it be? And if so, why?

Then his mind jump
ed to the logical next question: Would they try again? He now had another reason to look forward to his trip to Santorini—he would be leaving Tallahassee behind and, hopefully, the person who wanted him dead as well.

***

             
Released the next day, the doctor told Mark to take it easy for a few days before returning to his normal routine. As far as Mark could tell, his body was functioning just fine. Besides, he had classes to teach, so he did not follow the doctor’s advice.

Subsequent to his
release, Mark spoke with Detective Carter several times. Everyone with access to the ice core lab had been interviewed. They were all home in bed during the time of the attempted murder, or so they claimed. In some cases, they were alone; in others, they were with family members—who were also asleep, so could provide no verifiable alibi. Carter was still investigating Professor Bolton, who had an alibi of sorts, one that still needed to be checked. Mark’s fellow professors and their graduate students with access were all possible suspects in the eyes of the detective and so far that pool of candidates had not been narrowed by the investigation.

             
The tools used to jimmy the door were commonplace and never found. Fingerprints from the lab were consistent with laboratory personnel, who had access to the door code. Latex gloves were readily available. Using them, the perpetrator, if not associated with the facility, would not have left fingerprints behind. But the attempted killer would still need the code. Bottom line, there were no concrete leads. Detective Carter tried to sound positive, but to Mark it appeared the investigation had stalled. Carter was no closer to finding the culprit than he was the first day he visited Mark in the infirmary. Mark was glad of his impending trip and the opportunity to be far away from Tallahassee.

After providing Carter with his itinerary and travel contact information, Mark asked, “Do you think this might be resolved by the time I return?”

Carter shrugged, “I’ll do my best, but we need a break. I’ll keep on it.”

***

             
Just days before his trip, Mark decided to speak with Dean Miller about his upcoming tenure vote. Their conversation took place while walking across “the quad,” a grass-covered area in front of the FSU library. It was a bright spring day and students covered the area, sunbathing, studying, and playing frisbee. As they walked, Mark felt the need to continually look over his shoulder, half expecting to see his attacker moving in for the kill.

             
Dean Miller seemed somewhat preoccupied and not that involved in the conversation. Mark didn’t know what was wrong but he constantly had to repeat himself. The dean wore dark sunglasses, making it difficult for Mark to read him. Even with sunglasses, the sun obviously bothered him as Miller insisted on staying in the shade whenever possible.

             
After what seemed a long period of evasive answers, and with his patience wearing thin, Mark bluntly asked, “So, what do you think of my chances for receiving tenure?”

             
Momentarily considering the question, Dean Miller slowly responded. “I think they’re quite good. You know that Professor Bolton will vote no, but I’m unaware that he has been able to convince anyone else to vote against you. I believe you are generally well liked and respected among the other tenured professors.”

             
Who were suspects in my attempted murder, thought Mark. He found it hard to believe that someone like Bolton could remain in the department, but he had tenure and was untouchable unless he stepped way out of bounds. It practically took a criminal act to fire a tenured professor. Shaking his head, Mark asked, “Is there anything more that I should be doing to help my case?”

             
Fully engaged now, the dean placed his hand on Mark’s back as they walked, looked at him, and said in a reassuring manner, “No, Mark, just continue what you’re doing and stay out of trouble. I will work this end and try to counter any damage Dr. Bolton may create in your absence. Just enjoy your research in Santorini this summer.”

              He planned to do just that and appreciated Dean Miller’s support but still felt uneasy about his prospects. Like the detective, the dean tried to sound optimistic, but given Bolton’s negative campaign, Mark felt he should probably update his resume. There was something in the dean’s voice. He couldn’t identify what it was, but it made him feel doubtful, anxious. Then again, someone had tried to kill him, and he had a feeling of paranoia that he couldn’t shake.

The one thing he f
elt good about was his research, which was something he alone could control—unlike Carter’s investigation or his promotion. He successfully repeated his analysis of the glass shards and had just published his results on the trace element signature for the Thera eruption in
Geophysical Notes
, a publication distributed by the American Geophysical Union, or AGU.

M
any years before, a researcher attending a meeting sponsored by AGU had been the first to coin the phrase “climate change,” and the Thera eruption had certainly caused the climate to change, albeit for only a few years. Mark had already received several emails about his findings, which had been published just in time for the summer field season. Some were from peers whom he knew; Hickenbottom, for example, would be using his results during his studies in Egypt this summer. Mark planned to stay in touch with Hickenbottom; they were studying the same volcanic event in different locations.

In Santorini, Mark would be working with a Greek archeologist, Dr.
Alexandra Papadopulos. Their goal was to integrate what he learned from studying the eruption from a geological viewpoint with her archeological viewpoint of the same eruption. Unlike Hickenbottom, he knew Papadopulos only by reputation, but there was every indication that she would be a great team member based on her publications. An expert on Minoan culture, she had participated in multiple excavations and digs. They had discussed by phone and email how their work together could unravel some of the remaining mysteries linking the Thera eruption to the destruction of the Minoan civilization. Mark’s greater ambition was to link the downfall of Crete with Plato’s story of Atlantis.

Chapter
Four

The earth has music for those who listen.

—William Shakespeare

Santorini, June 1998

It was the last leg of his trip, a short forty-five-minute flight from Athens to the National Airport of Santorini. Not a cloud in the sky. Looking down, Mark saw numerous green and brown islands dotting a sea of aquamarine blue. Although the air was crystal clear, the small Aegean Airlines turboprop bounced up and down, and slowly swayed to and fro as they traveled the one hundred twenty miles southeast from Greece’s mainland. The motion was a welcome harbinger of adventure, one he was ready for after his near-death experience.

             
Suddenly, the plane was more violently buffeted, the result of clear air turbulence. As Mark remained firmly strapped in his seat, he thought about the many hours spent in this position. The day before, he left Tallahassee midday and traveled to Atlanta, the jumping-off airport for the entire southeastern US. From there, he had flown overnight to London’s Heathrow Airport, cleared customs, and waited for his flight to Athens. It was now the afternoon of his second day of travel. By all rights he should be tired, but he was on an emotional high, excited to finally reach Santorini.

Mark was glued to the
plane’s translucent window throughout their descent. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows from the hills and buildings. He could see the entire island of Santorini ahead of them. What was left of the once rounded island following the volcanic eruption was now an arc, an eleven-mile curvature that varied in width from one to almost four miles. A smaller island alongside the main island formed the remaining visible walls that circled the crater of the once gigantic ancient volcano. In the caldera center were two small volcanic islands. Mark knew that from time to time these small volcanoes belched up smoke and ash, reminders of their much more violent past. Today, they were tranquil.

In
some places surrounding the crater, cliffs rose nearly twelve hundred feet out of the water. The cliffs were composed of layers of light grey, black, and dark red rocks typical of volcanic ash, lava, and pumice stone. From a distance, the tops of the cliffs appeared snow covered, but as the plane drew closer, Mark could see instead white structures accented with splashes of colorful roofs and doors draping the ridgeline. These homes and hotels must have quite a view, Mark thought. Glistening in the sun, the buildings hugged the cliffs as if held in place by some magical force. Sprinkled among the white structures were churches with small deep-blue-colored domed roofs. In the center of each dome was a white cross, symbol of the Greek Orthodox religion that dominated Santorini. Many of the churches were small and appeared part of individual’s homes.

He tried to locate the ancient ruins of Akrotiri on the southwest side
of the island, but couldn’t quite make them out. He had read about the ruins and knew he would be spending time there. As the plane banked to the right, Mark turned his attention elsewhere.

The back
side of the island arc sloped gently down from the cliffs to the sea. Along the descending grade to the blue water were thick patches of green vegetation, a testament to the fertile soil created by the volcanic ash. The warm Mediterranean climate also contributed to the local agriculture.

Located on the
relatively flat eastern side of the island, the small airport was near the village of Kamari. It had a small apron, a runway of about seven thousand feet, and was only able to serve a maximum of six commercial planes at a time. Mark could see three small planes on the ground.

His
plane landed and after several bounces, slowed and taxied briefly to a low, whitewashed building with multiple arches. Exiting the little airplane directly onto the tarmac, Mark felt the warm, dry air engulf his body, a rejuvenating force that further energized his travel-weary limbs. He stood and stretched, glad to be back on terra firma. Gathering up his backpack, he entered the mostly open-air building to collect his other belongings, which had been offloaded promptly. Glancing around, he saw a striking, tall female in khaki shorts and matching shirt holding up a sign with his name on it.

As he approached her, she asked him
in a slight British accent, “Are you Dr. Malloy?”

“Yes,” Mark respon
ded, suddenly aware that he hadn’t shaved or brushed his teeth in the last twenty-four hours.

Extending her hand, she introduced herself,
“I’m Dr. Alexandra Papadopulos.”

He
shook it, saying, “Hello. It’s nice to finally meet you, Dr. Papadopulos. Please call me Mark.” He noticed her firm grip with pleasure. She seemed a little older than he and had an air of confidence about her.

“Nice to meet you too.
And likewise, please call me Alexia. How were your flights?” At that moment, a gust of wind caused her shoulder-length brown hair to float around her face as her large brown eyes remained fixed on him.

“My l
ast flight was the best, seeing all those islands. There were countless boats, from small fishing boats to very large cruise ships, travelling among the islands on what appeared to be calm waters of varying shades of blue. This certainly is a beautiful part of the world.”

She smiled with pride. “
Yes, we Greeks have many beautiful islands. Santorini is part of the Greek archipelago. It is one of the southernmost islands of the Cyclades in the Aegean Sea. About sixty-eight miles south is Crete, where I live.”

Mark
had a tendency to develop first impressions, sizing up people he just met; he took an instant liking to Alexia. She seemed joyful, at ease with herself, a change from what he was used to with Sara Jo. He looked forward to working with her.

Before he could say anything
else, she continued, “You must be tired. Let me take you to your hotel.”

Carrying his
two bags and backpack, he followed her to a small jeep with its top down. It reminded him of the ones used during World War II and looked almost as old.

She pointed to the back. “You can t
hrow your luggage back there. Hop in. We rarely put the top up here. Hope you don’t mind a little wind.”

“Not at all.”
He breathed in the fresh sea air, which reminded him of Panama City but with much less humidity. As they left the small airport parking area and drove south, the breeze from the jeep’s motion caressed his head. For a moment, he closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the island’s impact on his other senses—the smells, the sounds, and the feel of the breeze. I’m actually here; I’m on Santorini, he thought. It felt oddly familiar but he couldn’t figure out why; he didn’t remember the vision of the island that he had during his final minutes awake in the ice core lab.

Facing Mark
, Alexia yelled over the roar of the wind, “Many ancient artifacts have been found near here. This area around Kamari was the post-Minoan port of the ancient capital of Thera.”

Turning her head back toward
the road, she added, “We are staying at the Pension St. James, not far away. The hotel literature describes it as a cheap beach hotel with ten spacious ‘bungalow-style’ rooms. You can judge for yourself; it’s a comfortable place, affordable on a professor’s salary—or for a government employee like me.” She glanced at him and smiled. He returned the smile, thinking that she certainly matched the beautiful surroundings.

He yelled back
to be heard over the wind, “As long as it has a bed, I’ll like it.”

She nodded
, “Each room also has a balcony with a view. They overlook the Perissa-Perivolos Beach, only about twenty-five meters away. Plus, from the hotel, it is only a ten-minute drive west to Akrotiri, where our excavation is located.”

“Living on the beach and working on Santorini isn’t a bad way to spend one’s summer
,” he said while observing the view.

Alexia glanced his way, smiling in agreement.

After only a few minutes of driving, they arrived at the hotel. It was small but seemed very clean on the outside. Mark got out of the jeep and took in his surroundings. Alexandra saw him staring up at the roof.

“Is everything okay?”
she asked.

“Yes,”
he said. “It’s just that everything is so clean. That roof is gleaming.”

She smiled again
. “We have a typical Mediterranean climate here with very little rainfall. What rain does fall is captured in cisterns and used for water supply. Consequently, the catchment areas on the roofs that feed into the cisterns must be kept especially clean.”

Nodding, he commented, “So the water I will dri
nk is runoff from the roof. I will have to remember to take short showers,” he said, joking.

“Water is in short supply here and is important to us.”

“It’s like Mark Twain supposedly said, ‘Whiskey is for drinking; water is for fighting over.’” Mark had a fondness for Samuel L. Clemens, who was born in his home state of Florida.

“
Mr. Twain was right. For bathing, you also have the option to just go for a swim in the sea,” Alexia offered.

He l
ooked at her and then at the sparkling water behind her. He concluded that she was serious. “I’ll keep that option in mind,” he said as they headed toward the hotel.

After p
assing through the entrance and a bright open-air courtyard, they approached the reception desk. Behind the desk sat a young woman wearing a yellow sundress that displayed her well-tanned body.

She greeted them
in English with a heavy Greek accent, “Welcome to the St. James.”

Alexia
introduced Mark to Elektra Dukas. “She pretty much runs the St. James. If you need anything, she’s the one to see.”

Elektra
was in her early twenties with a bright, cute face framed by long brown hair. She had enchanting liquid-brown eyes.

After checking
him in, she and Alexia showed him to his room. Alexia helped by carrying his backpack while Mark toted the rest of the luggage. It was a short walk, all outside.  Elektra opened the door to a room that was reasonably spacious and, as advertised, had a view of the beach just visible between two buildings.

As the women left the room,
Alexia turned to Mark and said, “Why don’t you settle in and freshen up? I will come back in half an hour and we can walk to the beach for dinner. There are several taverns and beach bars there from which to choose. I know you must be tired, so we can try to make it an early evening. Is that alright?”

“Tha
t sounds great,” Mark said as he slowly closed the door, observing the women walking away with the beach in the background. He suspected that an early evening to Greeks was likely later than an American interpretation of that term.

He quickly s
haved in the shower, which he kept short, and brushed his teeth. He felt much better, refreshed. Just as he finished dressing into lighter clothes and slipping on his sandals, there was a knock at his door.

Opening it, h
e was expecting to see just Alexia, but both she and Elektra stood before him, arm in arm. “Do you mind if Elektra joins us for dinner?” Alexia asked. “There are few other guests here and this is a good time for her to close the front desk and eat.”

“Of course not; the more the merrier
,” he said, closing the door behind him.

They made their way to an open-air tavern, with a table set on a wooden floor right next to the beach.
With cliffs in the background, the Perissa-Perivolos Beach was a long stretch of soft black sand, which disappeared under the persistent gentle waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Having grown up on the Florida coastline, Mark considered himself an aficionado on beaches, and this one passed muster.

For his benefit, English was spoken.
As the conversation between Alexia and Elektra meandered, Mark’s eyes continually were drawn to the water. For now, he didn’t mind not being part of the conversation. He was just glad to be here.

Looking
off into the distant horizon, the only way to distinguish water from sky was by the different hues of blue. The Mediterranean’s darker blue with sunlight sparkling off the waves won the competition for the focus of one’s eyes over the cloudless light azure sky. As the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, however, the twinkling lights on the sloping landscape and the tangerine-tinged sky became the clear winners until the large red ball finally tumbled into the sea and the sky went dark.

In the background
was a mix of Greek music, the sound of lapping waves on the beach, and conversation between the two women, which was steady. Being quite tired, Mark was content to listen and get his bearings. After they ordered, he finally entered the conversation, asking Elektra, “Are you from Santorini, or should I say, Thera?”

Elektra
responded enthusiastically, “Yes, I am from here. We Greeks call this island Thera, but most foreigners call it Santorini, which comes from the foreign seamen’s pronunciation of the island’s church of Saint Irene.”

Wanting to learn more
about the local history, he asked, “Do you know the origin of the name, Thera? I know that Thera is the name of the ancient volcano that was located here. As Alexia probably already told you, I’m a geologist here to study it.”