The Antarctic Forgery Read online

  The Antarctic Forgery

  A Dan Kotler Archaeological Thriller

  Kevin Tumlinson

  Copyright © 2018 by Kevin Tumlinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Ernest Dempsey, Nick Thacker, and the real-world Roland Denzel. Your support and encouragement, and all around bro-ness, helps.

  Don’t get a big head about it.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  A Note at the End

  Here’s how to help me reach more readers

  About the Author

  Also by Kevin Tumlinson

  Keep the Adventure Going!

  Prologue

  “Half a million pounds,” Sir Eugene Stanley mused quietly. He felt detached. It felt like some lucid dream that was slipping away like sand through his fingers, carrying him with it into something more chaotic and random than the world he’d known. Just this morning he’d been seated in solid reality.

  He was holding a glass of scotch in one hand and a worthless piece of paper in the other. Though, even now, he had to admit the worthless piece of paper certainly didn’t look worthless.

  Up until an hour ago, it had been kept in a specially designed frame, with compressed argon—an inert gas that helped to preserve the document—filling the gap between two sheets of UV-deflecting glass, each a quarter of an inch thick and bulletproof. It was an expensive process, designed for the preservation of rare and valuable historical documents, including such treasures as the Declaration of Independence in the US.

  And now, this worthless map.

  He looked up from his scotch. “You’re certain?” he asked the American in front of him. Agent Sobiek, of the FBI.

  Officially, the FBI had no jurisdiction here in London, but Eugene had happily allowed the man access. He had at first been reluctant to let the agent take the map for verification but figured there was no real harm in it. It was heavily insured, after all, and the auction house had already verified its authenticity, had even issued him a certificate to that effect, possibly as worthless, Eugene realized, as the map itself.

  Agent Sobiek had requested access to the map as part of an ongoing investigation into an international smuggling ring, and Eugene had smelled an opportunity for media coverage. Nothing was more intriguing and exotic than an international smuggling ring and associating such intrigue with an object in one’s private collection could only help to improve its value.

  He had not, however, expected the agent to return with the news that both Eugene and the auction house had somehow been duped.

  Agent Sobiek was standing with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking far more casual than Eugene thought he ought to look. Surely, when a Federal Agent gives bad news, they should be stiff and proper about it.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” Sobiek said. “We had it verified by four different experts. One of whom is on retainer with the FBI’s new Historic Crimes Division. You may have heard of Doctor Dan Kotler?”

  Eugene shook his head absently, sipping his scotch. “No, terribly sorry,” he said quietly, distracted. He looked up and met the agent’s eyes. “How could this happen? The auction house had the document certified.”

  “We believe they were compromised,” Sobiek said. “Someone was planted in the auction house to aid in the theft of antiquities. We don’t know all of the details just yet, but we suspect they are part of the verification process and would possibly replace documents or artwork with forgeries after they’d been certified. Or they may be the one certifying the documents as authentic, we’re not sure. There are only a few people in the process who could be responsible for that, and we’re closing in on them. We’ve been in pursuit of this particular ring for quite some time, actually. They’re into more than art theft. We’ve been after them for everything from drug running to human trafficking. It’s an extensive and elaborate network, stretching back to the late ‘70s.”

  “And they stole my map?” Eugene asked.

  “It may have been stolen before you ever laid eyes on it,” Sobiek said. “Depending on who the compromised employee turns out to be, it’s possible that the map you purchased was a forgery from the start. I’m very sorry, Mr. Stanley.”

  “Lord Stanley,” Eugene said absently, bringing the scotch to his lips as he stared at the pattern of the rug. It was a Tabriz hand-knotted Persian, and very valuable in its own right. One of the few pieces in Eugene’s collection that saw regular use, despite its value. It had belonged to his father, and his grandfather, and had always been part of this room. He couldn’t bear to part with it. Instead, he thought of it as something of a backup plan—in a worst-case scenario, it would fetch enough to support Eugene and his wife in a new lifestyle. Divorced of English aristocracy, of course. Those days would be passed. But he and his wife would retire to someplace tropical and affordable. His daughters would have to leave the Abbey, but they would have their husbands and with them their high corporate salaries. They would all be fine.

  A terrible thought, he knew, but in an age when Lords and Earls and Dukes were falling out of fashion, one needed contingencies.

  “Yes, I apologize,” Sobiek said. “I’m afraid I’m not used to addressing Earls. Or any British nobility, for that matter.”

  Eugene looked up again, scowled and shook his head. “No, it is I who must apologize. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of shock. I had hoped this would lead to some positive press for my collection, and now I’m afraid it will lead only to public scandal.”

  Agent Sobiek nodded sympathetically. “If it helps at all, the Historic Crimes Division is actively investigating this, and they have an excellent track record. With your permission, I’d like to take the map back with me to Manhattan, as evidence. I can leave a receipt, and any documentation you may need for an insurance claim.”

  Eugene sipped his scotch once again, then rose. “Are you certain I can’t interest you in a drink, Agent Sobiek?”

  Sobiek smiled but shook his head. “I’m on duty, sir, but I appreciate the offer.”

  Eugene nodded, and stepped to the row of crystal decanters lining the wet bar at the back of the sitting room. Each was filled with a different hue of gold, denoting varieties of some of the finer whiskeys from all around the world. Another indulgence of his, though he rarely imbibed as much as he had in just this one meeting. “Duty,” he said quietly, thinking. “Yes.”

  He refilled his glass and sipped from it before turning back around.

  “I appreciate the documentation. A half-million-pounds is still quite an investment, even for me. In all honesty, I collect items such as these with the intention of reselling them at a profit. It’s one of the ways I keep the Abbey and the surrounding township in operation. My own duty, if you will.”

  Sobiek nodded.

  “I enjoy a bit of wealth, Agent Sobiek, but it is not inexhaustible. If there is anything you can do to help me recove
r my investment in this, I would greatly appreciate it. Perhaps a word with the auction house and the insurance company. May I put them in touch with you?”

  Sobiek nodded. “Of course. I’m happy to help.”

  Eugene sipped his scotch, nodding. He would make calls once the agent left, taking the forgery with him. He would call the auction house and the insurance company.

  He would also call the press.

  As scandalous and humiliating as this story could be, Eugene realized that it could also have its advantages. After all, if intrigue and the exotic were good publicity when the map was real, the story of it being a profoundly convincing fake would only further public interest.

  There was also the fact that an Earl had been duped.

  Some members of the public might sympathize with him over the theft, which might prove useful in future negotiations and dealings. Perhaps it would allow him the chance at a lower price for feed and care of the many animals supported by the Abbey. That would be useful.

  Of course, that same public seemed to adore seeing British nobility embarrassed and humiliated, and that had its advantages as well. Eugene could leverage that. If a bit of humiliation could bring more attention to his collection and allow him to generate more profit from his sales, to keep the Abbey going for another few years—it was worth it.

  He looked one last time at the map. It had been an enigma, which was one of the things that had attracted him. It was, by all accounts, a very accurate map of Antarctica—but it was also impossible.

  For a start, it was alleged to have been drawn in the late 15th century—four centuries before the official discovery of the frozen continent. Though rumors had abounded of a supposed Terra Australis Incognita—the “Unknown Southern land”—as early as second century AD, there were few maps in existence that provided any hint of Antarctica prior to its official discovery.

  Eugene had been thrilled beyond belief to have purchased this one. It was one of the highest prices ever to be paid at auction for a document of this nature. It had a tantalizing history and hinted at a hidden and ancient world, lost to modern man. It was perfect.

  And it was a fraud.

  Eugene accepted the receipt from Agent Sobiek, and once the agent had made his leave with the forgery, he began making his calls. He was confident that both the auction house and the insurance company would go out of their way to compensate him for the fraud if only to mitigate the humiliation of having been duped themselves. They would want to keep this story out of the press, of course.

  As he spoke to officials at the auction house and agents at the insurance company, he made quite a show of being scandalized and humiliated. He insisted that his privacy should be protected, that information about this matter should be kept strictly confidential. And, of course, he insisted that he should be compensated for his loss. The insurance agent assured him that his policy protected him. The auction house assured him that not a word of the story would be uttered outside of their walls … certainly not!

  As Eugene hung up, he smiled at this last promise. He dialed once again, this time to a friend in London who happened to head a media office. Under an assurance of complete anonymity, Eugene gave his friend all of the sordid details of the theft, from the certification of the auction house to the involvement of the FBI. He was the victim in this tale, of course—a man duped by a system that was meant to protect its clients from precisely this sort of scandal. But he did not shy away from sharing the price he’d paid for the item, nor the potential involvement of an international smuggling operation.

  All of these intriguing details made for a good story, and the key, Sir Eugene Stanley knew, was always a good story.

  Chapter 1

  Kotler had a weird, nostalgic fondness for hotel lobbies.

  A great deal of his travel required him to be away from his hotel nearly from the time he stepped off of an airplane until the moment he stepped back on. There were, however, those rare occasions when he had some simple and blissful leisure time, with nothing more to do than to spend the day in the hotel lobby, a cup of coffee at hand and his iPad Pro before him. He could do a bit of writing and note taking, or just catch up on some reading while life buzzed all around him. Hotels were always an excellent place to observe humanity—something Kotler enjoyed as both a career and a pastime.

  At the moment, he was seated at one of the small tables adjacent to the hotel restaurant. It was a five-star establishment, and Kotler had enjoyed breakfast there nearly every morning since arriving in San Francisco. The conference organizers were paying all of his expenses, but Kotler insisted on paying for his meals, and tipping generously. The waitstaff, in turn, were more than willing to keep his coffee cup filled and to ensure he had everything he needed—which wasn’t much.

  This was the last day of the conference, and he was slated to give a final presentation. He had sat on panels and given talks throughout the three-day event, discussing what he cheerfully referred to as “misplaced history.” That was the hot topic this year, and there was no name more associated with it than Doctor Dan Kotler.

  His work at the Pueblo site in Colorado, wherein he had helped with the discovery of a lost Viking presence there, had spurred initial public interest. But it was the recent publication of several interviews and articles in the New York Times, the Washington Post, and Time magazine, offering details about a number of new and exciting discoveries around the world, that was really putting Kotler front and center. He had gotten permission from the FBI to discuss some of the cases that he'd helped with over the past two years, and they made for sensational headlines. Kotler had sat for interviews with an increasing number of publications and television programs and had frankly begun to lose track. It was a regular press junket.

  The discovery of what could be the lost city of Atlantis was the first story to break, as well as the biggest. Though he had to keep specific details off the record, there was enough of revelation and intrigue that the public demanded more.

  This was followed up with articles about a newly discovered treasure trove of artifacts that had initially been unearthed by none other than Thomas Edison. Following quickly on that announcement was another, detailing a recently discovered secret lab in London that had been the workspace of Sir Isaac Newton. Two giants of science and invention, both well-known by even those with only a cursory interest in history. And Kotler was mentioned right alongside them in every article and news story.

  The fact that all of these new finds had been tied to modern-day terrorist activities and international smuggling rings was something Kotler had to keep quiet, for the moment, but the discoveries themselves were apparently fantastic enough to inspire great public enthusiasm.

  Even without the specific details regarding the FBI's involvement, or the underlying investigations, these stories captured the imagination of the public in a way Kotler had never expected. Once again, just as had happened after the incident in Pueblo, Kotler was enjoying a bit of international celebrity that most archaeologists would never experience. It had indeed made life interesting and had opened new opportunities for him.

  He had been offered book deals for all of these stories, and in moments like these, as he sat with coffee and his iPad, amidst the bustle and energy of a luxury hotel lobby, he enjoyed spending time organizing his notes and writing those books. He had nearly completed two of three books in his current publishing deal. The third would be the trickiest—many of the details were still classified and entangled in an international investigation—but he was looking forward to the challenge. It was all part of his life's work, the pursuit of "the great why," as he'd put it in the Washington Post article. It was all part of his vast personal quest to discover what it meant to be human.

  Kotler had written books before, of course. They had been popular enough in their own right—enough to catch the attention of television producers for the History Channel, who had included him as an expert in some of their programming. Those books had met with much less publi
c interest and fanfare, however. The new books were already in demand at a level Kotler had never before experienced. There were negotiations in place for television and film rights, and the books hadn’t even been published yet. One author had even approached Kotler about adapting his life into a series of archaeological thriller novels, casting him as a sort of modern-day Indiana Jones. That seemed a bit out there, though. Who would ever be interested in reading about this life?

  All of this buzz about his work was somewhat gratifying, however, if Kotler were honest. For years he had operated as a sort of pariah among his peers in the academic and scientific community, thanks largely to being an independent with no official academic affiliation. He was wealthy enough to fund his own research, and without restrictions from grant holders or investors, he was able to pursue any line of inquiry he wished. This made him a bit unpopular with those in the community who had to work much harder for support and funding, and who were often stuck in lines of research that were deeply mired in traditional thought and speculation, with little room for outside-the-box thinking. It was a bit like bowling with the lane bumpers up. No matter how good the research, how tantalizing the discoveries, many of his colleagues were forced to wedge everything into the time-honored and accepted view of history, or suffer being blackballed by their peers and colleagues.

  Kotler, conversely, spent much of his time looking into ideas and mysteries that changed the very landscape of archaeology and anthropology. His findings consistently challenged long-held theories about human history and culture. This made people uncomfortable, even angry.