Russell Andrews - Hades  

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2007 by Peter Gethers

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Hachette Book Group USA

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New York, NY 10020

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First eBook Edition: June 2008

ISBN: 978-0-7595-1973-2

ALSO BY RUSSELL ANDREWS

Gideon

Icarus

Aphrodite

Midas

Over the years, in real life while using a real name, or in my pseudonymous thriller-writing existence, I have worked with wonderful writers, editors, directors, agents, and various colleagues. Whether they know it or notand whether they want to admit it or notevery one of the following has taught me how to write and how to think like a writer: Dave Anderson, William Bayer, Henry Beard, Edward Behr, Roy Blount, Jr., Lorenzo Carcaterra, William Darrid, the late William Diehl, Bill Duke, Jack Dytman, Jason Epstein, Joe Eszterhas, Joni Evans, Jackie Farber, John Feinstein, Colin Fox, Joe Fox, Nicholas Gage, Peter Gent, Steven Gethers, William Goldman, Gerald Green, Linda Grey, Lewis Grizzard, Michael Gross, Pete Hamill, Wil Haygood, John Helyar, Sy Hersh, Carl Hiaasen, Robert Hughes, Susan Isaacs, Marc Jaffe, Bill James, Ricky Jay, Penn Jillette, Pat Jordan, Stefan Kanfer, Kitty Kelley, Daniel Keyes, Joe Klein, Naomi Levy, Bob Loomis, Mike Lupica, Eric Lustbader, Sonny Mehta, Walter Mosley, Leona Nevler, Esther Newberg, Roman Polanski, Roberta Pryor, Bob Reis, Tom Robbins, Stephen Rubin, Hank Searls, Roger Simon, Teller, William Thomas, Alex Witchel, Audrey Wood, Alan Zweibel.

The usual list, with a few additions and subtractions as the case may be: John Alderman at Trellus Management Co., Eric Pessagno and D. B. Lifland at Trellus, Mike Takata at Soros Fund Management, Ron Malfi, Janis Donnaud, Esther Newberg, Jack Dytman, Colin Fox, Jamie Raab, Hilary Hale.

Favignana, Italy
May 22

It was nearing the end of May, in the middle of la Mattanzathe tuna killing. During these few weeks, the tuna follow the currents from the Atlantic Ocean into the warmer Mediterranean to deposit and fertilize their eggs. For centuries, the fishermen have known this secret, and in mid-April they begin to set up a series of net barriers in the water. The tuna become trapped, forced to follow the direction of the barriers, and are obliged to swim straight toward those who patiently wait to slaughter them.

The boats were coming in now. They were driving the tuna, thousands of them, toward shore. Soon the waters rolling waves would be red; the islanders would be cheering; and all the nontourists who made their living on this speck of land just off the coast of Sicily, a short ferry ride due west from the city of Trapani, would be secure again. The restaurants would have no empty tables, the stores would sell their trinkets and T-shirts, and the poor box in the church in the Gothic square would be filled to the brim.

One of the most beautiful islands in the world, Favignana is speckled with coves, into which creeps the clearest water in the sea. Thin slices of white sand and finely pebbled beaches glisten and gleam in the summer sun. The islands main attribute is tufaan almost-translucent-looking rock, formed over centuries as water gradually evaporated from the abundant amounts of lime that form the cliffs and caves. Remnants of ancient excavations are everywhere, the sites abandoned seemingly in middig. Thick blocks of the stone are discarded and left to turn even more yellow and red from rust. Four and five-hundred-year-old villas built out of that tufa are still standing, though, and dominate the coastline, giving the ancient stone a productive as well as ornamental life in the modern world.

Narrow strips of road cut into the hills and the rock, winding east and west, north and south, forging an impossible maze. Primitive and lovely, the island is mostly unspoiled by foreign tourists (except for the stray German here and there and the Italians from up north who come to lounge and tan and eat mounds of pasta with bottarga, the pungent tuna roe). Favignana is paradise for most people. But Angelo Tornabene was not most people. Angelo Tornabene hated the small island on which he had spent his entire life. He couldnt wait to escape. He didnt care that the great tuna hunt was described and revered as far back as The Odyssey or that the tufa could be linked to the building of the great pyramids. He couldnt get away fast enough from the foul-smelling fish; the bland, monotonous rock; and the tourists from the north who came for the weekends and the summer and bicycled around the maze from one bar ingresso to another. Angelo wanted to escape. Anywhere. Anywhere that wasnt this goddamn island. He didnt care about the great Roman naval battle with the Carthaginians. He didnt care at all about the past. Favignana was only about history. It was about things that no longer existed. Dead things. Dead stone, dead fish, dead people. Angelo wanted to live.

Its why hed spent the last three days talking to the sailors on the huge ship. They were from South Africa. He didnt know where exactly. Hed never heard of the city whose name they kept repeating, but he understood the word Africa and knew they werent Arab and knew they werent black, so he decided they must come from the white part, which he knew was south, and all he really cared about was where they were going, which was far, far away from here. The Africans were waiting for the tuna to come in so they could load up on fresh fish for the next leg of the journey; they were excited that the wait was almost over, that it was almost time to leave. The sailors heard the cheering and they ran to look, to see the bloody spectacle, as Angelo knew they would. He ran with them, pointing out the oncoming boats, celebrating, slapping as many white Africans as he could on the back; and while everyone was cheering it wasnt hard for him to disappear, to slip below, and wander through the ship. As he wandered, a thick metal door opened and a man came through the opening. He was not in a uniform; he wore a dark business suit and a thin tie. He looked at Angelo but did not seem to care that a stranger was exploring places he shouldnt be. Angelo smiled to show that he belonged, but the man didnt smile backhe just walked slowly back to join all the commotion. The man looked serious and important, and Angelo wondered if he might be the captain. Or even higher up than the captain. The thought made him nervous, and as the man passed by, Angelo knew he had to be quick; so he darted ahead, caught the heavy metal door before it could close, stepped forward and found himself in a passageway that led to many rooms. He began moving slowly, tried several doors, all of which were locked. And then he tried one and it opened. Now he was in another maze of rooms, and without knowing what else to do he began trying more doors, examining more rooms. After perhaps fifteen minutes, he was standing in a doorway that led into a small dark space, a nearly empty room of seemingly little importance. There were wooden crates stacked up. Many of them. Still holding the door open, Angelo inched his leg in front of him and put his foot against one stack; it felt solid, as if filled with canned goods. Maybe it was a room for storage, but it didnt look as if it was used much. That was good, Angelo thought, it meant hed have more time to remain hidden.