The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  Fergy gulped and switched to loudspeaker for Miriam to hear. “Now just a minute, whoever you are…” He was interrupted.

  “Stop right there, Professor.” The voice remained soft and calm. “This call is being made in utmost secrecy. My trusted friend and spiritual brother, the late Bishop Vincent Fisher, God rest his blessed soul, had included your name in his research for the Society of Truth in Archaeology, known as SOTA. Correct?”

  Without thinking, Fergy replied, “Correct…”

  Pope Adrian continued, “The project is now in the hands of Cardinal Nicholas and his aide, Father Vincenzo – who has reached you, yes?”

  “That information is known only to the smallest group of people,” Fergy replied, his doubts fading fast. It is the pope! How do I address him? “Holy Father, as you may imagine, this is difficult to believe. If you are who you say you are, what can I do for you?”

  “Professor, you are in a privileged position that only I know of. My representative, Cardinal Nicholas, will be sending me information and photographs on anything you may find in support of these newly found writings of Philip and Thomas. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me say, just between ourselves, I need double clarification. I have a strong feeling that I may be misled. So, what I am asking is, will you please send your own report, details and photographs and your opinion about anything you find, directly to me using my private mailbox address? If you agree, you will do this without the cardinal’s knowledge.”

  “What on earth!” Fergy exclaimed and looked across at Miriam who had puffed out her cheeks with a rush of exhaled air.

  “Yes, indeed. What on earth...” The pope’s kindly tone softened Fergy’s amazement.

  “How do I know you’re really the pope himself?”

  “You don’t, Professor. But like you, only the truth interests me, and when faith shows it to be real then I know it’s God’s work. Before his death, the bishop informed me of certain facts. You have a Shetland Sheepdog named Dickens, after the author you greatly admire. You are also the National Coordinator for the Society of Ancient Discoveries and have a lifelong close colleague, Doctor Miriam Sinclair. Our intelligence network, the Santa Alleanza, is very thorough and have checked out all these details. You have no cause for concern. The skills you possess are well suited to our requirements.”

  Fergy gasped and turned to Miriam who merely shrugged.

  “In heaven’s name…”

  “Yes, indeed. We are doing this in heaven’s name, Professor,” Pope Adrian interrupted. “Are you agreeable to what I have asked?”

  Fergy looked over to Miriam. This time she nodded.

  “We agree.”

  The pope’s voice maintained its gentle timbre. “I prayed you would. Go to your computer right now and punch out this code.” He gave a combination of eight letters and numbers. “This is changed every day. Now enter, what do you see?”

  Fergy read it out…

  For the Servant of God (Only)

  Box 69 Saint Martha House

  00120 Città del Vaticano

  “Perfect. That code no longer works now except for you, and this is the only address you will use.” There came a short pause. “Computers are too easily hacked. Old-fashioned postal procedures still have their uses. I thank you for your help, Professor, and I apologise for what must seem to be a most strange thing for you to hear. Without your help, I fear truth could be buried forever. Bishop Vincent told me he had trust in you. I sense he was correct.”

  Fergy felt any doubts he had vanishing. The caller was indeed Pope Adrian.

  “This is my very private and personal phone number.” He gave out a series of numbers – 0112358132134558. “Your numbers are also registered on it. All the time you have been talking to me, it has been employing a voice recognition system on you. If it fails to recognise you, it will disconnect you from my phone immediately. Such measures are necessary in these times. There are currently only six people who have this number. You are now the seventh.”

  Fergy had no words. He was scrambling to note down the phone number given by the pope.

  “Professor, I must leave you now and I look forward to receiving details of your progress.” Before the phone went dead, the pope’s last sentence was in Italian. “Buonanotte, professore. Dio ti benedica.”

  After the call, a silent Fergy walked slowly to a chair and slumped down. He looked across to Miriam. “Wow… that was amazing! The pope, no less, and he has concerns about Cardinal Nicholas. I don’t think we can all be wrong in that aspect. What do you think about all that?”

  “Surreal. What are we getting into?” She found a seat and sat facing him. They had much to discuss.

  “I don’t know, but there’s something going on and it seems it has a lot to do with religious politics. They’re hoping we’ll find something that will further their own cause. I’m sure of it.” Fergy was staring hard at the pope’s number when he suddenly sat straight. He bent closer and blew out a lungful of air. “Hey, just a moment…” His voice was charged. “I recognise this sequence. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “What can’t be a coincidence? What do you see?”

  “His phone number… it’s the first part of the Fibonacci sequence. You know? Each number is the sum of the previous two. At first glance, it looks like a random series of numbers but when you look closely – 0112358132134558.” Fergy rapped the paper with his pen. “0+1=1… 1+1=2… 2+1=3… 3+2=5… 5+3=8… and so on. It’s amazing! Our pope appears to be a learned man. This sequence can be found throughout the natural world – the leaves on a stem, the seeds in the centre of a sunflower, and spiral galaxies, just to name a few. And it’s the pope’s phone number!” He laughed at the incredulity of it all.

  “You’re crazy! Can’t see what’s so important about that.” Miriam shrugged.

  Before he could reply, the hotel phone rang with a shrill tone that startled them both. Fergy picked up. The receptionist told him he had a visitor. A Mr. Kelvin Stallybrass.

  12

  He looked apprehensive as he walked in, declining a drink. “I’m not thirsty, thanks.” Kelvin sat down on a spare chair. “I just wanted to say I enjoyed the dive today and finding that triskelion. You seem to know your stuff okay.” He paused and shifted his gaze to something only he could see.

  Fergy waited, not really appreciating the surprise visit.

  After a few seconds, Kelvin said, “I was wondering… I have something you may be able to help me with.”

  “What’s that, Kelvin?”

  “I mentioned it to you earlier. It’s something I found a year or two ago when I was trying to find a decent pool to dive in not one taped off by the SSSI signs. It’s this.” He reached into the briefcase he was carrying. “It was lodged between two cracks and looked as if it was solid rock. That’s why previous digs must have missed it.” He pulled out an A5 sized tablet. “It’s inscribed and I can’t work out what it is.” He handed it over to Fergy with care. “Finding that triskelion earlier prompted me to show this to you.”

  Fergy looked at the tablet. It could be made of bronze. “It reminds me of the Botoritta Plaques discovered in nineteen seventy- nine. Here, have a look Miriam.”

  She took the tablet, produced a lens, and began to peer hard at the writing.

  As she examined the object, she shared her opinion. “The longest, extant Celtiberian inscriptions are those written on four bronze plaques from Botorrita near Zargoza in Spain, dating back to the early first century BC. Sadly, this is not Celtiberian.” She gave a teasing smirk. “It’s something more exciting. You found it in a cave around here, Kelvin?”

  “That’s correct, in Wookey. Should I have handed it in? What is it?”

  “I can’t believe what I’m looking at. I’m glad you didn’t hand it in.”

  “Well? Come on, Miss Linguistics. What is it?” Fergy asked, his interest awakened.

  “It’s Aramaic. The language Jesus spoke.”

  “Holy
Mothers!” Fergy’s eyes widened and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. “Can you read it?”

  “Give me a while or two, and pen and paper, please.”

  The room went quiet as she began to write letters with a soft mumble coming from her moving lips. Fergy looked across to Kelvin who could only shrug.

  The tea was forgotten. Fergal poured more drinks, and all that could be heard was the ticking of the clock and Miriam’s soft murmurings. Forty minutes passed and Fergy was getting impatient.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked with more than a tinge of irritation. “First the pope and now, a startling Aramaic tablet.”

  “Shhh!” she snapped. “Be quiet, will you? I’m trying to put this into some sort of order so that you numbskulls can understand it. It’s not easy.”

  Another thirty-five minutes later, Miriam put down her pen and looked up. “I’ve written it down in verse form. This is what it says.” Slowly she began to read out loud.

  Before my Parent you can only kneel

  From whose eternal cup you may heal

  Then seek the glass beneath the skies

  The grave wherein the hidden secret lies.

  “It’s a riddle!” Miriam explained.

  “How can this be happening? How can this tablet be connected to our search?” Fergy stood up and started pacing the room. It was then he realized he hadn’t given Kelvin the whole story. He turned to Miriam and knew she was thinking the same thing.

  She gave a quick nod. It was time to tell Kelvin the full extent of their mission.

  He turned to Kelvin. “Kelvin, there’s more to our search than we have let on.”

  Kelvin held up his hands. “I guessed as much, and a tablet written in Aramaic has confirmed my notion. The healing cup that can never empty is what you’re looking for. It’s been a secret story amongst my people for two thousand years.”

  “What? You know of this? Who are your people?” Fergy exclaimed.

  “I am a Druid. The Chief Druid of my particular Order. I am called Iseldir.”

  “Well, that explains how you knew so much about your find this morning.”

  Kelvin nodded. “So, are you going to tell me more? Maybe we can help each other.”

  “All I can tell you at this point is that you’re working on a secret mission funded by the Vatican. There isn’t much more to tell yet. Our minders are the two men you saw us talking to the other day. You should know that we don’t entirely trust them, but for no particular reason. It’s just a feeling. Don’t mention or show them your plaque. I’ll take a photo of it, but you’d better hold on to it. Keep it out of sight, whatever you do.” Fergy slapped his thighs and stood up to stretch. “Hey, it’s been quite a day. A call from a pope with a Fibonacci phone number, a secret address, and an Aramaic plaque complete with a mystic verse. What’s next, I wonder?” He noticed Kelvin's face becoming more confused. “There’s much we need to think about. Who inscribed that plaque and what is it referring to? Our quest has suddenly taken a giant leap.”

  * * *

  Cracker positioned himself where he can see exactly what the three researchers took in and out of the caves. As yet, they had nothing to report. It was proving to be a boring task.

  Vincenzo kept a watch on everyone. He was thankful for Cracker’s presence. By the look of him, he could be most useful when the going got rough. It was time for him to make another visit.

  Carrying his flashlight and camera, he set out on foot. When the skies opened up with terrific flashes of lightning and enormous claps of thunder, he was forced into a run. The waters could rise and rush in wild torrents through the cave structures.

  Dripping wet, he lurched into the cave area as already the waters had begun to rise. Ducking under the protective tape, he saw there was nobody around. They must be diving. His flashlight revealed three backpacks in a tidy row. These could be interesting. He began unzipping the first one. The name on the label was Kelvin Stallybrass. Lifting up the flap, at first he could see nothing. Then he saw something that got his attention. He was staring down at an old bronze plaque. He gasped. Where did that come from and why hasn’t it been declared? He didn’t need to be an expert to understand that whatever it was, it was very old indeed. Within seconds, he was taking pictures of it. The cardinal would be pleased to see them. He would know what to do.

  The sound of someone surfacing from the water forced him to stop. It was Stallybrass, who at once saw that his pack was open.

  He tore off his facemask. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He bellowed at the priest.

  “Mi dispiace. This is yours? I am so sorry. I wondered why it was left here. I did not know it was yours.”

  Kelvin’s face stretched in anger as he moved it within inches of Vincenzo’s. “So now you know. Don’t bloody touch it again. Understood?”

  Vincenzo gave a look of mock apology. He would like nothing better than for Stallybrass to take a swing at him. If he did, he would be in for a big surprise. His Vektor CP1 was resting snugly in his concealed shoulder holster. “So sorry, Mr. Stallybrass. Now please, take your face away from mine.”

  Kelvin did not fail to notice the underlying warning in the priest’s words. There’s something about this priest I can’t work out.

  Both the professor and Miriam emerged from the waters. The tension was noticeable.

  Fergal pulled off his facemask. “All okay here?” he asked with an element of concern. Miriam stood next to him.

  Kelvin snapped his reply. “It is now. I found Father Vincenzo snooping through my backpack.”

  “No snoop. It was an accident, believe me.” The priest, spreading out his arms and hands, affected an apologetic expression.

  The professor paused. “Easy now… easy. I’m sure it’s only a misunderstanding, Kelvin.” In his mind, he thought… I don’t think it was. “Let’s forget it.”

  “Si. Let us forget it. I shake your hand.” Vincenzo responded in a singsong Italian way, and with a rigid smile that barely concealed his rage, thrust out his hand to Kelvin.

  Kelvin looked unhappy. It was obvious he didn’t believe the priest’s story. What he had in his backpack could be the most astonishing artefact discovered in the UK. He must have seen it and photographed it and it’ll end up God knows where. It belongs to the ancient people of this land and not the Roman Catholic Church.

  Kelvin, mindful of the sensitivity of the mission, and with a look that was as sour as a rotten lemon, held out his hand. He said no more, turned his back on the priest once the shake was done, picked up his pack and moved back behind the other two.

  “Grazie mille.” Without another word, Vincenzo turned and headed out. He had decided to contact Cracker. After that episode things, the situation could begin to heat up. Whatever that tablet was there was a deliberate attempt to hide it. That was against the rules. His photographs would be on their way to the cardinal that evening.

  13

  The grounds of Domos Sanctae Marthae – Saint Martha House – were silent. A silence broken only by a soft wind easing through gaps in the modern structure. The Domus Sanctae Marthae stood adjacent to St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. completed in 1996, the building functioned as a guesthouse for clergies who had business with the Holy See and a temporary lodging for cardinals participating in a papal conclave. Pope Leo XIII had the St. Martha Hospice built on the site in 1891, and in 1996, it was rebuilt into the structure it is now.

  The full moon proffered a soft glow around the structure, reflecting its presence off the glass door entrance. A figure of a cowled man could be seen approaching the doors. It was as if he did not wish to be recognised. At his approach, the doors swung open and he continued inside. Moving across to the furthest wall, he approached an illuminated box with a built-in plasma screen. He moved up close so that his face touched it. It was a retinal scanner for access control. It captured the pattern of the retina’s blood vessels inside the physical eye. If it was not recognised by the database, entr
y would be refused, and a security alert would be activated. It didn’t. The man whose eye it was scanning had had it installed.

  Pope Adrian stepped backwards, and to the left of him, a hidden partition silently slid open. He stepped inside as the wall closed softly behind him. He was in a long corridor with other corridors on each side, numbering from one up to twenty. The corridor he wanted was on his right and numbered six. He swung into it and was confronted with row upon row of secured lockers, each holding highly sensitive Vatican notes, discoveries procedures and a host of other topics. The cabinet he wanted was number nine – known as 69 – that is, Row 6… Box 9.

  The soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional clicks of an encrypted code being remotely entered elsewhere, broke the funereal silence of the chamber.

  Every move of anybody in this area was heavily monitored by an array of CCTV cameras with a triple back up system.

  He had personally watched through this system a trio of high-ranking Swiss Guard activate an encrypted code they had. They carried a postal package, which would have passed all tests for bombs, gases, viruses, and anything that could be harmful. There were three codes and pins. They had only one. When activated, it revealed a hidden slot sixty centimetres in length and with a width of five centimetres. Its purpose was to allow posts that had passed security testing to be placed in its aperture. It would remain open for ten seconds and then slam shut, concealed and inoperable for forty-eight hours – even if nothing had been placed in it. For that time period, it would be inaccessible. Any attempt to illegally open the steel box would automatically destroy the contents inside and the entire security system and the Vatican’s Corp of Gendarmerie would be alerted.

  Using his smartphone, the pope activated the coded pin number, which he did three times as required. There came from the grey coloured box a soft whine, a buzz, and then the front dropped down as if on a spring. He reached in and pulled out a C4 sized envelope and he knew without looking who it was from. The bronze coloured label confirmed it: Professor Fergal Lars Christie together with his address stared up at him. The professor was living up to his promise. Pope Adrian smiled as he reactivated the automatic system to seal the box once more.