by Madyson Rush
Hummer looked to Donovon. “You also have something prepared?”
Donovon signaled to the monitor. “Marek?”
Marek changed the screen to a diagram of their acoustic weapon. The image was classified. The projected blueprint header read: NATO WEAPON PATENT 4644XM: SONJA.
“It was Sonja’s structural shape caught my attention.” Donovon pointed to the computer representation. “She’s got a long firing barrel attached to a concave semicircular conduction chamber where pressure is generated until the sonic pulse is discharged down the barrel.”
Hummer nodded.
Donovon signaled to Marek and the screen split in half, their acoustic weapon on the right and a diagram of a passage grave on the left. “This is a crude diagram of the combined surface configurations of all six ‘awakened’ passage graves,” he explained. “The shape is almost identical to Sonja, if the sizing was to scale, of course. Both have a long rectangular passageway or ‘firing barrel’ connected to a mounded circular conduction chamber.”
Hummer sat forward.
Marek whistled. “The graves are giant Sonjas.”
“They may look rudimentary,” Donovon said, “but their architecture is advanced. I can’t tell you how or why the graves are generating noise, but whatever ancient people built them, they knew exactly what they were doing. You might even think the graves were even created for this purpose.”
“How do we solve this problem?” Hummer asked. His voice was startlingly calm.
“Blow ‘em all to hell,” Lee said. “The graves won’t explode if they’re wiped off the bloody map.”
“But there are hundreds of them,” Thatcher said.
Marek nodded, agreeing with her. “Isbister generates sound and isn’t fully intact—the grave has a hole in the roof of its chamber. Unless we know how these noises are being generated, we have to assume destroying the monuments will have no effect.”
Hummer leaned forward. “Give me options.”
Donovon turned back to the screen.
The foreboding image of Maeshowe shrunk to its appropriate size and location on the map of Stenness Valley. The passage grave continued to detonate with sound waves radiating outward from its entrance in an oblong circle.
“We weren’t responsible for Stenness because a hill protected the village from our weapon.” Donovon drew a line between their test site and Stenness. Then he drew another line, connecting their test site and Maeshowe. “But there was no hill or land interference between Maeshowe and our camp. So, the real question nobody’s asking is ‘why in bloody hell didn’t Maeshowe kill us that night?’”
“We were in its path,” Thatcher realized.
“Find the answer to that, and you have our savin’ grace,” Donovon said.
“It did go through our site that night,” Lee said. “It knocked us flat on our arses.”
“But it didn’t kill us,” Donovon said. “Maeshowe exploded at precisely the same time Golke and Bailey fired off Sonja at full power.”
Thatcher drew in a deep breath.
The room was silent.
It was sheer dumb luck that they were alive and sitting around the conference table together?
She shook her head in disbelief. “Golke and Bailey saved our lives?”
“They fired an acoustic wave equal in magnitude to that of the passage grave,” Marek said, assembling the physics problem in his head.
Another Sonja icon lit up facing Maeshowe’s entrance. Both Maeshowe and the Sonja icons exploded.
“If we fire our weapon right as the grave explodes,” Donovon explained, “our acoustic blast will counteract the grave’s acoustic blast.”
It was brilliant.
“They’ll cancel each other out,” Marek said.
“We’ll create what’s known as a standing wave,” Donovon added.
On screen, Sonja’s sound waves collided with Maeshowe’s sound waves. They cancelled into nothing.
“Sonja saved us that night,” Donovon said. “Maybe she can do it again.”
Chapter 43
THURSDAY 1:02 a.m.
Al-Fairoz Kebabish
Northampton, England
Ian found the Rabbi hunched over the Beb’ne Hoshekh scrutinizing each Hebrew character. The man had placed a small wooden desk and chair in the second floor room above the kebabish. A metal stool sat empty beside him, and a cushioned arm chair was beside the window that Ian had broken.
The translation process was arduous. Dark circles had formed under the Rabbi’s eyes like bruises. The fragment had further disintegrated after being wetted and dried repeatedly. It held together by four strands of thin papyrus. Pencil shavings and eraser bits covered the desk. Lead stained the Rabbi’s forearms. Notepaper with Hebrew scribbles and mistranslations were strewn all over the floor. At the edge of the table sat a pile of Tanakh scrolls. Yellowed with age, the parchment was decorated with hand-printed Hebrew calligraphy. The Ketuvium sat on top, held open to the Book of Daniel with heavy brass handles.
The Rabbi dabbed a single water droplet onto the bottom of the vellum. Liquid soaked into the parchment. He held the scroll over the desk lamp and waited until the light revealed tiny Hebrew letters. He copied the text onto the notebook page. The method was repeated again and again until he reached the end.
“You’re finished?” Ian was perched over the man’s shoulder.
The Rabbi waved him off. He gathered together the torn notebook paper.
“Can I see it?” Ian took the pages and flipped through them. The Rabbi’s handwriting began in perfect cursive and quickly deteriorated into a messy scrawl. He studied the symbols, moving quickly from page to page. “Where’s the translation?”
“To write the Beb’ne Hoshekh in English is to defile it,” the Rabbi said.
Ian handed back the pages. “What does it mean?”
The Rabbi pushed his bifocals further up the bridge of his nose. For a moment, he concentrated on Ian, as if uncertain whether or not to read the facsimile. “These writings are meant for the Sons of Darkness who follow Belial of Abaddon.”
Ian looked at his bleeding palm.
“If you are with Belial, then you are predestined. You can only prepare for what is to come.” He traced his finger over the first few rows of text and translated. “‘In the final lot, the Sons of Light shall war with the Sons of Darkness. Belial shall go forth with great wrath against all who oppose him.’”
The Rabbi looked up, his mouth trembling. “This scroll tells the story of the seventh and final battle. The Apocalypse of man.”
Ian sat on the stool beside him.
He continued reading. “‘There shall be great panic as Belial awakens Sheol. And from the pit, he shall call forth four Horsemen, four men to proclaim my wrath—’”
The Rabbi stopped short.
“What’s wrong?” Ian asked.
The Rabbi looked back over the sentence and studied the words again. His finger paused over one Hebrew symbol. “‘Men,’” he read the word again, confused. “This is not right. The word should not be ‘man.’ It should be ba’al, not bahne. It should say the Four Horsemen are angelic beings, not men.”
Ian nodded.
“‘Two of my Horsemen will stand for the Sons of Light. Two of my Horsemen will stand for the Sons of Darkness.’”
For the first time, Ian admired the marking on his palm. Did he have a purpose? God promised the meek would inherit the earth.
“‘In my Holy of Holies, the Firstborn will carry my stone, and set it upon the altar as a sacrifice for hidden places.’”
“‘The Firstborn?’” Ian asked. The Holy of Holies. The stone. He didn’t understand any of it.
“‘I have hidden four seals upon the earth to be opened by the hand of man, that they might be ordained Horsemen.’”
The Rabbi removed his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. He studied the Hebrew symbol on the page again. “Another mistake of this old hand.” He laughed uneasily. “The seals are not
meant for the corruption of flesh.”
He turned to the last page. “‘In the seventh lot, the Sons of Light shall fail and none will come to their aid. Yea, not even I, their Lord.’”
Ian’s face darkened. “What?”
“I read the text again and again.” The Rabbi shook his head. “This is what it says.”
“Then you mistranslated?”
“‘Belial will destroy the Sons of Light in the Valley of Moses; the place of my first seal—”
Ian’s breath caught in his throat. “It gives the location of the first seal of the Apocalypse?”
The Rabbi repeated the Hebrew name. “Wadi Musa. The Valley of Moses.”
No longer able to sit, Ian moved to the broken window. The night air stung his face. “Brenton found the seal,” he whispered. His mind raced to put the pieces together. “That’s why they killed him.”
“Shall I finish or not?”
Ian faced the Rabbi but stayed at the window. He nodded for the Rabbi to continue.
“It says the four seals can only be removed from hidden places by the Firstborn Chosen.” His fingertip traced the page. “‘And the first horseman shall bring forth the dead who whisper my ruin.’” He paraphrased the last few lines. “The second horseman will bring the blood of war upon the earth. The third will yield the terrible, swift sword of famine. And, the last will have power over death.
“Of course,” Ian said. “St. John’s Revelations. The Four Horsemen.”
“‘In the final lot, great wickedness shall abide in the land. And the residue of the earth shall stiffen their necks and harden their hearts against me. Wherefore, their ears shall be stopped and their faith shall wax cold in abomination.’” He swallowed, his voice cracking. “‘Yea, and the Lord thy God shall forget them, even leave them to their end, for mankind hath forsaken me, insomuch that their works doth smite them down, even by the hand of Belial and his Sons of Darkness, yea, those who seek to destroy all manner of flesh. By vengeance shall darkness overcome light. And lo, all will perish, and not even one remain.’”
The Rabbi lowered the papers to his lap.
“I don’t understand,” Ian said. “God abandons us?”
“It sounds to me that we abandon Him.”
“These writings are apocryphal,” Ian tried to explain away the blasphemy, but the heaviness in his heart betrayed him. The Rabbi translated the scroll. He believed these words. “The Apocalypse is supposed to destroy evil and restore good. The meek inherit the earth.”
“That is how it has been written for centuries,” the Rabbi agreed. “To think otherwise is to turn one’s back on God.”
They silently took in the full meaning of the Beb’ne Hoshekh.
The Rabbi tossed his pages onto the table.
“It must be true,” Ian whispered, turning to the window. “Why else would they murder him?”
The Rabbi pointed at Ian’s wounded hand. “‘By vengeance shall darkness overcome light.’ Isn’t that what you seek? Vengeance for your father’s death?”
Ian remained silent.
“Then God will abandon you.”
The bell of a nearby clock tower rang out with startling candor. Both men jumped as if caught in transgression.
“Is it morning already?” the Rabbi asked, surprised. “What day is it?”
“Thursday.” Ian wrapped himself in his overcoat. “I better go.”
The Rabbi looked haggard, as if translating the document had aged him near death. A mantle of unwanted wisdom pressed heavily on his shoulders. “The God I know is a God of peace,” he said. “I believe he will redeem those who have been forsaken. My people have suffered enough.”
“But if any man can become Horseman—”
The Rabbi stood. “That was a mistranslation. Only angelic beings can issue forth the Apocalypse.”
Ian turned towards the door.
“Wash your hands of this, Priest,” the Rabbi warned. “It cannot be true, and if it is, have no part in it.”
The Rabbi turned back to his desk. After a moment, he spotted Ian’s scarf. He grabbed the cloth and ran to the hallway, but Ian was already gone. He went to the window, and the street below was empty. He set the scarf back on the desk and gathered together his copied pages. Fingering through them, he searched for the Hebrew word that had eluded him.
Bahne: Mortal man.
The misspelling had been consistent throughout his entire reproduction. How could he make such a simple mistake and so often? The word had to be ba’al, angelic lord. It was a simple error with terrifying ramifications.
To say the Horsemen of the Apocalypse could be mortal was to defile the divine.
The Rabbi placed one of the fragments over the lamp. He dotted the middle of the paper with a single droplet of water. Moisture seeped into the vellum and the red writing appeared. He reread the sentence.
The word he wanted was at the edge of the water stain, just out of view. Rewetting the fragment a centimeter to the left, he placed the parchment back over the light.
Bahne: mortal man.
He gasped. The translation was correct.
Any man could possess the power of the seals.
The door creaked open behind him. An icy gust blew in from the hallway.
The Rabbi reached for the scarf. “Father Ian, you forgot—”
A bullet exploded through the Rabbi’s chest. He collapsed against the desk. His blood spilled over the scroll. The Hebrew symbol bahne disappeared under the stain, never to be read again.
Chapter 44
THURSDAY 10:50 a.m.
Athens, Greece
David’s stomach growled. The smell of roasted gyros overwhelmed the cab. He opened his mouth and concentrated on the odor, hoping he could actually taste it. No such luck.
The five measly peanuts from his red-eye flight had been his only meal. The tiny, salty bastards practically disintegrated before they reached his stomach. His empty insides lurched as the taxi wove in and out of traffic. The marina came into view, its docks crowded with dilapidated fishing boats. The stench of fish poured into the car, and his hunger changed to nausea. To keep his mind occupied, he pulled Ehrman’s matchbox from his coat pocket and juggled it between his fingers.
“Attalos,” the driver barked, narrowly missing the fender of a parked car. They stopped along the curb.
David looked up at a ramshackle sign posted over the doorway of a two-story hotel. The fading sign read Attalos Hotel in large block letters. According to the matchbox, this was the place. A total dump. Why Brenton and his associates would ever choose to meet here was anybody’s guess.
David thumbed through his wallet and handed the driver a few drachma.
“Efcharisto,” he thanked the man and stepped out of the cab. The only Greek he knew was the ancient, dead form of the language.
The driver frowned at the cash.
David pulled some Euro out of his pocket. The cabbie snatched it away and sped off.
Welcome to Greece.
Pocketing the matchbox, David entered the hotel lobby through a broken screen door. Tweed window treatments blocked sunlight from entering the smoke-filled lounge. A collection of wilting plastic plants decorated the dreary entry way. Men sat around a table in the step-down lounge, smoking cigars as they played cards.
David stopped at the concierge desk and rang the counter service bell.
A young man in a ratty t-shirt and stonewashed jeans stood up from the poker table and stepped behind the counter. “Gia’sou?”
“Hey.” David didn’t even bother trying to speak in Greek.
“You need room?”
“I’m looking for Dr. Vanderkam,” David replied. “I think he’s staying here.”
The concierge studied a wooden placard on the wall behind him. Keys dangled from most of the hooks—most likely the available rooms. His finger jumped from empty peg to empty peg. He turned back to David. “No Vanderkam.”
“Do you know if he’s stayed here before?”
>
“Before what?”
“Has a Vanderkam ever stayed here?”
The concierge shrugged. “We have many visitor.” He traced the board again with his finger, as if some forgotten information might be revealed with the proper incentive.
“He’s a German guy, with a thick beard.” David made the universal hand sign for beard, and then remembered the Polaroid. He took the picture from his pocket and pointed at Vanderkam. “Him.”
The concierge glanced at the picture. “I have bad memory.”
“You do, huh?”
“More or less.”
David pulled his wallet from his pocket and tossed some drachma onto the counter. “How’s your memory now?”
The man sneered. “Drachma is worthless.”
David opened his wallet and slid ten Euro across the counter.
The concierge raised an eyebrow and pocketed the money. He studied the photograph. “I never see him.”
David gave an irritated sigh.
“This man, I see.” The concierge pointed at Ehrman. “He ask see room. I show him room. He stay ten minutes, then he leave.”
“When was this?” David asked.
The concierge shook his head. “Long time.”
“Yeah, exactly how long?”
The concierge shrugged.
“Days, weeks, months?”
“Three weeks. More or less.”
“I’d like to see the room you showed him.”
The concierge hesitated.
David tossed down a larger bill. The man scooped up the currency with a stiff nod. He pulled a ring of keys from below the counter and motioned for David to follow him upstairs.
The concierge placed a key into the door lock and jiggled the handle. The door swung open.
David stepped inside. The tiny, asphyxiating hotel room was made even smaller by a twin mattress on the floor, a sink in the far right corner, and a toilet—or something vaguely resembling a toilet, set against the back wall. A window at the opposite end of the room had been cracked open. Salty sea air and the smell of dead fish wafted in from outside.
“Mind if I look around?” David asked.