by Brandt Legg
After breakfast, still unable to reach Rip, Larsen phoned Josh and told him what happened at the camp after he left with the hidden casing. “Where are Gale and Rip?” he asked.
“I was hoping you knew. I got the casing to the lab this morning. My brother should have picked them up hours ago. What if they got arrested? I never should have gotten my brother into this,” Josh said, while navigating heavy traffic, trying to get to Interstate 95.
“Sean will be all right. Rip is a brilliant guy; he’ll figure out how to get away. Even if they get caught, Sean is just giving a ride to his brother’s friends. No crime there.”
“I wish I shared your optimism. Sean usually doesn’t need any help finding trouble, if you know what I mean.”
Larsen let out a stilted laugh.
“What really bothers me is how the FBI found out so fast? They were on the forest road before Gale and Rip even took the artifacts,” Josh said.
“I know. Rip should have done this the proper way. He didn’t just screw up his career. I’m going to have to deal with this affecting my future as well.”
They agreed to meet a few hours later at Josh’s house in Fredericksburg, Virginia. No longer camping at the dig site, Larsen needed a place to stay and didn’t want to return home to Florida until he knew what happened to Gale, Rip, and the artifacts. Larsen, still angry at what had happened since his find, had been surprised by his friend’s actions. In all the years they’d worked together on the Cosega Theory, he’d always known him to be meticulous. But at the same time he’d been aware of Rip’s obsession with finding proof. It always seemed as if Rip was searching for something he himself had lost.
A technician had recorded every word of the conversation between Larsen and Josh, and immediately contacted Barbeau. Less than half an hour later, agents interviewed classmates who knew Sean Stadler; they brought his girlfriend in for questioning, and scared her. Forty minutes after that, a black SUV pulled up to the Bethesda lab. At first, Ian denied all knowledge, but the agents, armed with search warrants, knew too much. Even after they had the casing, Ian watched in horror as they tore apart the lab looking for anything else. They released him after a grueling interrogation with instructions not to leave town.
The “artifact” would be at FBI headquarters within forty-five minutes. Barbeau enjoyed the victory. “It’s only a matter of time,” he told Hall. Still, he worried that it didn’t completely match the description the students had given. Gaines must have the other half.
“We agree,” Hall said, “that they were tipped off prior to our raid on the dig site. Then why, if his motive was theft, did Gaines risk or even bother with sending half of the priceless artifact out to a lab? The date could have been determined anytime.”
That same thought already troubled Barbeau.
“Even the government’s archaeologists say the dig protocols were impeccable and the witnesses all insist that oval thing, Gaines called an Odeon and the globe came out of the cliff. The initial findings put the age of the limestone foundation between ten and eleven million years old.”
“It’s not possible. Look at this thing.” Barbeau pointed to the photo on his iPad. “This object is clearly created by an intelligent and skilled human. There weren’t any around ten million years ago.”
“It’s not even close. One of the experts told me that detailed stone carvings have been done for only a few thousand years. And all those perfect circles are precise, like a laser cut them.”
“Gaines is a smart man. He isn’t going to simply run off with some precious artifact from a dig and sell it. He’d never get away with that, but what about an elaborate hoax? You’ve read the file. Gaines has a controversial theory he’s been trying to prove.”
“The Cosega Theory.”
“Right, so it’s eroding his reputation in the field. He’s got a book coming out. It’s make or break time in his career. He orchestrates a bogus find that could confirm his theory,” Barbeau said, impatiently.
“Sounds far-fetched. How does he get away with that?”
“I don’t know. Takes an artifact from a dig in Africa and drops it into the woods of Virginia somewhere. He’s at the top of his profession, he would know exactly what to do, and few would be able to question him.”
“Why risk it? To sell books?”
“No. I’m telling you, his theory borders on quackery. No one else in the scientific community thinks it’s possible. He can’t back down or he looks stupid and he can’t continue much longer without proof. Gaines is on the verge of losing his grants, his teaching positions, TV appearances, book deal, everything.”
“I don’t know,” Hall shook his head.
“Tell me this. Stealing an artifact, running through the night, are those the normal actions of a stable upstanding scientist?”
“No.”
“Hell no! Those are the acts of a desperate man.”
“What about the reporter?” Hall asked.
“She knows a good story when she sees one.”
“Maybe. But as far as we can tell, they didn’t know each other prior to yesterday. So why would Gaines take her along if he’s made it all up?”
“I don’t know yet. Gaines has had more time to think about all this than I have. But I’ll figure it out, or I’ll catch him first, then make him explain.”
Barbeau caught Hall shaking his head again.
“You have a problem with me, Hall?”
“Nope, just impressed with your confidence.”
“You played football in college, right?”
“Tennis.”
“Are you joking?”
Hall shook his head.
“Funny, you look like a football player.”
“Because I’m black?”
“Yeah. Uh, no. Because you have that solid build thing going on. Look, don’t make everything about race. My point is in football, you don’t get the touchdowns if you keep looking behind you. I’m heading to the goal line with this case and then I’m going to slam dunk Gaines.”
Hall decided to ignore the mixed metaphor.
After its arrival in D.C., technicians shot more than a hundred digital photos of the casing. Moments later, Attorney General Dover reviewed them on his computer and, as requested, forwarded them to the Vatican. Twenty minutes later, Church scholars carefully studied the shots. Computers ran models and dissected the patterns within the visible carvings. Recommendations moved through a worried hierarchy. They wanted these artifacts. They woke the Pope.
Somewhere deep below St. Peter’s Square, beyond the millions of volumes in the Vatican Library, and past the secret archives, a series of vaults, accessible to only a few, housed a collection of scrolls and documents. These hidden texts were so mysterious that only the faintest of rumors across the centuries had kept the possibility of their existence alive. The photos from the FBI made it necessary for the vaults to be opened for the first time in decades.
Chapter 12
Pisano got word about the casing as the three Vatican agents pulled into the parking lot of a sprawling brick church. Although the news delighted him, Nanski’s mood turned grave when he saw the photo on Pisano’s laptop.
Pisano explained the first break in the case, gave them each backpacks, and outlined their mission; piggy-back on the FBI manhunt but, by God, get to them first. The backpacks contained a couple of satphones, two GPS devices, night goggles, maps, photos of the targets, and of course, weapons. “We want the artifacts, nothing else matters. We don’t need the people.”
Leary understood the implied instructions and, although he didn’t enjoy it, he would, if necessary, kill again for the Church. He believed himself to be a soldier of God and had no doubt that the ends always justified the means. “Evil is everywhere,” he thought. “Attacks on my church are attacks on me and will be defended.” The former linebacker sucked on an eight-month-old candy cane he had found in a Sunday School teacher’s desk. “This brainy dirt-digger is going to be fun to knock around,” Leary
said. Pisano glanced across at Nanski, with a can-you-keep-him-under-control look.
“Nothing about this one is going to be fun,” Nanski said, fidgeting with his Saint Christopher medal.
Twenty minutes after they arrived, Leary and Nanski climbed into a brand new white Toyota Forerunner and headed west on Interstate 66 toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. Leary drove.
“How do you get your hair that short?” Nanski asked as Leary took off his Notre Dame cap.
“Patience, one hair at a time.”
Nanski shook his head. “Is that a cross shaved on your temple?” he asked.
“Sure is.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Crazy for Jesus!” Leary whooped.
Nanski reviewed the initial FBI report and the two updates in the folder. “Professor Ripley Gaines, age thirty-nine, left the research camp on foot with a female reporter, Gale Asher, age thirty-four, at approximately eleven a.m. on Tuesday, July eleventh.” Nanski checked his watch. “It’s now four-fourteen p.m., July twelfth. They’ve got a twenty-nine-hour head start. We won’t even get to the area for three more hours.”
“The feds will probably pick them up before we hit the Blue Ridge Parkway. Why are you so worried?” Leary asked.
“The US government cannot be allowed to have both pieces.”
“What is that stone thing anyway?”
“Something that could bring down the Vatican.”
Leary knew his friend to be cautious and pragmatic. He’d never heard Nanski sensationalize anything. “How?”
“It’s part of the prophecies of Saint Malachy.”
“But the prophecies of Saint Malachy are a fraud.”
“I wish it were so.”
“Okay, even if they are genuine. I’ve read about them and they don’t say anything about an artifact like this.”
“You only know of Malachy’s prophecy about the Popes. But he said much more and it concerns our current mission. Malachy predicted this.”
“A twelfth century archbishop wrote about Gaines?”
“One of Malachy’s hidden prophecies is titled Phialam Insignem Lapidem Ponetis. The Latin translates roughly to stone bowl bearing carvings.”
“But this isn’t a bowl. It’s part of a globe.”
“Malachy is brief in his description but it is clear. Two bowls together hold the secret.”
“What secret?”
“The secret that will end the Church.”
Leary gasped.
Pisano had been told enough about the hidden prophecies to convince the Attorney General to cooperate, but he’d never read them; only a handful ever had. Nanski was one of the few. The two men fell silent for many miles.
If Barbeau believed he would eventually capture the fugitives, Hall felt less certain about an early victory. The couple’s flight had begun thirty hours earlier. Even though they left on foot, any number of roads – Interstates 81 and 64; Highways 11, 60, and 501; the Blue Ridge Parkway; and more than ten secondary routes – were within their hiking range. The Bureau had agents in all the major towns – Lexington, Buena Vista, Lynchburg, Harrisonburg, Roanoke, Staunton – but it was impossible to know in which direction to look. Depending on whether they’d managed to acquire a vehicle, they could already be in any of six states or even on a plane.
Dozens of local police departments were involved. The cover story cited domestic terrorism. Due to the sensitive nature of the investigation, a complete media blackout had been ordered by the Department of Homeland Security. Barbeau was counting on a slip. “Criminals always make mistakes. It isn’t detective work that gets them, it’s their screw-ups,” he told Hall. “We know Gaines has a satphone. Gale Asher and Sean Stadler each have cell phones; one call and we’ll have them.”
“You’re forgetting Gaines has a genius level IQ. Mistakes aren’t as likely with him.”
“You’re forgetting that many criminals are highly intelligent.”
“I’m not so sure Gaines is a criminal.”
“How did you get this job, Hall? Was it an affirmative action thing?”
“Screw you, Barbeau. You think anyone the Bureau is after is a crook. Did you know that the US Constitution says Gaines is innocent until proven guilty?”
“The courts can decide that question. My job is to get the thieving bastard in handcuffs so they can sentence him to jail time.”
Rip took Sean’s cell phone battery out and zipped it into his pack that already held Gale’s iPhone and his satphone. Not far from Peaks of Otter an oncoming car flashed its lights.
“Pull over, now!” Rip shouted.
Gale and Rip ran into the woods. Around the next bend, Park Rangers waved Sean into a roadblock. They checked his driver’s license and glanced in the car. An FBI agent would have recorded his name and crosschecked it against the ones from the camp, and the computer would have made the connection between Sean and Josh Stadler in seconds. But the rangers who had been ordered to hastily set up the roadblock were still waiting for the FBI to show up with more instructions. They knew this gangly college student in an old Jeep didn’t match the description of a mid-thirties or mid-forties couple they were given, and let him pass.
Chapter 13
Sean drove extra slowly. Several cars passed him. A half-mile ahead he pulled over at a trailhead and waited. Rip emerged cautiously from the woods. After making eye contact and getting a thumbs-up from Sean, he went back for Gale. They made Roanoke minutes before officials set up another checkpoint.
The Blue Ridge Parkway wound along the peaks and cliffs three- to four-thousand feet above picturesque valleys, but Gale and Rip missed it all; they were asleep before the Jeep left Virginia. Five hours later, Rip awoke disoriented.
“We’re in North Carolina but still about sixty miles from Asheville,” Sean said, switching hands on the wheel. “Should we stay on the Parkway? There’s been no sign of trouble.” Their voices woke Gale.
“Let’s stay the course. Pull over the next chance you get and I’ll drive.” Rip checked his watch. At their current speed, it would be sometime around six p.m. when they got to Asheville. Rip wanted to find a phone, and he and Gale were very hungry; trail mix, carrots, celery, and energy bars had sustained them for more than twenty-four hours. Food is somewhat scarce on the Parkway but they were near Crabtree Meadows, a trailhead to Crabtree Falls, with a rustic restaurant and country gas station. As a precaution, they parked between two large RVs. Rip kept his pack with him. They ordered food to go.
The waitress shook her head. “You folks just relax, things are slower here in the mountains,” she said in a southern drawl.
Gale paid the bill, Sean got gas, and Rip placed a call from an old payphone. Sean insisted on driving the rest of the way, said he didn’t like anyone else driving his “luxury ride.” He wondered how long they’d be gone and wanted to call his girlfriend, but thought it might be a dumb idea.
“I phoned an old friend in Pennsylvania,” Rip said, explaining his ploy, “and asked him to drive to a payphone. He’s going to call Larsen and tell him we’re okay. He’ll give Larsen a message that we’re in Erie, Pennsylvania.” He glanced over at Gale for effect. “Then he’ll say that we’ve got a friend who will help us get across the lake and we’ll be in touch once we’re in Canada.”
The Parkway reminded Gale of the country roads in Vermont where she grew up. Her youth held the seeds for why she had volunteered to become a fugitive. Feeling a constant pressure to create, she found writing to be a way to search for a lost understanding that haunted her, something that could explain what it all meant. She always sensed there was one piece of her life’s puzzle missing. Early on, she developed an interest in theology, then esoteric concepts, and non-religious spiritual philosophies. As an adult she knew they were an attempt to fill that void, but it only seemed to clarify the absence of something more. But when they pulled the globe from that cliff and she saw it light up, a surge of emotions overwhelmed her. It all seemed familiar, the Eysen, Rip, ev
en the carvings, and the gold bands on the Odeon. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself. But when they heard people were coming after them to get the artifacts, it didn’t surprise her; she’d been almost expecting it, at least subconsciously. She didn’t know why, didn’t know what the discovery meant, but she was sure that following Rip and protecting the ancient treasures was something she had to do.
There were more than a hundred men in the woods. Dogs picked up the scent and followed it to Indian Rocks. It was lost again at a nearby storage shed, but they had tire tracks. At the same time, an agent phoned Barbeau from Lynchburg. Sean Stadler owned a 1987 red Jeep Wrangler – the tires matched. Barbeau called off the foot-search. “They’re in that Jeep. Get the word out.” He told a subordinate the plate number and then found Hall. “Let’s get back to Washington, the Director wants a meeting.” Hall put an agent in charge; the camp would be kept secure, government research would continue, but he did not expect to return. On the helicopter flight, Hall studied photos of Gaines and Asher on his computer. He believed the face of the accused held more clues than the crime scene.
Leary and Nanski were in Warrenton, forty-five minutes into their trip, when they heard from Pisano. They turned onto US-17 and drove in the opposite direction from the mountains. They could be in Fredericksburg in just under an hour. With confirmation that the targets were in a vehicle, the search broadened. While waiting for the next break, Pisano wanted them to have a chat with Josh Stadler, who had seen the casing, knew what it contained, and had photos.
Larsen looked at his phone, “Restricted.” He answered. The caller identified himself as a friend of Rip’s. Larsen pulled into a convenience store parking lot and listened. He thanked the caller, relieved to hear they were safe and nearly to Canada. Larsen wanted to relay the news to Josh but decided to wait until they met; he’d be in Fredericksburg in about an hour.