Mary nodded distractedly. “I sent a dump of data from his phone back to Rome. Apparently Lunev reports to the GRU.”
Ava frowned.
Russian military intelligence?
She knew all about them. Whole teams at MI5 and MI6 tracked the GRU day and night. They were less well known to the public than the KGB – now renamed the FSB – but were older, bigger, and far more active.
They were also a lot more dangerous.
What did the GRU want with the Shroud?
“Lunev’s phone shows a large number of calls to a big dacha on the Black Sea. It’s owned by an oil oligarch named Oleg Antonevich Durov, who’s heavily connected in the Kremlin.”
Ava’s mind was whirring.
The Kremlin?
She had assumed the heist was arranged by one of Russia’s organized crime gangs employing a group of soldiers moonlighting on the black market. But if the Kremlin was involved, that cast a whole different light on it. The modern Kremlin was an exceptionally sophisticated and dangerous organization.
“And,” Mary looked up from her phone at Ava, “Major Lunev is probably now well on his way back to Moscow. He knows exactly what you and I look like, and it won’t take the Kremlin long to realize that we were with the SAS team for a reason, and that we almost certainly now have the Shroud.”
Ava turned to look at the image of the mutilated body laid out on the bench.
If Mary was right, it looked like she could expect a visit from a Russian team before too long.
Chapter 9
The West Wing
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington DC
The United States of America
RICHARD EASTON HAD occupied the large comfortable corner office for more years than he could remember. In that time, he had made it entirely his, bringing in his own furniture, and filling the dark mahogany bookcases with treasures from his personal library.
If he was honest with himself, most of it was for show – the Harvard yearbooks, constitutional histories of the US, and bound volumes of Supreme Court judgements. There was even a small section on biographies of the sporting greats. People who came to his office liked seeing that sort of thing.
But the only area that really interested him was tucked away in the corner, where few people looked. It featured volumes on the political histories of the world’s great nations – the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Russia, Spain, Portugal. He had recently added a shelf on China and India: the two economic areas to watch. But the books that really fascinated him – that he pulled down when it was late and no one was around – were on the shelf about Israel. They covered everything from the Hebrews’ earliest wanderings, all the way up to the modern military geopolitics of the Near East.
His interest was not in Judaism as a religion. He was of pure Anglo-Saxon descent, and his family had been pillars of the Presbyterian Church for generations. What enthralled him were the prophecies in the Book, and how they were all turning out to be true.
He walked over to the deep Chesterfield armchair, and picked up the crystal carafe from the elegant side table. He poured himself a glass of chilled water, savouring the sound of the ice crackling in the heavy leaded glass.
Loosening his tie, he took up a large leather-bound book from the shelf beside the table, and eased himself into the heavily padded chair.
It had been a long day overseeing National Security Council committees. Relaxing now, he opened the book’s thick covers on his knees, and returned to the page he had marked with the purple ribbon.
The archaic print would have been challenging for most people to read, but he had long ago taught himself to understand its cramped spiky columns.
It was, he knew, an immensely valuable volume – one of the earliest, of which there were only a few hundred left. Not an original from 1611, or one of the blasphemous 1631 reprints with the outrageous commandment, ‘Thou shalt commit adultery’. No. This one was the pure and uncorrupted word of God.
The ancient book had come down through the male line in his family, solemnly entrusted from father to son, having been brought from England by a direct ancestor – one of the earliest settlers aboard the Mayflower.
He did not draw attention to the treasure publicly. In fact, no one had ever even noticed it on his shelves. The White House was a busy place, and few people had time for his old books.
That suited him just fine. He had no desire to share his innermost thoughts with them anyway.
They would know soon enough.
He looked down at the dense columns of text, seeking the line that always filled his heart with joy.
It was all here, he knew, in the Apocalypse.
It had all been foretold by John, two thousand years ago, on the Greek island of Patmos.
His eyes ran down the page.
He stared at the ancient words, hope and excitement surging.
He knew what was to come.
He read on.
He smiled.
It would not be long before it came to pass.
Things had already begun.
The offices around him were buzzing with outrage and alarm about the jihadi video that had been uploaded onto the front page of the White House’s website.
Questions were already being asked at the highest level about how this could have happened. There was talk of coordinating a military response to the unprecedented attack on the dignity of the President. Meanwhile, on social media, a slew of jihadist videos was going viral around the world, inspiring groups and individuals to acts that were once unthinkable.
Something was definitely happening.
It was not as shocking as all that, Easton smiled to himself. Anyone who had read the Bible knew that there had to be the war of the Antichrist before there could be the Rapture and salvation.
DAY TWO
Chapter 10
British Museum
Bloomsbury
London WC1
England
The United Kingdom
“THE GRU ARE nasty,” he grimaced. “You don’t want to get mixed up with them.”
Ava looked over at the man standing on the other side of the most famous piece of granite in the world. He had not changed in the three years since they had first met at the US Central Command military base in Qatar.
As Swinton had mentioned in her kitchen, the US Army and Defence Intelligence Agency had called her in, and asked her to assist with an African militia holding what they claimed was the Ark of the Covenant. In no time, she had ended up in a vortex of extremism and violence – a world beyond anything she had previously experienced.
Ferguson had been an MI6 odd-job man – an ex-soldier, helping out the intelligence services. Throughout the operation, he had stayed by her side. He had not been obliged to. But he did. And despite her inclination to work alone, she had been surprised to find his help – and his companionship – very welcome.
When it was all over, he had returned to his former profession and got a job in Baghdad as an architect, where they had become close friends. But, before she knew it, the deteriorating security situation in Iraq had ended her museum contract in Baghdad, and she had been summoned back to London.
Ferguson had eventually made his way home to London, too. But whatever might have happened between them never did. She sensed he was disappointed and still slightly hopeful, but the moment had passed.
“Honestly,” he was looking serious. “The GRU are trouble you can do without.”
“Any idea why they might be interested in antiquities?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Assassinations and unpleasant interrogations are more their line.”
She sank back into thought, staring down at the angled slab of pink-streaked granite.
“We’ve got over eight million objects here in the Museum, but not a single one about Jesus that dates from his lifetime.”
“Does any museum?” He peered low over
the three scripts incised into the ancient stone, comparing the Egyptian hieroglyphics, Egyptian demotic, and Greek.
She shook her head. “Not unless we’re all mistaken about the piece of ancient linen I’ve got in the lab downstairs.”
He glanced up, a dubious expression on his face. “I hadn’t put you down as a Shroudie?”
“That’s not quite what I mean.” She tapped the Rosetta Stone, tracing the Greek writing with her finger. “Take this. It’s a proclamation about a child king called Ptolemy V Epiphanes. He was Cleopatra’s great-great-grandfather. Like other pharaohs, he was worshipped as a living god. This stone is one of the most famous objects in the world. And yet, Ptolemy V is hardly a household name. Jesus, on the other hand – another living god – was born only a few hundred years after Ptolemy, and currently has over two billion living followers. But he left no stones like this. In fact, there’s no archaeological proof he ever even existed.”
“Unless the Shroud is real.”
The voice came from behind Ava.
She turned around, surprised by the sudden intrusion.
It was Swinton.
He nodded a tired greeting. “So did our Russian friends have the Shroud from the cathedral?”
“It looks like it, from what I can tell.” Ava nodded. “Mary’s taking it back to Turin tonight.”
Swinton grunted, then pulled a large smartphone from his pocket. He swiped it, bringing up a photograph, which he held out for Ava to see.
“This is the Russian oligarch, Oleg Antonevich Durov.” He was speaking more quietly now. “We verified the information Mary got off Lunev’s phone. It all checks out.”
Ava gazed down at the screen.
The man looked in his mid-forties. Intelligent blue eyes shone out from a broad face with high Slavic cheekbones and long brown hair swept back in a ponytail. There was something keenly knowing about his gaze. Charismatic, even.
“From what little we know,” Swinton continued, “even by the low standards of Kremlin gangsters, he’s in a league of his own. Not a friendly fellow. After the farce in Nuremberg, it’s possible he knows who you are. So if you see him or his men, take the threat seriously.”
“Where is he now?” She stared at the face, burning it into her memory. “His dacha on the Black Sea?”
Swinton shook his head. “Closer to home. He’s here, opening an exhibition on cultural art this evening at the Russian Embassy.”
Ava’s jaw tightened.
Ever since Swinton had first shown her the footage from Turin cathedral, she had been wrestling with the same thought, returning to it again and again.
What on earth did the Russians want with the Turin Shroud?
Now she knew the Kremlin was involved, the question bothered her even more.
It was exactly the sort of problem that got under her skin – a collision of intelligence work and archaeology.
And now Durov was in London.
“Send me,” she announced.
Swinton clicked the phone off, shaking his head. “Handling a man like Durov needs detailed regional expertise. Kremlinology is a minefield. We’re putting our Russia desk onto it.”
Ava thought she detected a note of hostility in his voice.
Or was it fear?
She continued. “Whatever this is about,” a new hardness entered her voice, “it’s clearly not regular Kremlin intrigue. The highest circles in Moscow now embrace Orthodox Christianity as a badge of social elitism. Whoever runs with this assignment needs to understand ancient Christianity, the Orthodox Church, and the Shroud – I do.”
Swinton put the phone back in his pocket. “I’m sorry, Dr Curzon. This follow up is not for you. But we’ll call if we need anything.” His tone left no doubt that this was the end of the conversation. “Meanwhile, be vigilant.”
With that, he turned and was gone.
Ava looked back down at the inscription on the Rosetta Stone. Its elusive secret had not been unlocked until Thomas Young realized that the hieroglyphs run in the direction the animals face, and the pictures are not words, but a mixture of letters and sounds. With those two small revelations, the whole world of ancient Egyptian writing had been cracked open, and the carvings on hundreds of temples and sculptures became readable for the first time in a millennium and a half.
Things could seem so inexplicable, she reflected. But then, with the smallest insight, all could suddenly become clear.
“Come on then.” She shot a glance over at Ferguson. “No time like the present. We need to do some homework.”
“Here we go.” He shook his head and smiled as he followed her out of the Museum and into the staff carpark. “I must’ve misheard when he said ‘case closed’.”
Ava passed a row of cars, and stopped in front of a long low vintage motorcycle.
She climbed onto the old-fashioned brown leather triangular seat – more like one for an old bicycle than a motorbike – and kicked the starter.
Ferguson sat down on the passenger cushion mounted on the glossy black mudguard.
“We need to make a few calls to brush up on Russian art,” she shouted over the noise of the engine. “First up: Pushkin House. Then we’ve got an important exhibition to get to tonight.”
Chapter 11
Camp Filon
The Golan Heights
Israeli-Occupied Syria
THE DUST-CAKED ACHZARIT heavy armoured personnel carrier rumbled back towards base. From its top hatch, the gunner surveyed the surroundings through the sights on its machine gun.
Built on a modified Soviet T-54/T-55 tank chassis, and armed with a state-of-the-art remote-control weapons system, its name, ‘Cruel’, was not an idle boast.
In the back, Private Danny Aronov sat on the hard metal seat, barely noticing the vehicle’s lumbering progress. It was sweltering inside the metal hulk, and he was dripping with sweat under the heavy Kevlar body armour and helmet.
He stared from behind his cheap knockoff Raybans at his three platoon mates.
He had known this would be a difficult two and a half years. His friends had warned him that military service was going to be physically tough. He had not minded that. He had got into shape, and looked forward to serving his country.
What he had not been prepared for was the other guys in his artillery section.
They were rich kids with places at top universities, endlessly rubbing his less privileged background in his face. They weren’t subtle about it either. They made him feel small. Like dirt.
He grimaced.
They had a surprise coming.
He might not be going on to a flash education abroad, but he did know the history of his people. Where they had come from. Their struggles. The hostility. He knew how hard they had fought.
And he knew what was written.
What did Israel even mean for them, he wondered? Was it just another club to get the badge from, before heading off to boardroom tables?
Well, they were soon going to wish they had read the Scriptures, like he had.
Then they would see who was laughing.
The First Sergeant in charge of them, Gilad, was a good guy. Normal. But he could not see everything that happened. And there was no way Danny was going to grass up the others.
He was not afraid of them though.
In fact, he had nothing but contempt for them.
And today would be a big day.
There was a reckoning coming.
Anyone who looked around knew it. Even the Christians. Not that he was one of those Messianic Jews who followed Jesus. He pitied them. Jesus was obviously not the Moshiach. He had not unified the tribes, or ushered in a Messianic age of peace. Nevertheless, the early Christians had listened to the wise ones, and they had heard the warnings.
As had he.
There were many ancient prophecies of the End Times in the Nevi’im and Ketuvim, if you knew where to look. The seers like Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Joel, and Zechariah had spoken plainly. And the mighty Daniel �
� after whom Danny had been named – had been gifted the greatest vision of all: of a reckoning, justice, and salvation.
Danny knew the verses off by heart:
As I looked on, Thrones were set in place, And the Ancient of Days took His seat. His garment was white like snow, and the hair of His head was like lamb’s wool. His throne was tongues of flame; Its wheels were blazing fire. A river of fire streamed forth before Him; Thousands upon thousands served him; Myriads upon myriads attended Him; The court sat and the books were opened.
The armoured personnel carrier’s eight hundred and fifty horsepower engine grunted, bringing Danny back to the present as the vehicle began mounting the steep incline up to the blast walls of the barracks.
He blinked slowly, focusing himself.
He knew exactly what he was going to do.
When the thick rear door finally popped open, he climbed out of its sweaty soupy air, hauling his M4A1 and backpack into the dusty Israeli sunshine, pulling off his helmet, and feeling the mountain wind cool his head.
In the distance, he could see Mount Hermon, where the Watcher angels had descended to Earth in the book of Enoch. Its snow-capped peak shone brightly in the summer sun, filling him with confidence. He breathed in the cool air, and headed directly for the Quartermaster’s cage, leaving the others joking by the vehicle.
The Master Sergeant grunted as Danny placed the carbine, magazines, and pair of fragmentation grenades onto the counter.
“Flashbang?” the older man muttered, pulling the items through a hatch in the grille, then placing them on a shelf behind him.
“Discharged,” Danny lied. “Training.”
“Then bring me the form.” The quartermaster shot him a stern look. “Before I have to remind you.”
“No problem.” Danny nodded, then headed back out into the sunshine with his backpack slung over his shoulder.
The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2) Page 7