“Oh, of course you do. He learned it from the Therapeutae in Egypt.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed. The Therapeutae was a monastic Jewish sect of medical experts that had existed around two thousand years ago, mostly in the vicinity of Alexandria, Egypt. The great Jewish philosopher Philo had written, “For they read the Holy Scriptures and draw out in thought and allegory their ancestral philosophy, since they regard the literal meanings as symbols of an inner hidden nature revealing itself in covert ideas.” In essence, they were a bunch of magicians given to creating healing spells, but they also worked with real ingredients. Including bodily fluids. Therapeutae added parts of themselves to their formulas: saliva, blood, urine. Often ancient magicians burned locks of their hair and added the ash to the cure.
“Okay,” he said. “If the ointment was real, the Therapeutae were the most advanced physicians of the time, but there’s no actual historical evidence that Jesus studied with the Therapeutae. And I suspect the ointment is a myth. Did you actually read my article?”
“Oh, yes, many times, Professor. You missed some critical points, though, I must say.”
Martin’s brows lifted. “I’ll have you know I am the world’s leading expert on the Marham-i-Isa myth. So if I missed something, I want to know about it. Are you a paleographer or a—”
“It’s not a myth.” She did not smile. She stared back at him with those same blazing fanatical eyes. His skin began to prickle.
Clearly delusional. Time to end this conversation.
He rose from his desk and gestured to the door. “I’m sure you understand that I have many students waiting to ask important questions about my last class, so—”
“Don’t you want to find it?”
Martin propped his palms on his desk and leaned toward her. “It’s been missing for thousands of years, and the best minds in the world have searched for it. How would you know where it is?”
“It’s not missing.”
“Have you been researching those crazy sites on the internet? I can pretty much assure you that the claims those loonies make are preposterous. Their so-called cures don’t heal lepers or raise the dead, let alone—”
“I’m talking about the real thing, Dr. Nadai.”
She watched him with a hawklike alertness, as though waiting for him to make a wrong move so she could sink her talons into his throat. Martin said, “Okay, I’ll play. Where is it?”
She rose, placed her palms on the desk opposite his, and leaned toward him until their faces were only inches apart. She smelled like a flowery soap. “Have lunch with me, Professor. I’ll tell you everything.”
She stood so still. Yet her muscles had contracted and bulged through her clothing. Martin had the feeling they were facing off for an epic battle.
“I’m not having lunch with you unless I know that you’re something more than a religious wacko and right now—”
“It’s hidden in a cave in Egypt. The cave is located in Black Canyon. I just don’t know where exactly. The canyon is hundreds of miles long. Your palindrome will help me nail down the exact location.”
He stiffened. “How do you know about the palindrome?”
A palindrome is a word, phrase, number, or other sequence that reads the same backward as forward, though frequently it doesn’t seem to because modern linguists fail to realize that ancient writers made allowances for capital letters, punctuation, breathing spots, and word dividers. In the case of Coptic texts of ritual power, it took a very skilled specialist to identify a palindrome. The palindrome he’d discovered had been woven into what appeared to be a list of divine names. And the palindrome was a clue to the cave where the Marham-i-Isa had been hidden almost two thousand years ago.
She gave him a faint smile. “Do you know why the U.S. government is building a wall along the border with Canada?”
“The president has a pathological fear of immigrants?”
“No, he’s afraid. Desperately afraid. Have lunch with me and I’ll tell you why. By the way, the name of the secret cave mentioned in the text that contains your palindrome is the Cave of the Treasure of Light.”
A surge of adrenaline ran through him. Up until this instant, he’d believed there were only two people on earth—him and his coauthor—who knew the name of the legendary cave. My God, he’d spent years trying to find it. How could she possibly know the text mentioned it? And what did the Marham-i-Isa have to do with the new border wall?
“Yes, think about it, Professor. How do I know? And what else do I know that you don’t?”
He squinted at her, still hesitating, but curiosity finally won out. He glanced at the clock.
“All right. A late lunch. Meet me at two at the Café Verona. But don’t expect any revelations from me. I don’t have any.”
“Then you’ll learn something.”
She turned and marched for the door with an amazing feline grace.
“Wait a minute,” he said when she reached for the knob. “What’s your name?”
“Anna Asher. Formerly Captain Anna Asher. United States Air Force. Intelligence.”
“So, you’re military and crazy. What a combo.”
She stared at him, and he swore the world stopped turning for an instant. He was actually afraid. The hair at the base of his neck rose.
“I’ll be sitting at one of the outside tables. Don’t be late,” she said, pulled open the door, and left.
Jerome Canton entered next, but he whipped around to watch Anna Asher walk away, and heaved a pining sigh. “Wow. Wish she was in my class.”
Martin extended a hand to the empty chair. “Have a seat, Jerry. What’s up?”
CHAPTER 3
1:00 P.M. WASHINGTON, D.C.
As he slowly paced before his desk in the oval office, President Joseph Stein kept glancing at the man in the air force uniform who stood at attention. Sunlight streaming through the windows glittered from the wealth of medals on General Matthew Cozeba’s chest.
“I can’t do it, Matt. We want our citizens to go on believing that the threat is thousands of miles away, so they can live their lives as though nothing is wrong.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. But given today’s intelligence reports about the secret gulags in Russia, it cannot possibly hurt to begin some quiet evacua—”
“Apparently, it can. The secretaries of defense and homeland security assure me that word will get out, and people will panic. They say America will come to a dead stop and riots will break out in every city, which is the last thing the economy needs right now.” Stein lifted a finger and pointed it sternly at the general. “Russia can panic. China can panic. But for the sake of the world, America must not panic.”
Cozeba exhaled and stared at the far wall.
“Besides, Matt, you have assured me that Operation Maze Master will work. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
“No, sir. It will work.”
“Then why are we having this discussion?”
“Sir, we must be prudent. If we’re not going to commence evacuations at home, then you must allow me to take the necessary actions abroad to protect the world before it’s too late. I know you’re concerned about the loss of innocent lives…”
Stein held up a hand to halt the general’s next words.
Totally exhausted, he walked around behind his desk and sank down in his chair. For almost four months the world had been scrambling, trying to figure out the strange new virus in France. Until six hours ago, the quarantine had held.
He swiveled around in his chair to look out the window at the marines guarding the front gates of the White House. The only people standing beyond the fence were tourists, but that would change. As soon as the news got out, hordes would descend with placards, screaming that he do something. He prayed he had at least a few days before that happened.
“Not yet, Matt. Mount of Olives has to remain a last resort. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Cozeba saluted, pivoted, and left.
2:00 P.M. CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA.
Café Verona was busy, even at this time of afternoon. Martin walked through the bar, glancing at the numerous big-screen TVs that lined the walls, and out to the sunlit tables situated in the garden behind the restaurant. The chef grew his own herbs, so it always smelled fresh and green back here. Colorful pots of basil, oregano, thyme, and other delights bordered the dining area, which added a lovely contrast to the bright red tablecloths. Sitting there alone, beneath the vine-shrouded canopy, Anna Asher reminded him of a muscular version of those sad-eyed Renaissance paintings of the Madonna. Her face held such suffering. Until she saw him. Then it vanished, replaced by a steely expression. She lifted a hand in greeting.
Martin gave her a nod.
The canopy section was the only area of the outdoor patio that was roofed, which meant it was the most-coveted spot, impossible to book, unless you reserved it days in advance or got lucky. Had she?
He wound through the tables, absently noting the other diners. Businessmen in suits and ties. The local bankers and real estate agents loved to close deals here. Café Verona had a high-end cachet. He caught snippets of conversation about interest rates, and the downturn in the stock market. One man in a boring brown suit spoke in clipped tones about the virus in France: “Pharmaceutical companies are working twenty-four hours a day to create a vaccine…”
As he approached the table, he noticed Asher had her head cocked, clearly listening to the men’s discussion, though her gaze was on Martin.
Instinctively, he used his fingers to comb blond hair out of his hazel eyes. He liked his hair a little shaggy, collar length. At thirty-two, he was almost twice the age of some of his freshmen students. Longer hair made his students think he was one of them. Besides, he despised corporate America and actively did everything possible to make it clear he loathed The Suits.
When he reached Asher’s table, he shrugged out of his gray tweed jacket and hung it over the chair back. As he sat down, he said, “Are you hungry?”
“I ate earlier. I’m just having coffee.” She reached for the cup on the table and took a sip.
“Well, I’m famished. Students take a lot of energy.”
She gave him a polite smile, as though tolerating his inanities until they could get down to business. In the midday heat, she’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blue shirt, and Martin could see the deep scars that cut across her chest like white worms. He almost asked about them, but thought better of it. Over the years, she’d probably grown weary of such questions.
As the waiter walked toward them, Martin called, “I’ll have the Forza Italia sandwich, Doug, and a glass of Merlot.”
“Yes, sir, Dr. Nadai.” The waiter headed back into the restaurant.
“One of your students?” Asher asked.
“Yes, a mediocre one, but he’s a mathematician and not much interested in religious studies. I’m sure he’s brilliant at calculus.”
“I see.”
As he rolled up his sleeves, he looked at her. “So … how did you find out the name of the secret cave? It only exists in one text, and I just discovered it. I haven’t published a word about—”
“Textual research is inconsequential at this point, Professor.”
He sat back in his chair. “Since that’s mostly what I do, I’m slightly offended.”
“First, that’s not all you do. You’ve spent years traipsing around the world hunting for it: Italy, Turkey, Israel, Egypt, Sudan, and others. Second, you shouldn’t be offended. I’m sitting here because in the past two months, you’ve discovered three new texts that you’ve never written about. I was intrigued that you left them out of your latest article. They would have lent more credence to your hypothesis that—”
“How do you know those things?”
She couldn’t possibly know about his trips abroad. And there were only two people in the world who knew about the new textual discoveries.
“I was an intelligence officer, remember?”
“Is this some weird NSA bullshit? Have you been watching me?”
“I’m particularly concerned about the phone call you made to your coauthor, Allama Shirazi. That was unwise, Professor.”
Speechless for ten thunderous heartbeats, he finally said, “Are you saying that you tapped my phones?”
“Key words, Professor. No one has to tap your phone. Our metadata computer programs can track key words. In your case, the words were Marham-i-Isa. The federal government monitors everyone all the time. Get used to it, and don’t quote me laws that say we can’t. They’re just for show. A week ago, you told Shirazi that you believed the Cave of the Treasure of Light, which hides the sacred ointment, was located near the Kharga Oasis in Egypt. You did not tell him, however, that your palindrome names the village on the canyon rim near the cave. It does, doesn’t it?”
Martin swallowed his indignation and forced a deep breath. His emotions were gradually shifting away from anger and more toward fear. “What interest could the government possibly have in an ancient mythical cure?”
Anna Asher opened her mouth to respond, but closed it when the waiter brought Martin’s wine and set it before him. “There you go, Dr. Nadai. Your sandwich won’t be long.”
“Thanks, Doug.” Martin took a long drink of his wine.
Somebody must have turned up the TV news in the bar. He heard the news anchor say, “The president has stepped up construction of the new wall across the Canadian border, and expects it to be completed by…”
When Doug was far beyond earshot, Asher said, “I’m going to tell you a story, a story you won’t believe, but that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that you understand the stakes. America’s national security is at risk.”
Martin blinked in disbelief. “Are you really saying the legendary cure invented by Jesus is related to the border wall?”
“It is, yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” She laced her fingers on the red tablecloth and gave him stare for stare. “This story starts five years ago in California. I was a student of a legendary geneticist named Hakari. We called him the Maze Master because every exam was an intricate geometric maze that had to be negotiated to find the answer to the question. He used geometry to teach lessons about basic DNA structure—”
“Oh. Wait a minute. Good God,” Martin interrupted. He squinted as though in pain. “James Hakari? The creator of genomic bibliomancy? The guy who believed God spoke to human beings through the genetic code?”
“Let me explain what he meant—”
“Is that what this is about?” Martin rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe it. I’m having a conversation with someone who believes in genomic bibliomancy. This is too bizarre.”
Bibliomancy was a very old method of speaking to God. The bibliomancer would ask God a question, then close his eyes, open the Bible, and blindly lower his fingertip to touch the page. He believed God had guided his finger to the passage that would answer his question. Hakari had modernized the bibliomancer’s handbook by eliminating the Bible and substituting the human genome in its place.
“I didn’t say I believed, Professor. But Hakari did. He believed that climate change would inevitably result in a viral mutation that would be devastating to humanity, but that God had inscribed the cure in the genome. In fact, he went to Washington to warn the president, and the government had him locked up.”
“I would certainly hope so.” Martin took a healthy sip of wine.
“You need to pay attention, Professor. Hakari said God hid everything in plain sight, and all we had to do was find the words of God written in the genome to survive.”
“He was a lunatic. Why would I care?”
She paused for a couple of seconds, listening to the businessmen again: “… diverted all planes coming in from French airports. Guess they think the small region of France they had quarantined wasn’t enough. Expanding the zone to encompass
all of France is just a precaution, they claim, but…”
“The president thinks the new border wall will give us enough time to find the cure. It won’t.”
“It won’t?”
She shook her head. “James Hakari was the most brilliant man I’ve ever known. He invented the first handheld quantum computer. And, yes, he was also mad. Far more than anyone knows. After the government started harassing him, his paranoid delusions became extreme. He went into hiding. But he took his equipment with him so he could continue working out God’s word. God’s word, he believed, was the cure.”
Martin made an airy gesture with his hand. “So, he was searching for his cure using genomic bibliomancy? How did he do it? Did he print out sections of the DNA alphabet, close his eyes, drop his finger to the page, and see if it spelled anything?”
She gave him an unblinking stare. “Something like that.”
“Since DNA consists of adenine, thymine, guanine, and cytosine, or the letters A, T, G, and C, the message couldn’t have been too interesting.”
“He thought it was. He saw himself as the savior of the world, the reborn Jesus.”
“Well, he can join thousands of other madmen who also believed that genetics were the key to saving the world. What was Hakari’s version of the Aryan race?”
“Exactly the opposite of what you think, Professor.”
“So the impure would inherit the earth? Oh, I like that much better. At least it has a ring to it.”
This discussion was downright horrifying. When he looked back at her, he found Asher staring over her shoulder at the businessmen, concentrating on their conversation in deadly earnest. Perspiration shone across her nose and cheeks.
The man in the brown suit said, “Centers for Disease Control says it’s a novel new retrovirus. They’ve named it LucentB. So far, three different strains have emerged—”
“Yeah, I read that the mullahs in Iran are cheering the Beast slouching through France.”
Both men laughed.
Asher waited until the businessmen’s conversation shifted to the news that Russia was building new gulags at a furious pace—whole villages had been emptied to fill them—then she turned back to Martin. “Professor, I don’t have much time, which means I have to be more direct than I ordinarily would. The palindrome you found in the Coptic text is in the Sahidic dialect, isn’t it?”
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