The Lost Angel

by Sierra, Javier

  “A total blackout?” Jenkins’s blue eyes flashed.

  “Now, I’m not just talking about a power outage, no, sir. That traffic jam? Something killed the engine of every car within twenty-five miles. Same thing happened with every cell tower in the area. And even stranger, it even affected all satellite communications: phones, police and fire radios, even the tower over the airfield in Igdir, in Turkish territory. It’s like a big electromagnetic bomb went off, sucking the power out of everything for hours.”

  “Sounds like the Rachele Effect. Ever heard of it?” Watson asked.

  Hale stepped back and looked stunned. This agent clearly knew more than he had imagined.

  “You’ve . . . heard of the Rachele Effect?” he muttered.

  Hale was an expert on it. Years ago, he had published an article on it in an internal intelligence magazine. In June 1936, Rachele Mussolini, the wife of the Italian dictator, had planned to spend a weekend in Ostia, near Rome, when her state car broke down, sapped completely of its power during an electrical blackout. Her husband had warned her, only half kidding, as she left the palace: “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a big shock during your outing today, my love.” And she certainly did. The power outage lasted almost an hour and then, just as suddenly, all of the nearby cars that had also stopped working started up again. Mussolini later wrote that the blackout had also something to do with an experiment that Guglielmo Marconi was carrying out. The father of radio had stumbled upon a long-range, low-wave frequency—later called the Death Ray—that first caught the attention of Mussolini, and later of the Truman administration, as a potential military weapon. The sound wave could be used to disable any engine, civilian or military, in the air or on the ground. The Allied forces later speculated that that “ray” was responsible for the death of hundreds of small- and medium-sized animals near Marconi’s farm. Animals whose hearing was many times more sensitive than humans’ felt the vibration and suffered fatal brain hemorrhages. The event made such an impression on Marconi that he never experimented with those sound waves again.

  “The Rachele Effect . . .” Hale nodded. “It’s been years since I’ve heard those words. But now that you mention it, the power outages in Santiago and Bazargan might be related.”

  “Might be?” Watson said. “It’s too bad you haven’t been more helpful, Mr. Hale. You leave us no choice but to conduct our own investigation. And you can believe the president of the United States won’t stop at the NSA.”

  “Or with Operation Elijah,” Jenkins added.

  41

  Morning’s first light broke across the verdant pasture at the foot of the Tambre River, golden beams refracting over the dewy field. From the window of Artemi Dujok’s helicopter—an experimental craft he said was called the Sikorsky X4—I could see a pair of hydroelectric power plants at the edge of a pine and oak forest. I recognized it all, the bridges over the river, the oyster beds, the stone houses dotting the hilly landscape, the belfries of the church I’d attended as a girl. San Martiño. Santa María. San Juan. Their stone walls, covered in moss under an overcast gray sky, gave this countryside the unique feel of a place where the past and the present managed to coexist peacefully, something I’d always loved about my hometown.

  “Are you all right?”

  Dujok’s voice over my headphones brought me back from my nostalgia.

  “Yes . . . of course. It’s just that I’ve never seen my little town from this vantage point.”

  “Can you guess where in Noia we’re headed?”

  “Well . . . You’re the expert in solving riddles. Colonel Allen thought Martin’s video had some kind of hidden message, too. A reference to the place where he’d hidden my adamant.”

  “Nicholas Allen figured this out?” Dujok almost spat out his name.

  “I guess he knows the way Martin thinks, too,” I said, provoking him.

  “Yes . . .”

  “Have you managed to decipher Martin’s message? Do you know what he was trying to tell me in the video?” I asked.

  “You’ll find out in a minute.”

  Dujok sat up in his seat eagerly when he felt the helicopter slowing down, as if it were looking for a place to land.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen, Ms. Álvarez,” he said flatly. “We’ll stop in Noia to find the adamant Martin hid here. When we have it, I’ll need you to help me activate it. Do you understand me?”

  Goose bumps ran down my back. I wasn’t so sure about bringing the adamant to life without Martin or Sheila around. I knew that once I’d reanimated it, its effects could be unpredictable.

  But Artemi Dujok had set his mind on it.

  “There’s a reason for it, Ms. Álvarez. The adamant will tell us where its sister is, the one Martin showed us in the video. The stones work on high-frequency sound waves and they can find each other even thousands of miles apart.”

  “That’s exactly what Colonel Allen said.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. Not from him, not from the stone.”

  Still, my stomach cramped into a knot.

  “And, of course, I know the story of how Noia was founded,” Dujok said, obviously sensing my apprehension and changing the subject while the pilot maneuvered for a landing.

  “You mean the one legend that claims this is where Noah landed after the Flood? Oh, come on . . . ,” I said, laughing nervously, as the helicopter descended. “I figured you for an intellectual. You don’t really believe that fairy tale, do you?”

  Dujok’s hefty mustache bounced up and down as the helicopter reached the ground. It landed by the river, near a boatyard, and away from any trees or high-tension wires.

  “Well, it’s not so much a fairy tale as it is a legend,” I said, looking out at the scenery. “One of those stories made up during the Middle Ages to lend this humble little town some nobility. To make it interesting.”

  The other men, including the pilot, jumped out of the airship with the rotors still spinning, as if they were military men hitting the deck and heading out on a mission.

  “You know,” I said as Dujok extended his arm to help me off the helicopter, “I study stories too. They influence art and the imaginations of people. But I’d never take them as fact.”

  “Don’t underestimate legends, Ms. Álvarez,” he said. “Think of them as Russian nesting dolls. Once you open one up, you find more truth encapsulated inside. Studying legends is like being on a treasure hunt. With each clue you decipher, you get one step closer to the truth. They all disguise something real. Something that, if not for the myth, might have been forgotten eons ago. That’s why when you discover a legend’s earliest telling, you are the closest to real knowledge.”

  “And what knowledge do you want to uncover, Mr. Dujok?”

  “Martin and I became friends arguing over these very topics. Do you remember how the two of you met?”

  “Well, he came to Noia on the Way of St. James.”

  “Yes, but not just as another pilgrim. He was looking for traces of early stories about Noah.”

  “The Way was the path pilgrims took to reach the tomb of the apostle St. James. It had nothing to do with Noah,” I said, interrupting him.

  “Really? Then why is the ark on your town’s seal? Why is the highest mountain visible from here called Mount Aro? Why do you wear a symbol of Noah around your neck?”

  He seemed to be amusing himself. Just then, he grabbed his weapon, gave his men an order to put on black coats like the one I’d seen the young “monk” wear in the cathedral, and added: “You have to understand that the Way is much older than this charade about finding the tomb of some apostle. Men have been traveling this path for more than four thousand years.”

  “A charade . . .”

  “Haven’t you noticed? The route to Santiago is littered with references to Noah. Not just the city of Noia, but also the Noain in Navarra, Noja in Santander, Noenlles in La Coruña, the Noallo River . . . You’ll find references to Noah in northern Spain and up
into Great Britain and France. Today, almost no one pays attention to this obvious connection.”

  I was absolutely floored. I had never thought of it either.

  “But I do,” he said, motioning for me to follow him. “And so did Martin. He was following the Way of Noah—not St. James—when he met you. He knew those places named after Noah actually demarcate a secret path of their own, one that leads to a specific location.”

  “A spot here? In Noia?”

  “Exactly. And if the Way of St. James leads to the tomb of the apostle, then the Way of Noah must lead to . . .”

  “The tomb of Noah!”

  42

  Ellen Watson found the best place she could to make a discreet call. She had hurried out of the US embassy in Madrid and found a quiet niche down the street. The city was still asleep at that early hour. A rare taxi and a couple of delivery trucks rumbled through the quiet business district. But that wasn’t good enough for the president’s adviser. She needed to make a call on her secured satellite phone without drawing any attention. She looked around and figured the dilapidated Jesuit church across the street, where the faithful were free to worship at all times of day, would be the perfect refuge.

  The church was empty, just as she’d imagined. The sound of her clip-clopping heels reverberated throughout as she found a corner, looked over her shoulder and punched in the sixteen-digit number to an encrypted line in Washington, DC.

  “This is Ellen. The code word is ‘Belzoni,’” she whispered.

  The man on the other end of the line recognized her immediately and could not hide the worry in his voice. “My code word is ‘Jadoo’ . . . I’ve been waiting for your call. Any news?”

  She instantly relaxed at hearing his voice. “More or less, sir,” she said. “You were right: Something strange is going on here. Last night, the NSA set off to find their ex-agent’s wife, and their man was supposedly attacked with an electromagnetic weapon.”

  “Can that be?”

  “From what I’ve been told today, yes.”

  The line went silent for a second as a computer program checked for bugs on the line. It found none.

  “Do you think that has anything to do with Operation Elijah?”

  “I’m sure of it, sir. You should have seen his face when I showed up armed with questions.”

  “Though he probably didn’t say much.”

  “Like always. He hemmed and hawed about us not having a high enough security clearance.”

  “As usual . . .”

  Ellen Watson wondered whether it was the right time to mention what she’d been thinking since she first heard about Martin Faber’s kidnapping. It could be a grave misstep with her boss, but she risked it anyway.

  “We do have one other option, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You could ask for it yourself.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You could ask for access to the Elijah files, sir. You’re the only one they can’t say no to,” she said, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Maybe this is the right time to risk it. Someone has reactivated Operation Elijah to find the stones and, for the first time in years, has run up against a problem. If Faber hadn’t been captured, we never even would have known about it. That’s why I think the time is right for us to intervene, to show them we know what’s going on.”

  Watson exhaled and crossed her fingers. On the other end of the phone, the man chewed on her words.

  “I’ll consider it,” he said finally. “And what does Tom think?”

  “He finds it strange that the NSA in Madrid hasn’t even mentioned the stones—because that’s clearly what they were after from Faber’s wife.”

  The man on the other end of the line remained silent before handing out his orders.

  “Listen to me very carefully, Ellen,” he said in a voice that was used to commanding. “If you and Tom manage to get your hands on that stone before the NSA does, then we’ll have the leverage we need to make them tell us everything they know. Think you can handle that?”

  “Of course, sir. We’re on it.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll consider your other request. Keep me posted.”

  Ellen Watson’s face lit up. “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Ellen,” he said, his voice solemn this time, “I know you’ll do your country proud.”

  He knew just how to make her swell with pride and patriotism; she would run through a brick wall for this man. And she knew exactly what he meant: Get it done, by any means necessary. Only a handful of people on Earth knew what it was like to stand in that glow, to be urged forward by the president of the United States himself. And Ellen Elizabeth Watson was one of them.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. If the woman has the stone in her possession, you can consider it the property of the United States of America.”

  43

  It was six thirty in the morning when Artemi Dujok, a submachine gun hidden under his special black cloak, finally gave me a clue about where we were headed. Dujok hadn’t explained how he had managed to deduce from Martin’s cryptic message where my adamant had been hidden. But when they led me past the San Martiño church, I stopped doubting that Dujok and Martin had understood each other. At first, I couldn’t believe it.

  We passed the theater and as we headed down one of three streets that bisect the town, I could hear the cries of seagulls. Theirs was a familiar sound in this ocean-side spot where I’d spent a halcyon youth.

  “Martin told me the two of you met in a very special church,” Dujok said, his voice breaking the country spell.

  This time, I wasn’t surprised. I had accepted that this man knew things about my private life that I had never discussed with anyone else. So I just nodded.

  “It was at the church of Santa María. The one they call A Nova here, right?”

  “That’s correct,” I whispered.

  God. We’re headed for that church.

  He went on. “Martin told me a lot about it. It’s the one that impressed him the most along the Way. Even more so than the cathedral in Santiago.”

  “Is that where Noah’s tomb is?”

  Dujok held back, but only for a moment.

  “Don’t be coy, Ms. Álvarez. I know that’s where you and Martin saw each other for the first time. That you were restoring the church and that you served as his guide. If Noah’s tomb were in that church, you’d know about it. I hope, for your sake and for Martin’s, that you’ll be straight with me. We don’t have much time left.”

  “But I don’t know about any special tomb in Santa María.”

  “We’ll see about that. Let’s keep moving.”

  I immediately felt my stomach tighten. And whatever joy I’d first felt at being back in Noia had now left a bitter taste in my mouth. I followed closely, quietly, behind Dujok and his three young henchmen, but just as we made the turn toward Santa María a Nova, I decided I needed to know more.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dujok,” I said, and stopped dead in my tracks. “But I need you to clear up something for me before I set foot in that church.”

  “Oh,” Dujok said, surprised, walking back toward me. “What do you want to know?”

  “How did you figure out from Martin’s video where we had to come? That part was shot in Spanish and you don’t even speak Spanish.”

  Touché, I thought.

  Dujok’s expression changed. That look of determination in his eyes, that ruggedness, all slipped away as he was no longer able to hold back from bursting out in laughter.

  “That’s your question?” he said, laughing harder.

  “Yes.”

  He gave an order in Armenian to one of his men, the one from the church who he called Waasfi, and the young man with the tattoo on his cheek pulled something out of the small backpack he was carrying. It was an iPad, just like Colonel Allen’s. Maybe the same one.

  “I know you’ve already seen this video,” he said with a grin, setting a video into motion. “But look at it ag
ain.”

  Martin was again dressed in orange, surrounded by his captors, as he spoke directly to me in Spanish.

  “Julia,” it began. “We may never see each other again . . . And if I don’t get out of this alive, I want you to remember me as a happy man, a man who found his other half at your side . . . If you squander your remaining time, all will be lost. The discoveries we made together. The world that opened up to us. All of it. Fight for me. Use your gift. And though others may strive to steal what was ours, keep envisioning a way for these two halves to be made whole again . . .”

  I stared blankly at the screen.

  “What, you didn’t notice anything peculiar?” Dujok asked.

  “Notice? What’s to notice?”

  Dujok handed me a pair of headphones so I could listen more closely and asked me to listen to Martin’s words.

  “Forget the image,” he said, but I didn’t know whether that was possible. “Try to distance yourself as much as you can from it, and try to hear whether you notice anything strange in Martin’s words. Anything. A word out of place. An inflection. Everything is important.”

  I put on the earphones and listened to the video again, this time with my eyes shut.

  “Now, did you notice anything?” he asked, as if this were a simple child’s riddle.

  “I don’t know whether this is what you mean but . . . there seems to be a problem with the sound. There are two times when the volume spikes slightly, as if Martin is raising his voice.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly? So what does that mean?”

  Dujok stowed the iPad back in the young man’s backpack and studied me like a teacher studies a student.

  “What are the two phrases your husband seems to be saying louder than the rest?”

  “Well one of them is ‘If you squander your remaining time,’ ‘si el tiempo dilapidas.’ The other, near the end, is ‘keep envisioning a way,’ ‘se te da visionada.’”

  “Perfect. Well, there you have it . . . Do you see what I mean?”

  I still didn’t understand what he was getting at. Nowhere was there any reference to Santa María a Nova.