“Do you think you could shut up, brainiac?” Allen shot back. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”
“Have your reached the site?”
“Yes. What, can’t you see that from your fancy satellite?”
Faber had been fiddling with the equipment for half a minute after losing the thermal signal from the KH-11. Even though the NSA had positioned the satellite directly above them for this mission, both screens went black.
“I don’t know. There must be something wrong with the antenna. I can’t see you.”
“Doesn’t matter. Everything’s quiet on this end. As long as you can hear me, we should be all right.”
“Okay, describe what’s around you.”
“I’ve reached the museum,” he whispered. “Doesn’t look like this place gets a lot of visitors. Everything’s gray and old and ugly . . .”
Two seconds of silence passed.
“Okay, now I’m standing in front of a glass showcase. It’s in the middle of the room. It’s got several open books and some coins inside. On the walls there are several . . . I don’t know how to describe them. They’re like small medicine cabinets.”
“Ah, yes, those are reliquaries, Nick. For storing . . . never mind. Head to the right. What we’re looking for should be in the middle of that wall.”
“Is it hanging?”
“You should see it right away. It should be right in front of you.”
“Just in front of me, in the center of the wall, I have two of those little cabinets. They look old.”
“Get closer.”
“One looks like it’s made of gold. Rectangular. About the size of a large book. It’s got etched glass on the lower part and angels painted all around it.
“Ah, right. It’s the reliquary for Christ’s thorn,” Martin said knowingly. “And the other one?”
“Christ’s thorn . . . ?”
“Please, Nick. The other one?” Martin urged him.
“Wait, if you’ve been here before why aren’t you doing the dirty work?”
Martin ignored him. He couldn’t tell him, not now, that he’d been there three times for this very mission and failed each time. That’s why he wanted a professional to handle it.
“Let’s stay focused, Nick. If you’re looking at a small, scallop-shaped shrine with a golden cross and precious stones studding the wood, then you’re in the right place.”
“Well, that’s exactly what’s in front of me, Martin. What the hell is it?”
“It’s petrified wood from Noah’s Ark.”
“Hmph. Looks brand-new to me . . .”
“Well, it’s not. It’s believed that St. Jacob found it AD 678 during a pilgrimage to Mount Ararat.”
“There’s a pilgrimage to Ararat? That’s almost fifteen thousand feet!”
“Well, there used to be. Though back in the old days, most people never made it to the summit. It’s not exactly the most hospitable mountain terrain. St. Jacob fell asleep during the journey, though it’s said that to encourage him, God himself put a plank of Noah’s Ark in his path for him to find.”
“Damn, Martin, you’re a goddamn encyclopedia.”
“Just thorough . . .”
“Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but this is no plank; it’s a small wooden tablet.”
“You have it in your hands?”
“Affirmative.”
“O-okay . . . ,” he stammered. “Well, maybe they broke it up to spread the pieces around. Anyway, get your tools out and get ready to extract the object. We don’t need the wood, just the stone that makes up the corner.”
“You don’t want the piece of the ark?”
“No. Just the stone.”
“The black one?”
“Right. Just the heliogabalus, the ‘sun stone.’ Carefully remove it and replace it with the replica.”
Allen ran his fingers over the wood and the stone, looking for some kind of trip wire or alarm. When he was sure it was safe, he carefully pried the stone loose with a watchmaker’s knife, and it fell gently into his hands. He dabbed a couple of drops of adhesive into the concave opening, and when he placed the imposter stone inside, he smiled at how perfectly it fit, down to the millimeter. He figured it would be months before anyone noticed the difference.
“Done.”
“Great. Hang it back up and get out of there.”
“So . . .” Allen’s voice was emitted through a speaker inside the van. “Are you going to tell me why you didn’t do this yourself? You really didn’t need my help.”
Faber didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
The door to Martin Faber’s mobile lab had slid open and a monk with a long beard was aiming a machine gun at him. Wordlessly, he ordered Martin to switch off the radio, step back from the computer and walk toward the deserted plaza with his hands above his head. Three other shadows rushed across the plaza and headed toward the main entrance—toward an unwitting Nick Allen. They ducked behind the tomb of the patriarch Teg Aghexander and waited for the unsuspecting colonel to come out. They may have been wearing black cassocks down to their feet and large golden crosses around their necks, but make no mistake: They were soldiers.
Before Allen ever saw them, they had him in their gun sights.
“You’re not welcome here, Colonel Allen,” the man who looked to be in charge said in perfect English. He smiled slyly beneath his straw-colored mustache. “Though . . . we’ve been expecting you.”
“Really?” Allen said, feigning amusement.
“Oh, yes, Colonel Nicholas J. Allen. Born August 1951 in Lubbock, Texas. Graduated magna cum laude. Agent of the National Security Agency and stationed in Armenia. And, apparently, you’ve come looking for something that doesn’t belong to you, does it, Colonel? Something that’s really none of your business.”
Allen’s eyes flashed with fury. “And who the hell are you?”
“An old enemy of the state, Colonel.”
Nick Allen stood very still, silently.
“Americans love to think they know our country. They read about Armenia in the CIA’s World Factbook and conclude they have us all figured out. It’s a shame, really. You ignore the fact that our culture was flourishing four thousand years before yours began.”
“What the hell do you want?”
Allen kept his hands above his head, but as he looked out on the wide plaza, he could feel his body heat rising, the icy cold from inside the church now just a memory.
“What have you done to my partner? Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?”
“Oh, come on now, Colonel. Your partner’s just fine.” He smiled. “If you’re in such a hurry to see him again, all you have to do is hand over what’s rightfully ours. Seem like a fair trade?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Now’s not the time to play dumb, Colonel,” the man said, his eyes now sparking. “You’ve come to steal one of our national treasures. You don’t think others have tried—and paid with their lives? Fool with sacred forces that you don’t understand, and you could find yourself . . . struck down. Hadn’t anyone warned you about that, Colonel?”
“If you’re talking about the reliquaries, I haven’t touched them. They’re inside right where—”
The man with the mustache tsk-tsked Allen.
“We want the stone you’ve taken from inside of it, Colonel. It was part of the ark’s original cargo, and it’s very, very valuable to us.”
“You really believe in this ark crap?” Allen snickered.
“Woe to him who believes in nothing, as Victor Hugo said . . . Let me give you a little history lesson, Colonel. Maybe then you’ll understand. Do you know why Armenians still call our homeland Hayastan? Well, I’ll tell you: It means ‘the land of Hay,’ or Haik, son of Togarma, grandson of Gomer, great-grandson of Jafet and great-great-grandson of Noah. They and their progeny repopulated these lands after the Great Flood and they swore an oath to guard this land’s
holy heirlooms. Mount Ararat, where the ark ran aground, is less than fifty miles from here. My town was charged with protecting not only the ark, but also its valuable cargo. We have absolute faith in it.”
He added, “And you should have been warned that in Armenia, attempting to steal one of Noah’s sacred relics is an offense punishable . . . by death.”
“Now, wait a minute. I’m an American citizen. You can’t just—”
The man burst into laughter. The two men with him nervously pointed the barrels of their rifles at Allen’s chest as they led him down a corridor.
“So who the hell are you people? Do you work for the Armenian Church?”
“My name is Artemi Dujok, Colonel. And God has granted me unlimited resources to protect what is His. Now, if you will, hand over the stone.”
As they walked, Allen realized where they were headed. Just ahead was a small, hidden alley. A dead end, in every sense. He watched as two other men forced Martin Faber to kneel, facing the wall. They’re going to kill us, right here . . .
“What’s it going to be, Colonel? Do I have to take it from you by force?”
Allen figured this was his best chance to distract Dujok and make a run for it. As he lowered his arms to pull the stone from his pocket, Allen spun around and landed a solid blow right on Dujok’s face with a hollow thud. Dujok dropped like a rock, blood gushing from his nose. A hail of gunfire whizzed past Allen as he dropped to the ground and kicked up at one of the gunmen, breaking his knee.
The soldier fell down in a screaming lump as his partner fired a fresh volley, but the gunfire only splintered a nearby door and chipped the stone archway to one of the church’s entrances.
“Don’t let him get away!” Allen heard Dujok yell.
Allen leveled a punch at the soldier with the broken knee, picked him up by the armpits and hurled him into the soldier trying to line Allen up in his sights.
But Dujok had regained his senses. He pulled a dagger from his waistband and leaped at Allen, the knife’s razor-sharp blade slicing into his face. It was so sharp, Allen barely felt the blade split his forehead open to the bone, unleashing a blinding waterfall of blood.
Just as Allen reached up instinctively to stanch the bleeding, he saw something he’d never forget: Dujok reached for a small black box hanging from his neck and pointed it directly at Allen’s head.
“You’re dumber than I thought, Colonel,” he said, swallowing his own blood.
That’s when Allen heard a buzzing that sounded like a thousand angry hornets swirling around his head and overwhelming him with a deathly fear. It was the first time he’d felt it, but he never would forget his first electromagnetic blast.
53
It all came at once, the head-splitting migraine and the nausea from the very pit of my stomach.
“Are you all right, Ms. Álvarez?”
Dujok was standing over me. And that’s when I realized I had fainted again, this time inside the church of Santa María a Nova.
“Wha . . . what happened?” I asked.
“Congratulations. You’ve managed to activate the adamant,” he said with a smile.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Everything went black all of a sudden. I tried to focus my mind, but—”
“Don’t worry. It’s just that being exposed to the electromagnetic forces knocked you out. It happens. As soon as you sit up and drink some water, you’ll be fine,” he said flatly.
But I could tell my health wasn’t the most important thing on his mind.
“So what happens next?”
“Simple. Your adamant is going to help us achieve what any true believer hopes for when he steps into a church: to speak to God.”
He must have noticed the surprise on my face. “Wait, I thought we were going to use the adamant to find Martin,” I shot back.
“God is everything, Ms. Álvarez, and that includes your husband. That’s why, thanks to the holy gift inside of you, we’ve managed to send a signal to Him.”
“A signal? To God?”
“Well, and also to Martin’s adamant.”
54
“Dr. Scott! You have to see this! Argh, these stupid goons out here won’t let me in to see you!”
Edgar Scott’s desk videophone blinked to life as he and the others studied the aerial photographs from the north of Spain. The Secret Service had made security at the National Reconnaissance Office extra tight with the president of the United States in the building. But they hadn’t had a chance to restrict communications to Scott’s office.
“The HMBB just detected a new X emission!” the man yelled.
Michael Owen looked over at Scott, whose round red face filled the video screen.
“Okay, Mills. I’ll be right out,” Scott answered.
“Wait a minute. What the hell’s an X emission? And where do you think you’re going?” Owen said.
“That’s what we call the kind of EM field that we detected a few hours ago in Santiago. If we’ve just detected another, and so soon after the first, then we’d better get to the control room right away. You can follow me or wait here, whatever you prefer.”
“Well, if the president doesn’t mind . . . ,” Owen said.
Roger Castle was already on his feet and following Dr. Scott.
The three of them clanked down the metal catwalk that separated the administrative offices from the technical operations area. Scott stood in front of a bulletproof metal door and stated his name as he stared into a retinal scanner to open the door. Soon, they found themselves in a room with the lights dimmed, redolent of fresh coffee and facing an enormous flat-panel monitor. About ten people shifted around the control room, and the president felt at ease, as if perhaps he might not even be recognized. But no such luck.
The chubby man from the videophone rushed to introduce himself.
“M-Mr. President?” he stammered.
“Uh, this is Jack Mills, sir. Our monitoring chief,” Scott said.
“It’s an honor, sir!” Mills said.
“Keep your voice down, will you, Mills?” Castle told him.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President!” he said, still too loudly.
The enormous screen showed a map of Earth with the trajectory and global position of different satellites shown in different colors.
“Okay, show me the X emission,” Castle told Mills.
“We detected the first signal about six minutes ago. Here, you can see it clearer on one of these smaller screens.”
The four of them leaned in to see a real-time map of the Iberian Peninsula on Mills’s desk as he cleared away the remnants of his dinner. He punched in a couple of commands on his keyboard and the image zoomed in on the map until they had a detailed picture.
“Santiago again?” Castle said as the image closed in.
“Actually . . . no, Mr. President,” Mills whispered, trying to get his bearings. “Now it looks like we’re getting two signals. The HMBB detected the first one in northern Spain, in a town called Noia, at five forty-seven in the morning, our time.”
“Noia?”
“It’s about twenty-five miles west of the earlier signal, sir.”
“And the second signal?”
“It started about twenty seconds later. Another one of our satellites, the KH-19, traced it to a position near Mount Ararat. The coordinates put it on the border between Iran and Turkey.”
“Isn’t that near where—”
“Yes, very close to that, sir,” Owen said, stopping him. Castle got the hint and bit his tongue.
“Do you have any idea who might be responsible for these emissions?”
Jack Mills just shrugged his shoulders and grimaced as if asking for forgiveness.
“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have any idea.”
“The Russians? The Iranians?”
“We just don’t know, sir.”
“What are the chances the stones you’re looking for caused those signals, Michael?” Castle s
aid.
“They’re high, sir.”
“So is there a plan for getting our hands on them?”
“Of course, sir. The NRO is already in touch with the navy’s fast-intervention division. As we speak, if everything is going according to protocol, the closest units already have orders to comb the area.”
Castle turned from the monitor and caught Owen’s eye, beckoning for him to meet him by the door. He needed to ask Owen something else, something that had been on his mind since he spoke to his adviser Ellen Watson.
“Michael, because of these stones, two people are missing, including a US citizen. I hope you have a plan that includes more than shifting around satellites and taking pictures of my soup at the Oval Office.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Keep me informed. As for the rest of you,” he said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard throughout the small office, “I don’t have to tell you to keep this little visit a secret.
“Now,” he said, turning back to Owens, “I need to make a few calls.”
55
“You’ve done a good job, here, Ms. Álvarez,” Artemi Dujok said while taking off his backpack and opening his laptop to look for a wireless signal.
Dujok was positively beaming. He’d leaned his rifle against Juan de Estivadas’s sarcophagus and left the adamant sitting on the lid.
“Your husband’s a genius, you know that? Came up with just the right phrase to lead us to your adamant. He counted on your gift. No one he’s ever met has made the adamants react like you do. Something happened to the stones’ previous owner—”
“You mean John Dee . . .”
Dujok had been furiously pecking commands into his laptop when he stopped to look at me quizzically.
“Dee? No, of course not . . .”
“Someone else?” I said, confused.
“The last historical record we have of these stones being used was in 1827,” Dujok said. “A young man from Vermont came across them in Virginia. Both of them. Though his story is very similar to Dee’s. Just like Dee, he claims it was an angel who gave them to him. He received them along with a book with golden pages. And the words were written in a strange language that he had to use the stones to translate.”
The Lost Angel Page 19