The Lost Angel

by Sierra, Javier

  89

  “Angels? Can you believe these guys? What a crock . . .”

  Ellen really let loose after Daniel ordered us taken to a small windowless room to spend the night. Her eyes were red and puffy. She looked exhausted.

  “Honestly . . . I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I mumbled as I contemplated our makeshift beds: a pair of filthy mattresses wedged into rusted metal frames.

  “What’s to believe? Hello? Angels aren’t real!” Ellen shot back. “Can’t you see what’s happening? These people stumbled upon some kind of powerful technology here and they’re trying to cover it up with all this angel mumbo jumbo. If you let yourself believe even one iota of their lies, they’ll just go on wrapping you up tighter in their ghost stories. What’s worse, it’ll let them keep all this knowledge to themselves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ever heard Arthur C. Clarke’s famous quote ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic’? That’s what’s going on here.”

  “Okay, now I understand,” I said. “The United States is interested in the stones because they think it’s some kind of superior technology. Is that it?”

  “Look, if Artemi Dujok was telling the truth, then some secret US project has been studying this technology for more than a century. The president has just learned about it and he’s trying to blow the roof off the thing, to bring all this secrecy to light. Julia, we’re on the same side here.”

  “Except that my husband and I are pawns in all this.”

  “Nobody’s saying that, Julia. Martin Faber is a US citizen.”

  “Okay, okay . . . Let’s get ahold of ourselves. We’re just under too much stress.”

  Ellen plopped down on the cot.

  “Tomorrow morning we’ll set off to find Martin. Then everything will be cleared up.” I sighed. “Just tell me one thing: Why are some old stones with some kind of electrical properties so important to the US government?”

  “You know they’re a lot more than that. They could be part of some kind of prehistoric technology that was lost after a global catastrophe. Could be a fragment of a meteorite. Or some machinery from the future that ended up in our time by accident . . .”

  “Oh, but you don’t believe in angels . . .”

  “Angels, ghosts, gods, spirits . . . those are just terms we use to disguise our ignorance. If we took that lightbulb”—she pointed at the roof—“back in time to the fifteenth century, they’d burn us at the stake for witchcraft because we created a glowing rock.”

  “Well, John Dee did go through that,” I mumbled. “Maybe there’s something to it.”

  “You ever hear of ‘cargo cults,’ Ms. Álvarez?”

  I shook my head.

  “It was this bizarre thing that happened after World War II on the islands off New Guinea, which had been totally isolated from the outside world. When the US Army was getting ready for a confrontation with Japan, they set up military outposts on these islands to use them as tactical bases and to cut off supplies. Now, just imagine the kind of impact all of this must have had on these aboriginal tribes. All of a sudden, thousands of white-faced men came out of nowhere—from the sky and from the sea—carrying ‘fire sticks’ and coming out of the bellies of metal birds, and leveling the forests near their villages to set up barracks. They thought we were gods, that we had complete control over the forces of nature.”

  “Why did they call them cargo cults?”

  “Well, they kept seeing these boxes fall from the sky with the word ‘cargo’ written on the sides. They figured the gods were sharing their heavenly riches with them. So they started praying to those gods. Those interactions gave birth to tribal religions that still exist today.”

  “This is fascinating . . .”

  “And it’s all because they came in contact with superior technology, which they called magic. You see what I mean?”

  “All I see is that you prefer to have a nice, clean secular explanation over a religious one.”

  “You got that right. And you can bet it’s that belief that’s going to get us out of here. Not trusting in angels.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that we’ve been in Hallaç for several hours now. More than enough time for our satellites to triangulate the position for Dee’s adamants. We’re going to have company real soon.”

  90

  It wasn’t yet dusk four thousand miles to the west in Santiago de Compostela when Inspector Antonio Figueiras finally figured out he’d been duped. The American who’d promised him information about his two murdered police officers had disappeared into thin air. Naïvely, Figueiras had believed Tom Jenkins when he said he was taking the spy who’d started the church gunfight just to finish up his investigation. And he’d believed Jenkins—had been suckered, that is, by his fancy credentials and his expensive suit and aftershave—when he swore that neither he nor Julia Álvarez would leave Spain without telling him first.

  He’d definitely been had.

  A phone call from the national police at the Lavacolla airport confirmed his suspicions: His North American friends had boarded a brand-new Learjet 45—the same one Nicholas Allen had flown to Santiago on—and left the country just an hour after Jenkins had made his promises. They had gotten a priority flight plan with a stop in Istanbul and permission to land and refuel at the airport in Kars, all courtesy of the Spanish Ministry of Defense.

  But by the time Figueiras got all the details, it was too late. If the airport officials were right, Jenkins and his buddies would have been in the air for more than three hours. And Figueiras hadn’t even gotten so much as a text.

  So Figueiras wearily sized up his situation. His key witness had disappeared in Noia and so had his American “reinforcements.” The news coming out of the small fishing village of about fifteen thousand was all bad, too. The killers’ helicopter had landed just outside of town and took off after leaving more bodies in its wake.

  It was the only thing people were talking about in Noia: The confrontation with American soldiers that had left four dead and a fortune in damages to a historic building.

  With no one left to interview, Figueiras decided to return to the scene of the crime—where his nightmare had begun. He figured that with the old dean’s help, he could get inside the cathedral and maybe find some other evidence to keep him busy until Jenkins decided to call.

  So at a quarter to nine that night, the two men met outside La Puerta Santa—the Holy Door—of the cathedral. By this point, neither had anything to hide.

  “Tell me about that symbol that showed up inside the church again, Father,” Figueiras asked under the wan light of streetlamps. The rain had stopped and the temperature had started to fall. He had almost felt sorry for the hunched-over old priest when he saw Benigno Fornés shivering as he came to the door. Almost. He and Figueiras never had much occasion to exchange a kind word. Despite himself, when he saw Fornés, he tore right into his line of questioning. “So you still think this is some kind of symbol for the end of the world, Father? What’d you call it last night—the mark of the angel of the Apocalypse?”

  Fornés let out a sigh of resignation and stretched out his hand for a reluctant handshake. “It’s late,” he said.

  The dean looked tired, and to be honest, he was in no mood to argue angelic theory with a communist.

  “Inspector, you’re an atheist who doesn’t believe in a damn thing. A man without hope. Why should I waste my breath talking with you?”

  “I’m not looking to be saved, Father,” he said. “I’d be content to figure out why Julia Álvarez was kidnapped just after the gunfight last night when that symbol appeared.”

  “Julia was kidnapped?” The old priest’s mood darkened.

  “That’s what I said, Father.”

  “I . . . I hadn’t heard anything about that,” he stammered. “I figured she hadn’t come to work today because you were still interviewing her.”

  Figueiras
didn’t offer any details. Instead, he got right to the point. “Remember that helicopter we saw last night?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “We believe it belongs to a terrorist group.”

  Fornés looked worried. The ETA, the Basque terrorist organization, had bombed parts of Santiago in the past, but they’d never had these kinds of resources.

  “They’re some kind of fanatics with international ties. They’ve taken her to Turkey,” Figueiras said, mainly trying to keep the old priest in the dark about the details of the situation. “They’re probably the same ones who kidnapped her husband.”

  “They’ve kidnapped Martin, too?”

  Figueiras thought the priest sounded genuinely surprised.

  “That’s right, Father. Do you have any idea why they might have done that?”

  The hard-edged old Galician thought hard before answering. He knew this sly cop would use anything he said against him. “Well . . . what do you think happened?” Fornés said finally. “Do you think her kidnapping has something to do with the symbol?”

  “Or maybe with her work on the Pórtico. Who knows? Maybe you’ve seen something suspicious in the last few days? Was she acting strange? Anything that might stand out could be useful to us.” He smiled. “Well, at least useful to help find her.”

  The men hurried out of the cold and into the church through a side door that Fornés opened with an old iron key. Their footsteps reverberated throughout an old stone passageway as the priest opened door after door, each decorated with images of St. James the apostle.

  “What can you tell me about the men who kidnapped Julia, Inspector? You know I’m very fond of the young woman . . .”

  “Can’t say much, Father. Just that half the world is looking for them.”

  “Is that right?”

  “The US government has agents all over this thing.”

  “Well, that makes sense . . . ,” Fornés said as he opened the last door into the office, one with a depiction of St. James swinging a broadsword at the Battle of Clavijo. “Martin was an American, after all.” Fornés felt around the dark wall for the light switch, then went inside and sat at a large oak table. “Is that it? You don’t know anything else about these kidnappers?”

  Now it was Figueiras’s turn to measure his words. The old priest sat at his desk with his hands folded, as if waiting for something.

  “Well, sure, we know some things,” Figueiras said. “Looks like they’re after some kind of stones. Not gems, exactly, but I guess they’re valuable. I guess they have something to do with another kind of strange symbol.”

  “Another symbol, Inspector?”

  “That’s right, Father. And I figured since you were an expert in these kinds of things, maybe you could take a look and give me an idea for where to look next.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course.” Figueiras dug around his coat and pulled out his notebook. He flipped to the page where he had drawn the symbol at the jeweler Muñiz’s house and handed it to Fornés.

  “Any idea what it means, Father?”

  Fornés just continued to examine the drawing. “Hmm. Looks like a stonemason’s mark,” he muttered, turning the symbol at different angles.

  “A mason’s mark. Great,” Figueiras said, not hiding his disappointment. But Fornés didn’t notice. He was engrossed in the symbol.

  Fornés continued. “Mason’s marks are ancient symbols, Inspector, and many of them are of unknown origins. Some of them are between four and ten thousand years old. They’re all over Galicia. I don’t think any other region in Europe has as many as we do. These engravings are called petroglyphs when they’re found in ruins. But when you find them in churches they’re called mason’s marks. The most famous ones are in Noia—”

  “Noia?” Figueiras couldn’t hide his surprise. And Fornés noticed.

  “Some of the world’s most important medieval tombstones are there. And many of them have symbols similar to this one. Here, let me show you.”

  Fornés reached over to a bookcase with a pair of wooden doors, and unlocked them with a small key hanging from his waist. He pulled out a tome filled with ancient engravings and flipped through it on his desk.

  “No one knows whether these are letters or symbols or some kind of coded directions, but one thing they do know: You never find them on secular buildings,” Fornés said as he flipped through the book. “That tells me these are sacred icons of some kind. And the church of Santa María a Nova in Noia is loaded with them. Here, look at this.”

  He flipped to a series of strange characters. They looked like some kind of stick figures made up of crosses and circles. Just like the one Figueiras had copied from Dee’s book. Figueiras studied them intently, trying to make out the meaning of the inscrutable figures.

  “Did they ever figure out what these symbols were used for?” Figueiras mumbled as he flipped through the pages.

  “No. No one’s come up with a good explanation. Every historian who’s looked at them has his own theory. And, of course, I have my own.”

  “So what’s your theory, Father?”

  “Well, these symbols, the ones with the dot inside the circle, seem to have something to do with families. They could be some kind of primitive coat of arms. A sort of branding iron for identifying property.”

  “Hmm. That seems pretty vague, Father.”

  “Well, I don’t deny it. But we don’t have much else to go on.”

  “So what do you think about the symbol I showed you?” Figueiras asked. “Any idea what family that might belong to? Or at least from what period?”

  Fornés held Figueiras’s gaze anxiously as he closed the book.

  “I have my suspicions . . . but I’m afraid it leads to a dead end.”

  “So, you do recognize it?”

  The old dean put the book away and remained silent for a moment before answering.

  “That symbol you’re so interested in is a version of one of the oldest of its kind in Noia. As a matter of fact, it resembles the one symbol that we know the least about. If it means anything to you, in Noia they think it represents the patriarch Noah.”

  “Noah? As in the ark?”

  The wrinkles around Fornés’s forehead intensified his scrutinizing stare.

  “You know, come to think of it, that symbol you’ve got there may be the very reason they dragged the Fabers to Turkey.”

  “This is the reason?” he said, holding up the notebook. “I don’t understand.”

  Fornés sighed and rolled his eyes. How could this man be so dense? “Didn’t you learn in school that Noah’s Ark was said to have run aground atop the tallest mountain in Turkey? Haven’t you ever heard of Mount Ararat?”

  “Honestly, Father . . . I never managed to stay awake in religion class.”

  91

  Daniel Knight made good on his promise.

  Just as he said he would, he woke us up at the crack of dawn. As if we were guests in his home, and not simply his prisoners, he kindly asked us to dress in the hiking gear he’d set out for us and said he would return a half hour later to tell us breakfast was served. Ellen and I dressed wordlessly. We were still groggy from staying up late talking about angels and cargo cults. We clumsily put on the heavy thermals—made with lead fibers, one of the tags said—wool pants and heavy climbing boots, and followed him out the door.

  Ellen and I served ourselves from a selection of fruit, cheese, yogurt, honey and dried fruit. Fed and more alert from the food and the blasts of cold mountain air, we were escorted outside toward the Sikorsky X4, where a group of men we had never seen awaited us. They were a rough-looking bunch—wind-cracked, leathery faces, their heads wrapped in frost-covered turbans, wearing well-worn tunics. Each carried an AK-47 on his shoulder, and from what we could tell, none spoke a word of English.

  “Let’s get a move on, ladies!” Artemi Dujok yelled from the door of the helicopter. “Today is going to be unforgettable!”

  It was hard to
look at him. I still couldn’t believe that Martin’s mentor could have lied to me in that way just to get me here.

  But Dujok looked positively overjoyed. In his world, everything was as it should be. They had the adamants, the invocation tablet . . . and me, at their mercy, hundreds of miles from anyone who could help.

  It was a short flight.

  The last base camp before the peak of Mount Ararat was less than thirty miles from the Hallaç crater. It was at nearly fourteen thousand feet, buried under a blanket of freshly fallen snow that covered all but the tops of several volcanic rocks. Dujok happily explained that the helicopter saved us a two-day hike up the mountain—the bitter cold, the cumbersome climbing gear, the rain and sleet that would have made our trip a nightmare.

  “From here, the hike up to the Ark isn’t so bad,” he said, trying and failing to calm our nerves.

  Built on one of Ararat’s relatively flat hillsides, the base camp was the picture of solitude. By the first rays of morning, you could see several small igloo-type structures and a sort of teepee that were used to store food and water. Snow and wind twisted in all directions as the helicopter blades neared the ground.

  “You know, most Kurds think it’s impossible to climb this mountain,” Daniel said over the headphones, smiling and chatty.

  “I can see why,” I said, trying to make poor conversation. But he was undeterred.

  “See, they believe Ararat was touched by the finger of God and that no man may desecrate the sacred treasure it keeps,” he said as he handed each of us Diamox pills for altitude sickness. “It’s good to keep that in mind: Never offend the mountain . . . We’re going to be summiting on the south face, the most hospitable part. The north face is an impassible canyon. They call it the Ahora Gorge or the Gorge of Arghuri, which means ‘the planting of the vine,’ even though nothing has grown there in thousands of years. It’s steeper than the Grand Canyon and was once a volcano . . .”