7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  “Certainly, Captain,” said the Israeli, directing his men to use the huge net to hide the plane.

  Cloe watched as the soldiers drew the net over the aircraft. It was a dark shadow against the desert. The camo was designed to work in the daylight—but that was not too far off.

  “Well, I gotta think it’s going to be tough to spot this plane from the air,” said Cloe.

  “Quite right,” said the monsignor. “We also have a solution to the transportation problem.”

  “What? You found a personnel carrier in the belly of the Osprey?” asked Cloe, smiling.

  “No, but we did find a couple of crates of light motorcycles and plenty of gas,” responded the monsignor.

  A few minutes later, the group had moved back onto the cargo deck of the airplane to pull together the supplies they needed and to assemble the motorbikes. They had agreed most of the Israelis would stay to see to the plane, but Captain Jacob would accompany them because of the need for as much local knowledge as possible. Cloe wanted the father curator to stay with the airplane because of his age. He would not hear of it, and she had to admit they might need his skills in talking with the Germans about the translation, if they could be found. The Israeli captain pulled a map of the area from his map case and carefully studied it.

  “Here’s about where we are,” he said, pointing to a valley formed by sand covering two ridge backs. “Here’s where we believe the Uruk excavation can be found. We are about sixty-five kilometers away.”

  “About fifty miles,” J.E. clarified. “We are close. With the motorbikes and no trouble, we can easily be there later today.”

  “What kind of opposition can we expect in this area?” asked J.E.

  “There will be random ground patrols,” said Captain Jacobs. “We would have to be unlucky to be discovered by one of them. However, as the Syrian jets report back, this will launch a more organized land search for us. I expect the jets will be back, but so will helicopters from nearby bases. We must be very quick.”

  Cloe looked to the east and saw the first faint streaks of what would soon be daybreak. She had not slept much, but she felt strangely invigorated.

  “Well, gentlemen, what say you?” She smiled.

  J.E. looked at his mother, shook his head slowly, and in a perfect deadpan imitation of the famous cowboy actor, John Wayne, he said, “Well, pilgrims, saddle up; we’re burning daylight.”

  CHAPTER

  49

  At the top of the stairs in the old library, Zack and his friends looked up and down and saw only shelves of books and papers as far as the eye could see. The musty smell of aged documents was strong. It must go the length of the whole block, thought Zack.

  “Which way?” asked Mel.

  Zack listened and heard faint noises from the far end of the library.

  “That way,” he said.

  They walked toward the sounds and soon encountered a small woman with a group of young people who could only have been interns or students.

  As they entered the work area, the woman in charge said, “Hello, what are you doing here? This area is closed.”

  Zack looked around and said, “We’re looking for Dr. Lejeune. Are you Dr. Lejeune?”

  “Certainly not!” said the woman, a compact brunette with an all-business attitude. “I’m Dr. Jeanne Richard, Dr. Lejeune’s assistant.”

  “We need to talk to Dr. Lejeune,” said Mel. “It’s extremely important.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said Dr. Richard. “Dr. Lejeune is unavailable.”

  “Well, I think she will want to talk to us,” said Zack. “We understand she’s working on the translation of the journal. We may have information that would bear on that.”

  “Hmmm, you have information that might involve the journal?” asked Dr. Richard.

  “Well, maybe,” fudged Zack. “She’ll want to talk to us.”

  “What information is this?” asked the woman. “I’m Dr. Lejeune’s confidential assistant. Generally, what she knows, I know. I’ll be happy to listen and relay what you say to the doctor.”

  “We can reveal what we know only to Dr. Lejeune,” said Mel.

  “Are you sure?” asked the assistant. “We can find a place here in the library that will be completely private.”

  “Right now we need to see Dr. Lejeune,” said Zack.

  “Well then, it’s quite out of the question,” said Dr. Richard. “Dr. Lejeune is not here. The last we heard, she was in Italy with the pope.”

  “With the pope?” echoed Zack, now sure they were on the right track. “It’s urgent we speak to her.”

  Mel had wandered over to a little television that was playing in the background. She leaned over and looked closely at the picture. Her mouth fell open in shock.

  “Oh my God!” she cried, turning to Zack and the rest.

  “What is it?” pressed Zack.

  “They are fighting in Washington, DC,” she replied.

  “Who?” asked Zoe.

  “I don’t know the details, but it seems the president and his inner circle are under siege by forces loyal to Congress,” said Mel.

  “But the president is head of all US military forces,” observed Zack. “Who could be fighting against them?”

  “It’s hard to say, but from what I can get, it’s a number of state militias and their congressional leaders,” said Mel. “They say the president has gone too far, has become too despotic, and has not only put the United States at risk but the whole world.”

  “But that will mean civil war,” said Zack. “What will the army do? Will they fight?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Mel. “But we must talk to Dr. Lejeune and soon.”

  CHAPTER

  50

  The map coordinates were programmed into a portable GPS unit, and they were on their way to Uruk. J.E. led the way, he and the Israeli captain each on his own bike. The rest followed, most with two riders. Cloe and the father curator rode together. Everyone who could use a weapon was heavily armed—everyone but the father curator. Cloe was scared but strangely excited. Finally, they were headed toward some answers.

  “Close up,” J.E. yelled to a couple of stragglers.

  The decision had been made to head straight for Uruk. Stealth would only slow them down, and it was certain that the Iraqis knew they were here by this time. Because the bikes were designed for desert travel, they did not have to stick to roads, and they went swiftly as the crow flies. They needed to get to Uruk before the Iraqis, ISIS, or the local tribesmen could find them.

  Two hours after sunrise, they pulled up on a knoll overlooking a dried-up riverbed. The GPS said they had reached their destination.

  “I don’t see much,” said the curator, studying the broad expanse below them.

  “That’s not unusual,” replied Cloe, observing the beauty of the red, brown, and sand colors that formed the ancient, barren bed of the Euphrates River. “A lot of what’s left of Uruk would be covered by sand and sediment after all these thousands of years.”

  J.E. scrutinized the riverbed with his binoculars. “There, I see some tents and equipment on the southern edge.”

  Cloe and the Israeli captain had a look and handed the glasses to the monsignor.

  “That’s got to be our target,” said the monsignor. “How do we want to approach this?”

  “I didn’t see any armed guards,” said J.E. “Best we ease on into the camp and try to make contact with the scientists. I suggest we leave the motorcycles and most of our weapons here. We’ll be less threatening that way.”

  “Agreed,” said Captain Jacob, “but we’ll leave the Swiss here to cover our retreat if we need to get out fast. They’ll also watch our backs in case we have visitors.”

  Cloe, J.E., the monsignor, the Israeli, and the curator walked down the long sweeping face of what mi
ght, at one time thousands of years ago, have been the natural western bank of the Euphrates River. Cloe was astounded at being in the cradle of civilization.

  Crossing over the dry, hard-packed riverbed, Cloe could now see more details of the dig. There were the usual stone-and-mud brick walls of houses and storages facilities but without their roofs of wood. The latter had surely long since deteriorated, much as they had at Masada. However, the most amazing artifact confronting them was a piece of what was obviously a wall. As they approached, Cloe looked up and saw it towered forty to fifty feet over them. Portions of it looked like it had been overlaid with tiles or something similar, all forming a pattern. She could see the rough outline of what might have been the earliest version of wall art.

  “Imposing, isn’t it,” said a man standing in the black shadow of the huge wall. He had an accent but spoke excellent English.

  Cloe and the others turned quickly in the direction of the voice.

  “Hello?” said Cloe.

  “Hello,” said the voice from the shadow of the wall.

  The figure stepped into the sunlight. He was dressed in khaki shorts, a military-style jacket, and a white T-shirt. A pistol was strapped to his hip. His hat had a broad brim with a headband of sweat.

  The man strode to the center of the group and stopped. He looked at each of them and then extended his hand to Cloe.

  “Madam, you must be the group about which we have heard so much this morning on the radio,” said the stranger. “Something about flying into the country under the radar and being sought by every patriotic Iraqi. The gentlemen of the Islamic State are also looking for you.”

  Cloe smiled, and everyone relaxed a bit. She thought he was probably Scottish but certainly a Brit of some sort.

  “Woof, woof,” cried a dog that came running up behind the stranger.

  “Let me introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Miles Welch, a member of the dig team. And this humble canine is my faithful friend Boogie.”

  Cloe knelt down and scratched Boogie’s ears. As soon as Cloe began the doggie massage, Boogie did a one-eighty and rolled over on his back so he could receive a proper belly scratch.

  When she stopped, Boogie rolled to his feet and looked at Cloe with an expression of unadorned love.

  “Well, it looks like you have a friend,” said Miles. “Two friends. How can I help you?”

  “We are looking for Reverend Klein,” said Cloe. “We have business with him.”

  “Oh, you mean Tommy,” said Miles. “He’s in the main dig tent.”

  “Tommy?” asked the monsignor. “I thought his name was Josef Klein.”

  “Oh, sure, sure,” replied Miles as they turned toward the tents. “The Very Reverend Josef Thomas Klein. We’ve been out here so long we just call him Tommy.”

  Just then the group stood at alert as they heard helicopters in the distance. The sound increased until it became a roar. Cloe saw that the helicopters would pass over the camp.

  “Come with me, quickly,” said Miles. “If they fly over us, wave and smile.”

  They struck off toward the largest of the tents, and sure enough, the helicopters flew right toward them.

  “Wave and smile,” said their host. “It’s the Iraqi military probably looking for you.”

  They did so, and Cloe could feel the Iraqi birds eyeing them like flying predators from an ancient time.

  The helicopters began to settle as if to land. Dust and sand began to blow in all directions.

  “Don’t lose your nerve!” cried Miles. “Hold, hold.”

  Strangely, in the midst of landing, Cloe heard the jet turbine engines on the helicopters wind up, and they flared off to the west.

  “Whew! Thank God!” yelled the old curator as the enemy flew off.

  “It’s an old trick the Iraqis use,” said Miles. “They fly in and study you closely. Then they make to land to see if you run. Looks like we passed the test.”

  Cloe looked off to the west as the threat retreated at flank speed. “Thank God indeed,” she said to herself.

  As they approached the main tent, a stream of shouts and what Cloe took to be German curses erupted from inside.

  “Hmmm, that’s Tommy,” said Miles, with a sardonic smile. “He can be temperamental.”

  As Miles swept the flap of the large tent back to allow them to walk in, Cloe saw a barrel-chested man of medium build berating two associates in German. His hair was completely gray, and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee. In fact, everything about him gave the appearance of neatness. He was dressed in perfectly pressed khakis and clean desert boots. He had a large cross around his neck.

  As they entered, he turned. “Vas ist das?” he asked.

  “Good morning, Tommy,” said Miles in a good-natured way. “We have guests.”

  Cloe strode to the center of the tent and extended her hand, “Guten morgen, Herr Reverend,” she said, as the others followed. “We have come a very long way to find you.”

  “Guten morgen,” came the guarded reply from the German.

  “My name is Clotile Lejeune,” said Cloe. “My colleagues are my son, J.E., Monsignor Roques, Captain Jacob, and the father curator. We need your help.”

  Reverend Klein took in each of them in order. Cloe felt as if his stare would peel off her skin. The man’s intensity was almost tactile.

  After a moment, he turned away from them and over his shoulder said in very good English, “Go away, I’m busy.”

  CHAPTER

  51

  The Burnt Man felt especially hideous as he awaited instructions from his boss. He studied his reflection in the windows of the high-rise tower in Dubai. Once again he cried out silently to all the gods that might be to curse the doctor and her bastard offspring. They did this to him. They would be repaid in spades.

  Icar had said he had a task that would fit the Burnt Man’s special skills. He longed to hear what his leader had in mind. He needed action. He needed to inflict pain both on himself and on others. This was one reason why he served Icar.

  Movement caught the corner of his eye, and Icar appeared. Once again he was not sure whether the man had entered the high-rise suite or had simply appeared there. One thing the Burnt Man had learned was to trust his instincts. He had long suspected that his boss was special, and he believed this now more than ever.

  The man was dressed, as always, completely in black, from his glistening loafers to his black tie on his black shirt. His jet-black hair was swept back into a small clutch at the back of his head. Icar walked to him and looked into his hideous face, seemingly absorbing his ugliness. The man was not repulsed but looked at him with love. For a moment, the Burnt Man felt normal, attractive. He would trade his soul for these moments.

  “You must go to Rome,” said the man. “There is one who defies me yet.”

  “Yes,” he acquiesced. He knew Icar had spies in many places.

  “I want you to bring all the resources you need,” the dark figure added. “The strength of this one is great. He upholds the many, so they also defy me.”

  “What would you have me do?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

  As always, Icar laid hands on him, on his ruined face. His delicate fingers traced the scars and took the pain away for a moment.

  “Take what you need; you know what I want,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  52

  “Busy?” said Cloe, her voice rising. “You’re too busy to talk to us?”

  Reverend Klein turned back to her and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “We’ve come thousands of miles over brutal terrain and through even more hostile countries, looking for you,” she said. “We have been sent by Pope Francis on a mission of extraordinary importance. And you … you’re too busy to even talk to us?”

  “Papists. I might have known,” said Reveren
d Klein through clenched teeth. “I don’t think there is anything you could possibly say that would interest me.”

  “Oh really,” responded Cloe as the others looked on. “What I have in this bag is more important than all your years working on this dig and anything you might find here.”

  “Impossible!” shouted the reverend, now both angry and interested in spite of himself. “We have made enormous discoveries and have opened the way for many more if the local fools around here don’t all kill each other and us with them.”

  “How do you know it’s impossible?” asked the monsignor calmly.

  Cloe watched the reverend struggle. He might be proud and arrogant, but he was, in the final measure, a scientist.

  After a moment, the reverend’s posture eased a bit, and he said, “Perhaps I was a bit hasty. Let’s start over.”

  He began by introducing his inner circle, and Cloe went around her group, giving names and a word or two on background.

  “Ah, Father Curator,” he said. “Word of your work with the Vatican archives goes before you. One day I would have you show me around the library.”

  The curator hung his head for a second and then, looking up, said, “Alas, I fear the library is gone, destroyed by the mob in this trouble.”

  “Oh no!” cried the reverend with genuine anguish. “Papist or not, that was one of the world’s great treasures. I had always hoped to look at some of your old scrolls and maps.”

  “Maybe we can help, Rev,” said J.E., smiling. “We’ve got a two-thousand-year-old mystery that you might be able to solve.”

  “J.E.’s right, Reverend Klein,” said Cloe, quickly filling everyone in on the origins of the journal and the conversation between Jesus and St. John.

  “Mein Gott!” whispered the German, lapsing back into his native tongue. “A journal of Jesus’s public ministry? By one of the apostles? Can it be so? I must see it.”

  “Where can we go to show you what we have?” asked Cloe.

  He led them to a huge plywood table situated on two sawhorses in the back of the tent.