by D. J. Niko
Images came and went from his mind like ghosts from another life. He envisioned himself on the chaotic streets of Cairo, the horns of choked traffic blaring all around him, faces glaring at him in distrust, small-time peddlers accosting him every two steps to sell him perfume or felucca rides in the Nile. He imagined the Egyptian prison, the filth and stench of it, the hard stares of convicts, the improbability of reasoning with a hyperconnected criminal who was probably still doing business from behind bars.
His thoughts turned to Sarah. Their partnership hung in the balance. If he went to Egypt now, there would be no return to her. The thought of losing her triggered an ache deep in his core.
He walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The fluorescent lights were unkind. His skin was dry and devoid of color, his eyes dull and distant behind red eyelids. He was startled by how much he looked like his father, whom he hadn’t seen since the old man had walked out on the family thirty years prior. It was the first time Daniel had noticed the resemblance, and it repulsed him.
He opened the medicine cabinet door and picked up one of two packets of Valium. He emptied the last two blue pills into his hand and tossed the box and blister pack into the trash bin. He walked to the table, popped the pills into his mouth, and chased them with a long swig of whiskey. He grimaced as his throat burned.
Without bothering to undress, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
Every seat on the coach cabin of the EgyptAir 777 was taken. By Daniel’s estimation, there were some four hundred people on board, all engaged in capsule versions of their lives within the seventeen inches allotted to them.
All but him.
He looked out the window at the black underbelly of the gathering clouds. A silver thread of lightning illuminated the distant horizon. He didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the armrest until a gentle hand landed on his forearm.
“Danny, are you all right?”
He relaxed his grip and turned his gaze to the seat next to his. With her serene countenance and flaxen curls spilling over her shoulder, Sarah looked like an angel. He nodded. “Fine.”
“It’s just a storm, you know.” She smiled. “We’ve been through worse.”
The plane jolted. A woman in the back screamed. The seat belt light came on, followed by an announcement from the cockpit.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the male voice with the thick Arabic accent. “We are experiencing turbulence due to some inclement weather. Remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened.”
Sarah squeezed Daniel’s hand and held it. Though the space between them was silent, he felt her strength and her loyalty. He wanted so badly to embrace her, to be healed by her.
He closed his eyes. If she ever found out . . .
A second, more violent jolt came. The lights in the cabin went out and the oxygen masks dropped, prompting a chorus of panicked screams that, within a moment no longer than a heartbeat, were drowned out by a deafening cr-r-r-ack.
The plane shook like it would break apart. Daniel looked across the cabin and out the windows on the opposite side of the aircraft. He tensed.
A single flame had broken through a seam on the wing. It quivered in the open air until it was extinguished and replaced by a stream of black smoke.
“We’ve been hit by lightning.” Sarah’s voice was calm. “He’s going to have to land.”
Daniel felt the invisible vise around his chest squeeze so hard he could not breathe. He clawed at his arms, his chest, his neck in an attempt to shake the sensation. Sarah was talking to him, but he could not hear her over his own panicked breath.
The sound of an explosion filled the cabin. Overhead bins opened and suitcases were sucked out by pressure from a breach in the aircraft. Four hundred people wailed in unison, their voices howled down in the wind tunnel that had overtaken the cabin.
Overhead, the craft cracked open. Seats with people still on them were ripped from the floor and tossed every which way. Sarah looked at Daniel, her blue eyes misty. “Nothing is forever.”
Her seat came off its hinges and was swept into the void as he fell in the opposite direction. He closed his eyes and yelled her name, but his voice was claimed by the wind.
Gasping for breath, Daniel bolted upright. He felt around him in the dark and clutched the bedsheets. They were damp, just as they had been every other time that had happened. He rubbed his eyes and tried to reassure himself: it was only a dream.
He groped for his phone on the nightstand and turned it on. The green digital characters announced nine at night. Below that were two texts: one, the ticket confirmation from the travel agent; the other, an address in Cairo from Langham’s secretary.
Now wide awake, he lay back on the pillow and caught his breath. The images from his dream drifted into his mind, mere shadows of the violent visions that had haunted him in sleep. All that remained was the feeling of desperation, like the bitter taste after swallowing poison.
There was no doubt about it: he was damaged. He could not hold back the memories that came rushing toward him like a tsunami, drawing him into an abyss of darkness and torment. He needed Valium to stop the shakiness deep inside him—that and booze to make him sleep. In a profession that was rife with dangers, he couldn’t avoid heights, high speed, or sudden threats—the triggers that thrust him into a steel capsule thirty thousand feet in the sky, nose-diving into the Atlantic, unable to run to safety.
He was no good to the project, no good to himself. He certainly was no good to Sarah. Though unspoken, his weakness stood between them like smoldering wreckage. If he hadn’t already lost her, it was a matter of time before she would lose respect for him—or worse, pity him.
No way in hell he was going to let that happen.
He got out of bed and turned on the light. He was stunned to see long, bloody grooves cut into his skin, as if he’d been clawed by a rabid animal. The trace of dark brown residue under his fingernails was the final affirmation of what he had to do.
Daniel dragged a duffle bag out of the closet and stuffed his few clothes and possessions into it. He took the full box of Valium out of the medicine cabinet and threw it into his backpack, an unusual companion to his other essentials: camera, eleven-inch laptop, climbing rope and carabiners, lock-picking tools, a bulked-up Swiss Army knife.
He was good to go. He glanced at the pad of paper on the nightstand and considered leaving Sarah a note. Though she deserved something—an explanation, a declaration, an apology—no words would justify his abrupt departure. She would not understand and likely not forgive.
Perhaps it was better to say nothing.
He zipped up the duffle, slipped his phone and keys into his pocket, and left for Athens.
Nineteen
The rains of winter had not relented that evening. The rapid fire of drops hitting the metal roof of the lab were a meditation of sorts, softening the edges of Sarah’s misery.
Unable to find peace after the confrontation with Daniel, she’d decided to distract herself with work. She’d gone to the lab with the intent of digging further into Trabzon and Sumela, but the turmoil within had not allowed her to concentrate. Like the aftermath of an earthquake, the altercation had left her shaken deep inside, where the light of temporal pleasures did not reach.
Shaken and confused. Had she been unfair to him? Had her own ego prevented her from looking at his side of things and caused her to condemn him too soon? Should she forgive him—yet again—and carry on as before? Surely, after all they’d been through, another chance was warranted.
No. He’d lied. Whatever his reasons for doing so, dishonesty was inexcusable. Their relationship had worked because of the unspoken trust between them. Besides, something about him was different. A sudden lack of confidence, perhaps; an inexplicable weakness.
Yes, it had to be finished. She would move forward alone. And yet, without him even the noblest of goals seemed hollow.
It was nearing eleven when the barrage slowed to a trickl
e, then stopped altogether. Sarah stepped outside. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in the petrichor—the scent of rain awakening dry earth and turning dust into soil. That fleeting moment was balm for the anxiety that had been building inside her since she’d last spoken to Daniel.
The sound of footsteps sucking at the mud jolted her out of her thoughts. Eyes wide, she stood rock still. “Danny, is that you?”
Evan stepped into the sliver of light coming from the half-open door. “What are you doing here so late?” His tone was barbed.
“I might ask you the same.” Her gaze traveled to his hand. He was holding something wrapped in black fabric.
“I think it’s best that you ask no questions right now.” He walked inside the lab.
Sarah followed him. “What are you talking about?”
He held up the wrapped item. “This.”
“Stop playing games, Evan. Tell me what this is.”
He placed the item on the table and unwrapped it. It was the brass obelisk, the key to Trophonius’ cave. His jaw was tight, his gaze harsh. “You and Daniel Madigan have some explaining to do.”
A deep chill made her skin tingle. Had Daniel lied about the monk confiscating the object? Would he really go that far? The words came out strangled: “Where did you get that?”
“The trunk of the Land Rover.” He took two steps toward her. “Perhaps you can tell me if there’s a logical explanation.”
She felt paralyzed. Telling the truth would mean the end of Daniel’s career, perhaps worse. Leaving it out would be a lie by omission. She was caught between Scylla and Charybdis. “I can’t say.”
“Can’t . . . or won’t?” He repeated her own words.
Her thoughts began to settle, and she looked at the matter more clearly. Even if he were sneaking about, Daniel would never leave something like that in the boot of a car. Something was definitely off. She elected to keep silent.
“Have it your way.” He turned back to the obelisk and rewrapped it. “I have reported this incident to the foundation and to the ministry of antiquities. They will decide whether or not to press charges.” He glared at her through those thick black glasses. “In the meantime, you’re fired. I want you out of here in an hour.”
There was nothing she could say in her defense. She walked out into the cold, damp night. Her face tightened as she questioned what could possibly have happened.
She launched into a fast walk, but mounting adrenaline compelled her to run. Unable to see in the dark, she tripped on a root and fell to her side, her face landing in the mud. Sitting up, she noticed something peculiar: the same herringbone footprint she had seen at the museum on the night of the heist.
It was a fresh print. She fumbled in her pocket for a penlight and shone it on the ground, following the trail of prints to the lab. She pressed her hand to her mouth.
She turned off the light and sprang to her feet. She ran through the woods to Daniel’s cabin.
By the time Sarah reached the clearing in the orchard, she was out of breath. One last push: she sprinted to the cabin and banged on the door with an open palm. A blast of cold wind whistled across the clearing, making her shiver.
“Danny, open up.” She heard the desperation in her own voice.
There was no answer. She knocked again, harder this time. When he didn’t come to the door, she turned the knob and was surprised it was unlocked. She called his name again. Nothing. She cracked the door open, looked over both shoulders, and went into the dark room.
“Danny, it’s me.”
She turned on the light. An open bottle of whiskey and a shot glass were the only items on the table near the door, where his computer normally sat. She recoiled at the pungent odor.
As she walked toward the bed, she noticed the empty closet behind open doors. Her brow wrinkled as she looked more closely. His duffle bag and all his clothes were missing. Her gaze darted across the room, scanning for any trace of him. Other than the whiskey, there was nothing. He had gone—and wasn’t coming back.
She sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what to make of the situation. She wanted to believe that there was some explanation, that he would be back at any moment, that he had not forsaken her. But the burning sensation in her abdomen warned her otherwise.
She put her hand on the bed to steady herself and noticed the sheets were damp. She looked down, and seeing faint streaks of blood on the crumpled bed linens, she gasped.
Sarah turned over every pillow and looked behind every piece of furniture for a note. Even if he had run off, she wanted reassurance he was all right. Considering their history, how could he not leave her with at least that?
She continued her search in the bathroom. There was nothing on the counter, nothing in the bathtub. Even the medicine cabinet was empty. She noticed something in her peripheral vision and did a double take.
In the trash bin was something all too familiar to her: a box of ten-milligram Valium—the strongest available—and a spent blister pack of pills.
“My God.” Her eyes welled up.
Memories came rushing back: her mother dead in a bathtub, a similar box of pills sitting on the bathroom counter. It had been twenty-one years, but it was only recently that she’d come to terms with the loss that had made her feel so alone and abandoned.
Ironically, it was Daniel who’d helped her heal. Over the three years they’d known each other, he pushed her beyond what she perceived were her limits. But more than that, he’d never once let her down, calming her deepest fear: that everyone she loved would leave her.
She blinked, and tears rained down. How could he disappear in so cruel a manner? How could she have been so wrong about him? She took a deep breath and dismissed the self-pity. What did she not know?
The phone vibrating in her pocket startled her. She wiped her cheeks with her palm and reached for it. It was a blocked number. She picked up but didn’t speak.
“Sarah Weston?”
She stayed silent.
“Heinrich Gerst here.” He spoke with a heavy German accent. “I am with Interpol. I wish to speak to you about a Daniel Madigan.”
She clicked the phone off. Though she normally made it a habit to cooperate with authorities, she knew her involvement in an investigation would incriminate Daniel. Whatever the reasons for his disappearance, she could not do that to him.
She had to get out of there. She skulked through the woods to the other side of the clearing and her cabin. She packed a few essentials, including her passport, into her backpack and left the bulk of her belongings in the cabin. Knowing they would use it to track her, she tossed her phone onto the bed.
She slipped on her threadbare oilskin coat and strapped on her pack, ready to descend to Thebes on foot. By the time anyone realized she’d left the camp, she would be long gone to Trabzon.
Twenty
Sumela Monastery, Anatolia,
393 CE
A rooster crowed, announcing morning. Aristea rose from the stone bunk and took two steps to a window that was no wider than the span of her shoulders. She wrapped her hands around the iron bars and regarded the dawn.
Clouds thick as cotton wool hung over the ravine, obscuring all but the spindly crowns of the evergreens. In the dead stillness of early morning, the trickle of water persisted: somewhere, a river flowed.
It was the seventh morning she’d woken to that view. She’d watched the square patch of Earth change as the hours passed: the clouds lifting to reveal rows of pines crowded together like Homeric armies, the misty peaks in the distance, the sky painted with strokes of ochre and vermillion as day turned to night.
Aristea had tried to meditate on the beauty beyond the bars that confined her, but her efforts were futile. The reality of her stone prison would not let her find peace.
A heavy knock made her jump. She pulled the woolen blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her. “Who’s there?”
The wooden door opened with a lingering creak, and a man dressed in a gr
ay woolen sheath entered. He wasn’t the same mute fellow who had been bringing her food for seven days.
He placed a bowl with steaming contents on the edge of the bed. “In case you are hungry.”
She was surprised to hear her own language. “You speak Greek.”
“Yes. I am Athenian. My uncle and I have journeyed a long way to build this place.”
She regarded him from head to foot. “Judging by your dress, you are not a traditional Athenian.”
“If by traditional you mean pagan, you are correct. I am a Nicene Christian. A Christian monk.” He placed a hand on his chest. “My name is Sophronios.”
She wrapped the blanket more tightly about her. “What do you want of me? Why have I been brought here?”
Sophronios stepped into the pale light coming in from the window. He was a man her own age, with taut honey-toned skin and a short black beard growing beneath high cheekbones. Beneath a fitted hood that covered his hair were eyes that looked like autumn chestnuts in the morning light. “There will be an answer to your question in due time. But first, you should understand where you are, for it is quite a special place.” He pointed out the window. “This is Melá Mountain. It is near the Black Sea in Anatolia. My uncle Barnabas and I were sent here by the virgin mother to build this holy house in her name.”
“Who is this mother?” Aristea said. “Is she Greek?”
Sophronios shook his head. “You have much to learn. I speak of the holy mother of Christ. She died many years ago, but her divine presence still guides us. She appeared to my uncle and me in a vision.” He looked up. A look of rapture brightened his face. “It was beautiful. She was bathed in light.”
Aristea understood the concept of visions. Regardless of what, or whom, one believed in, guidance was received in the same way. “But why here? On this remote crag?”
“We were called upon to find an icon of the virgin, painted by one of the Christ’s disciples, Saint Luke.” He pointed to a barren ledge in the distance. “It appeared to us on that spot, and we knew this was the place. It was the impossible feat to bring up the stones and build on this steep cliffside. But with our lady’s help, a miracle happened. Our monks moved in seven years ago”—he crossed himself—“God be praised.”