by D. J. Niko
Intuition told Aristea Sophronios was a gentle, if misguided, soul whom she needed not fear. But she could not reconcile this man’s piety with the barbaric incident at the sanctuary of Apollo. Memory persisted, flooding her mind with images of fire and destruction by men who were all but holy. She decided no one—not even the kindly monk before her—could be trusted. “Again I ask you: why have I been brought here?”
Sophronios tapped his fingertips together. “The monastery is also a center of education. People come from all parts of the empire to learn about our religion. Some become monks and stay here to the end of their lives.” He gave her a lingering glance. “It is very important to learn about Christianity . . . to embrace it.”
So that was what this was about. “You want me to accept your ways.”
He put up a hand. “Let us take it one step at a time.”
“Don’t waste your time, Sophronios. There is nothing about your religion that interests me. Just as you have given your life to your god, I have sworn allegiance to mine. I promise you that will not change.”
“You cannot stay wicked forever—”
“Wicked?” Her eyes burned with indignity. “How can you condemn me when you know nothing about my soul?”
“I know this: women should not talk to men in that way.”
“I am a priestess. I do not have to bow my head to you.”
“Those are the ways of the past. Greece is now part of the Byzantine Empire. Polytheism is strictly forbidden. It is imperative to know the laws of God.” Sophronios reached inside the folds of his heavy gray robes and pulled out a small codex bound with jute. He placed it on the bed next to the bowl. “When all is illuminated, you surely will repent and accept the new faith—for if you don’t, the consequences could be dire.”
Aristea recalled hearing the stories of non-repenters being burned alive or publically stoned. “I will not convert to your faith. If that is your aim, then give me your consequences now.” She took his hands and wrapped them around her throat. They were warm and soft, as if he hadn’t done a day’s work in his life. She looked dead into his bewildered eyes. “Do it.”
His face flushed. He jerked his hands away and hastened to the door. He glanced back at her but quickly diverted his gaze. The iron ring handle rattled as he shut the door behind him.
Aristea sat at the edge of the bed. She knew the display was overly theatrical. She wanted to call Sophronios’ bluff, to see what he was made of.
His heart was not like the others’. Not only could he not hurt her, but he might one day be her ally.
Twenty-one
The pine needles quivered as winter’s frosty breath blasted across the hills of New York’s North Country. The sun was high, a brilliant ball of white fire obscured behind a dense haze that had not lifted in days.
Stephen Bellamy walked along a trail through an alley of white pines, his Doberman by his side. It was a meditation of sorts. Every day he walked for two hours, getting to know every blemish on the old-growth trees on the hundred and twenty acres of his property. It was a mantra left over from his military days: always know your surroundings, because your enemy does.
A machine rumbled in the distance, profaning the stillness of midday. Singha stood dead still, her ears perked, and barked a warning.
“Settle down, girl.” Bellamy stroked her nape.
The rumble turned into a growl as the ATV came into view. Bellamy recognized the rider: Tom Sorenson, his aide. He could tell from Sorenson’s relaxed shoulders it was good news.
Sorenson parked the ATV in a clearing beyond the trail and let the engine idle. “You really ought to carry a phone, Colonel,” he shouted.
“Nonsense, boy. I don’t care to be found.” He smirked. “You got some news for me?”
Sorenson turned off the engine and walked to his boss. “We have the key to Trophonius’ cave. It took some coercing. The monks were determined to keep it to themselves.”
“How many casualties?”
“Four, maybe five.” He made a downward motion with his hand. “Dove off the cliff. You know, ritual suicide.”
“Happens.” He adjusted his black wraparound sunglasses. “Tell me, what did our boys find in the cave?”
“That’s the problem. They found nothing. Only some skeletal remains.”
“Impossible,” he barked. “Have them scour every inch.”
“Already have, sir. The map was not there. What we do know is that Sarah Weston and Daniel Madigan—separately, not together—have been in the cave before us. We suspect one of them has it.”
Bellamy scratched the back of his head. It was a complication he had not counted on. Those two-bit archaeologists were becoming real thorns in his side. But after all that life had thrown at him, this was nothing he couldn’t handle. “Getting to them might be tricky. Do we know who’s backing them?”
“She’s a free agent; he’s a Rutgers field scientist. But this is not a university assignment. As far as I can tell, they’re working independently. Their only support is each other. But we’re working on that.” Sorenson winked. “We’ve framed Madigan with some incriminating evidence that will land him squarely in the hands of the authorities.”
Bellamy grinned. The authorities, including Evan Rigas, were on his payroll, which meant Madigan was as good as captured. But that gave Bellamy only a 50 percent chance of recovering the map. “And Weston?”
“Poor principled Sarah Weston. How shocking that her partner is embroiled in something so scandalous.” Sorenson shook his head. “He isn’t the man she thought he was. She will want nothing more to do with him, so she will go it alone. Alone and vulnerable—just as we like.”
“Good thinking, boy. That’s why I pay you: to find solutions.”
Sorenson looked at his watch. “I’ll be speaking to our man in Thebes in a few minutes to get an update. I expect everything to go smoothly from here on out.”
Bellamy patted him on the back. “Well, it’s about time. Now leave us be. Singha is anxious to finish her walk.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel.” Sorenson got back on the ATV. He revved the engine twice, then wove the vehicle through the woods with the swiftness of a deer.
With a satisfied grin, Bellamy inhaled deeply to admit the sharp scent of pine resin. He heard a squawk overhead and looked up to see a bald eagle gliding across the leaden sky. Its wingspan stretching to a man’s full height, it was a near-perfect specimen, a symbol of strength, rarity, and fearsome beauty. It reminded him of America and of the oath he made long ago to protect it.
That pact had been broken forever.
It was not his doing. Betrayal of the worst kind would cause any man to forsake something once sacrosanct. It was going on twenty-two years since the dishonorable discharge he did not deserve, and he still felt the pain deep in his gut. It was fuel for the machine he set in motion two decades prior: the plan for retribution against those who had stripped him of his dignity and caused him to live in the shadows.
The day of his vindication drew nigh.
Bellamy patted Singha on the ribs. “Let’s go, girl. We have a lot to do.”
Twenty-two
Daniel slouched in the backseat of the taxi transporting him from Cairo International Airport to the accommodation Langham’s people had arranged, some nondescript chain hotel on the banks of the Nile. He rubbed his eyes to break through the fog lingering from the flight, during which he was heavily medicated. It was the only way he could get through it.
Using a hand crank, he opened the window to get some air. The stinking fumes hovering over the city assaulted his face like a dragon’s breath. Cairo was as grimy and crowded as it was ten years ago, when he was on assignment in the Valley of Kings. The streets were choked with emission-belching buses, the ubiquitous dark-blue-and-white taxis, an inordinate number of Mercedes-Benz sedans, and bicycle vendors improbably balancing oversized trays of bread on their heads. As the traffic slowed to a crawl, pedestrians flooded the streets, some crossing, oth
ers walking between slow-moving cars for the sport of it. Women dressed in western clothing with hijabs wrapped around their heads wove through the traffic on mopeds, ignoring the lewd remarks from the salivating men stuck inside their vehicles.
The traffic was habitually thick in that part of town, but that day it was particularly heinous. The taxi driver laid on the horn and shouted some obscenities at another driver, who reciprocated, even though neither of them was at fault for the traffic.
Daniel craned his neck to see what the holdup was but saw nothing but parked cars. “What’s happening, friend?” he asked the driver in Arabic.
“Some protest.” He spat out the window. “Radical hoodlums who hate the president.” He squinted at Daniel through the rearview mirror. “Where you from?”
“Here and there.” He knew the remark would not translate in Arabic. “I mean, I work all over.”
“What kind of work?”
“Too many questions.”
“Sorry. Just making conversation. Looks like we’ll be here awhile.”
The incessant blaring of horns, along with a cacophony of twangy Egyptian pop playing on too many car stereos, rattled Daniel’s nerves. “How far is Tora from here?”
“Tora? The prison? What kind of trouble are you in, man?” The driver chuckled. “It’s far. South end of the city.”
“Tell you what.” Daniel pulled out a bundle of money from his pocket and counted out double the fare. “I’ll get off here. Show up at the Novotel in three hours to take me to the south end, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
The driver counted out the bills, a hint of greediness in the act. He put his elbow on the back of the seat and turned around. “I’ll be there. Who do I ask for?”
Daniel strapped on his backpack and exited the car. He leaned into the passenger window. “I’ll find you.”
The sandstone gates of Tora Prison took on an ochre hue in the late afternoon sun. Daniel was not surprised to see a row of tanks, painted desert khaki, stationed outside. Soldiers dressed in sand-colored fatigues and helmets surrounded the tanks, guns at the ready. A helicopter roared overhead, likely patrolling the grounds to ensure the prisoners stayed in line.
The taxi stopped at the guard station, and the driver produced papers. The guard eyed Daniel. “What is your business here?”
“I am here to see one of the inmates,” he said in flawless Arabic. With his golden-brown skin, shoulder-grazing mahogany hair, and five-day facial growth, he did not look out of place there. “Ishaq Shammas.”
“Passport,” the guard barked.
Daniel gave him what he asked for and watched him disappear into the guard house.
It was almost twenty minutes before he came back out and signaled to two armed soldiers. He bent down and peered at the passenger through the driver’s window. “Step out of the car. The men will show you inside.”
Daniel exited the taxi and walked toward the soldiers. One pointed a gun at him; the other searched his backpack. Daniel had already emptied out the bag in anticipation of this. He was carrying only a map, a bottle of water, his passport, and a set of printed photos he had shot earlier that day as decoys—streetscapes and landmarks around downtown Cairo, locals he paid to pose, and antiquities at the Egyptian Museum, into which he mingled the photos he intended to show Shammas.
The soldier thumbed through the photos and was satisfied there was nothing suspicious. He waved Daniel into a tent and ordered him to strip down to his boxers. He searched his pockets and shoes for anything suspect, then patted down his hair and body. His gaze lingered on the scratches on Daniel’s arms and chest. “What happened here, pretty boy?”
“What can I say? She was a wild one.”
The guard chuckled and threw Daniel’s clothes at him. “Get dressed.”
They walked across the courtyard in single file, the visitor between the two guards. A blast of dry heat blew in from the desert, bringing with it the scent of raw sewage. The smell became more pervasive as they walked inside Tora Istikbal, one of the prisons within the complex. Prisoners were held there before being sentenced and transferred to either the general or maximum security facility. Word had it some of the inmates had been on lockdown there for years, removed every so often to be interrogated and tortured as they waited to be tried.
Though the cells were not yet visible, Daniel could tell the conditions were bordering on inhumane. They walked down a dark corridor that reeked of mildew, their heavy footfalls echoing off the concrete floor and walls. A ceiling-mounted light fixture flickered on and off, revealing stains from a variety of bodily fluids.
One of the soldiers stopped at a thick iron door and unlocked three dead bolts. The soldier said something, but it was hard to hear over the drone of chatter punctuated by loud guffaws. He pointed his gun toward a corridor on the left.
The cells, made of iron bars and encased in diamond mesh safety fencing, were lined up in two rows and held sixty, maybe seventy prisoners each. Most hung together in packs, oblivious to the visitor. Daniel caught the gaze of one man who sat alone against the wire cage, observing in silence. He looked away but could sense the prisoner’s glare following him before feeling a wad of phlegm land on his arm. He seethed but acted as if nothing had happened. He didn’t want trouble.
The soldier stopped at one of the cells and yelled out to a prisoner. A man in his late fifties or early sixties emerged from the crowd and walked toward them.
Though all prisoners were dressed in grimy prison whites—long-sleeved shirts and long pants—and wore the same snarl on their faces, Shammas stood out. With a full head of wavy white hair, high cheekbones, gray-green eyes, and a distinguished air, he had the look of someone moneyed Europeans would trust.
The soldier nodded toward the visitor. “This man is here to see you. Remember: try anything and it’s back to detention.” He turned to Daniel. “Make it quick.”
Daniel bowed slightly at Shammas and pulled up a stool next to the cage. Shammas sat on a chair on the other side of the hard wire mesh. He crossed his legs and wrists.
He regarded his visitor for a long moment, then spoke in English with an accent that revealed his British education. “American, no?”
“What difference does it make?”
Shammas shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Mr. Shammas, I’m an anthropologist. My name is Daniel Madigan.”
Shammas’ nostrils flared slightly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Madigan?”
Daniel looked over his shoulder. The soldiers stood behind him but seemed disinterested in the conversation. They likely didn’t understand English, anyway. He turned to Shammas. “I work in Thebes—with the Greeks but not for them. I’m an independent consultant.” He put weight on the word independent. “I have come across an interesting object.” He pulled the photos out of his backpack. “If I may?”
Narrowing his gaze on Daniel, Shammas nodded.
Daniel slipped the photos of the brass obelisk through the iron bars.
As he scanned them, Shammas’ face gave nothing away.
“Do you know what that object is, sir?”
No change in his expression, Shammas looked up. “No.”
“Perhaps the years in prison have dulled your memory. Let me refresh you.” Daniel leaned forward. “This is the key that grants access to the cave of Trophonius—and to an old, forgotten inscription that lies within.”
Shammas shifted in his seat. His gaze darted toward the guards, then the other inmates. “What sort of inscription?”
“It’s a map leading to something. That’s all I’ll say.”
He handed the photos back to Daniel. “I see. And where is this map now?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Daniel placed the stack of photos inside his back pocket. “Let me get to the point. I suspect the cave contents are of value to one of your clients.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Madigan, but sadly I am no longer in the antiquities business. I do n
ot have clients.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Shammas. I am not here digging for information, nor do I intend to put you in a compromised position. I am merely hoping you can put me in touch with the right broker.” He paused, ensuring he had Shammas’ full attention. “I’m looking for an appraisal.”
Shammas’ poker face cracked. The aloof glare in his eyes was replaced by an alert, viper-like gleam. “Perhaps something can be arranged.”
Daniel felt the butt of the soldier’s gun between his shoulder blades and heard him bark, “Time’s up!”
Shammas spoke behind his teeth. “Irwin Post, Marylebone, London.”
Daniel stood and spoke in Arabic. “May Allah hasten your release.” He smiled and followed the soldiers out.
Twenty-three
In late February’s embrace, the evergreen blanket swaddling Mount Melá appeared gray beneath the low-drifting cloud cover. A sprinkling of fresh snow rested on the boughs of the pine trees growing out of the steep cliffs, some three thousand feet above sea level.
Above the tree line, cut into the bare rock, the Sumela monastery was an aberration, the only habitable structure in a dense mountain wilderness that stretched miles into the horizon. Its construction was simple—a row of vertical towers with three levels of windows topped with an arched breezeway—but its location made it a feat of engineering, particularly in the fourth century, when it was first built. Though the monastery had since been destroyed many times and for many reasons, the original intent of sequestering holy men above the fray and as close to the heavens as possible was so strong it justified the pains of rebuilding.