by Rick Jones
“If I don’t give you the location, will you kill her?”
“Kill her? No, Mr. Montario, I’ve never killed anyone in my life. In fact, it’s my belief that anyone can take a life at will. Some would even say that taking a life is true power since the action is a show of complete dominion over another. But I believe differently, Mr. Montario. I believe that true power comes by having someone kill for you. That way, I do not have complete dominion over one life, but two: The one I order to commit the action, and the one who the action is committed against. That, Mr. Montario, is power that is complete and absolute. And that’s the power I hold.”
Obsidian Hall moved toward the window. The sky was beginning to settle toward darkness. The street lamps were beginning to light up ten stories below.
“It’s your choice, Mr. Montario. Either you give me the coordinates . . . or I get them from Ms. Moore. I believe you know where Eden is. So if you give me the coordinates, then I could be at Eden’s doorstep this time tomorrow. Long before Ms. Moore begins her quest.”
Montario closed his eyes. He could vaguely remember something regarding its location and the flash of numbers on one of the professor’s documents prior to encrypting it. But he did not want to place Alyssa in jeopardy, either.
“Think carefully, Mr. Montario. But don’t take too long,” Hall said evenly. “There’s a play on Broadway I’ve been meaning to catch for some time now. I don’t want to be late”
The numbers appeared jumbled in his mind, almost dyslexic in their placement. And then he began to spell out the degrees and minutes of Eden’s location.
The second man booted up Montario’s computer and applied the data into the search engine. The area that came up was a place in southern Iraq, which was nearly a thousand miles away from the Turkish border.
“You’re lying to me, Mr. Montario.”
“You’re asking me to remember a series of coordinates under extreme conditions.”
“Extreme conditions? Mr. Montario, I am being quite pleasant,” he told him affably. “I’m allowing you to live, aren’t I?” There was a slight pause as Obsidian Hall stared out the window and at the pinprick lights the made up the constellations. To Montario, the quiet was very unnerving.
“The play is about to begin,” Hall said calmly. “And time for you is running out. So if I were you, Mr. Montario, I would come up with the correct series of coordinates. And understand me when I say this: There will be no third chance, no third opportunity.” There was a pause. And then: “The coordinates, Mr. Montario. Give them to me now. The clock is ticking.”
Montario closed his eyes. His heart and mind were racing. And the grip on the back of his neck was tightening, a reminder he was moments away from being paralyzed for the rest of his life.
Standing silhouetted against the window was Obsidian Hall, who took a moment to raise his hand to check his watch. The play was about to begin.
Montario prattled off numbers, which were loaded into the search engine.
This time the location was somewhere in Africa.
Hall clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Either you’re lying to me, Mr. Montario, or you really don’t know the coordinates, as you say.”
“I swear,” he said, “I can’t recall the exact numbers. There’re so many.”
“That’s a shame,” he said. “Then I’m afraid I’ll just have to get them from Ms. Moore.”
“Please don’t hurt her.”
“Then give me the numbers.”
“I can’t.”
“So sad,” he said.
Montario lowered his head until it was inches above the floor. The man’s grip remained steady around the back of his neck. “I really can’t remember,” he said. So what will you do now? Cripple me by snapping my neck?
“Remember when I said that I had complete and absolute control? That I had dominion over the lives of two people and not just one?”
Montario treated his questions as rhetorical.
“I meant every word.” The silhouette of Obsidian Hall raised a hand and pointed to the far end of the apartment, toward the balcony door.
The large man hoisted Montario effortlessly to his feet and ushered him to the balcony. Montario tried to fight against the man’s strength, found it futile, like a child against a grown adult, and found himself on the balcony landing ten flights up.
The air was cool and mild; a slight breeze softly caressed his skin as the city beneath him seemed to crawl with a surreal slowness. He was lifted off his feet and over the man’s head; as the stars above him came closer, he was then tossed outward, the world becoming a terrifying spiral as he pin-wheeled his arms and legs to the surface below.
From where Obsidian Hall was standing, he was surprised that the young man did not cry out. And for that he earned a measure of his respect right up until the moment when Montario landed with the sound of a melon hitting the pavement.
The large man returned to the living area, brushing off imaginary dust from his suit as if the deed cast him in filth.
Obsidian looked at the little black book, then tucked it away in the inner pocket of his suit. “It looks like we’ll get to see the opening act, after all,” he said. And though it appeared his thoughts were hanging by the brief moment of his hesitation, he finally said, “Tomorrow I’ll fly to Turkey to meet with Ms. Moore.”
With his two colleagues in tow, Obsidian Hall closed the door behind him and immersed the apartment in complete and total darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
Göbekli Tepe
The world of Göbekli Tepe mattered little to Alyssa Moore as she sat inside a tent that was hot and dry with little to no wind providing any comfort. Drawings and glossy photos of the carved bas-reliefs lay haphazardly across her desktop and some on the ground, as if tossed about in a fit of rage. Her computer monitors were blank, the system shut down. And the single blanket of her cot remained unmade after a restless night in bed, which was unregimented of her.
Her entire world was becoming disheveled. She heard the tent flap pull back and someone enter.
She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. She really wanted to be alone. And then, with such gentle softness: “Ms. Alyssa?”
It was Noah, so she relaxed. Right now, he was the closest thing to a father she had. “Yes, Noah.”
He crossed the tent, grabbed an empty chair, placed it beside her, and straddled it. He then reached out and grabbed her hand, feeling the calluses of a laborer but looking into the face of someone who should have been modeling on the runway. “I know this is a difficult time,” he told her, stroking the back of her hand gently. “But I’m afraid there’s been another tragedy.”
She looked at him, her mouth hanging. She wasn’t sure she could take much more. Not now.
“It’s Montario,” he said. “There’s been word from the AIAA that he’s met with a most unfortunate accident.” She sat upright, her spine as rigid as rebar. “It appears that Mr. Montario fell from his balcony in New York.” And then: “I’m sorry.”
Her chin became gelatinous as her eyes moistened. This time she was unable to choke back the emotions as she fell into Noah’s arms and wept. In return, he pulled her close and kissed the crown of her head. “I’m so sorry, my dear. He was a good man.”
Suddenly her world began to spin kaleidoscopically out of control, the pieces of a once orderly world becoming fragmented and displaced, her mind wheeling with confusion. She had always known that he loved her, cared for her, tried to see her more than what she was, a scientist. But she saw him as a brother, someone she could trust in matters of privacy that she could never share with her father.
“He was a good man,” Noah repeated, patting her lightly on the back. “A good man.”
And then she broke, sobbing into Noah’s shirt as her world was falling apart around her by the inches.
CHAPTER SIX
Vatican City
The Papal Chamber
The Vatican’s Intelligence Service, the Ser
vizio Informazione del Vaticano, or the SIV, was created to counter early 19th century efforts to subvert the secular power of the Vatican. So as a necessity the Church saw the need in creating an unofficial security agency to solve problems by developing a system of confidential communication and information gathering. In 1870, when the Papacy was forced to give up some of its territories and cutbacks were ordered, the diplomatic service remained but its intelligence and security functions were truncated. As the Vatican adapted to periodic threats over time, they saw an immediate need to develop the SIV into a service that rivaled most intelligence agencies, including Mossad and the CIA.
With diplomatic ties with more than ninety percent of the world’s countries, the SIV was now a staple of Vatican life that protected the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry.
Today, however, provided them with a critical challenge.
Inside the Papal Chamber, Pope Leo XIV sat behind his desk, an ornate piece made of mahogany with the raised carvings of cherubs playing harpsichords as its corner pieces. From the open doors that led to the balcony, a mild wind blew in from the east, causing the drapes with scalloped hemming to billow softly. But it brought little comfort to the room as Leo sat across from John Savage, the top administrator and team leader of the SIV, who carried the look of a solemn man who had been weighed down by atrocities.
In Savage’s possession was a leather portfolio. Inside the folder were several sheets of intercepted data taken from agencies on both sides of the pond regarding the alleged discovery of Eden.
“Do you believe it to be true?” asked the pope.
Savage placed a single sheet on top of the pontiff’s desk. “This was taken from the AIAA’s data base.”
“The AIAA?”
“The Archaeological Institute of Ancient Antiquities,” he answered. “It was Professor Moore’s venue. Their transmissions confirm that the professor and his team have disappeared. And according to the sole survivor, Mr. Montario, the site was discovered.”
“And Mr. Montario’s take on the matter is what?”
“He claims that Eden is not what religious texts make it out to be.”
“And what does he make it out to be?”
“He said it was a cold, dark place. At least that’s what he told the Turkish authorities.”
The pontiff lifted the sheet of paper from his desktop. It was a short dossier on Montario, a quick summary of the man’s life. There was nothing special about him, only that he was a student of archeological studies at NYU and little else. He placed the paper back down. “And the expedition team?”
“According to him, they’re dead. He claims there was something in the darkness that took them, including Professor Moore.”
“And what do the Turkish authorities believe?”
“They believe Mr. Montario to be a confused individual, since he was showing signs of dehydration after being in the desert for two days before a shepherd boy found him.”
“You think—” He looked down at the sheet, at the name. “You think Mr. Montario knows the whereabouts of Eden?”
“I do. But I’m afraid that Mr. Montario met with a fatal accident upon his arrival in New York.”
“So there is no one left of the expedition?”
“No, Your Holiness. No one. But it appears that the Professor’s daughter, Alyssa Moore, visited him at the hospital. It’s possible that the transfer of information may have taken place then.”
The pontiff closed eyes that were iron gray, thinking. A slight breeze blew in from the balcony, alighting on their skin, a sweet caress.
Pope Leo opened his eyes. “The secret of Eden’s location must be maintained at all costs,” he said evenly. “I need you to find the girl, find the truth, and deal with it accordingly. If she knows the whereabouts of Eden, then I’m afraid the Church has no other recourse. We have to preserve its interests.”
Savage cocked his head questioningly. Was the pontiff telling him to commit murder?
“Your Holiness, how exactly am I to deal with this ‘accordingly’?”
“If she has those coordinates, John, then you have to make sure that she no longer has the capability to forward them to anyone else.”
“Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”
“I’m asking you to preserve the interests of the Church.”
Savage continued with his puzzled look.
“Do you know where the girl is?”
He nodded. “She’s at the Göbekli Tepe site in Turkey.”
“Then gather your team,” he said. “And find the girl quickly before she follows in her father’s footsteps.”
“Why?” asked Savage. “Why cover this up? Eden is a wonderful opportunity to share with the world.”
“In my eyes, finding Eden would be a blessing if it truly exists. But in the eyes of the Church it may be an abomination. So find the girl, John. Find the girl and keep the truth—right, wrong or indifferent—from getting out. And ask me no more questions.”
John Savage continued to look puzzled. Why would the Church look upon Eden as an abomination? And then: “Yes, Your Holiness.”
Pope Leo held out his hand for Savage to take, which he did, and kissed the Fisherman’s ring.
“God be with you,” said Pope Leo.
Having more questions than answers, John Savage left the Papal Chamber to gather a team to head for Turkey.
#
Beneath the Basilica is the Vatican Vault, where the treasures of Christendom lie. In one chamber sits the alleged cradle of Christ. In another the reputed heart of Joan of Arc, the only part of her that did not burn in the fire. And yet in another is the Ark of the Covenant. But in the final compartment, the L’Archivio Segreto Vaticano, whose vault contains a vast collection of historical texts and countless secrets of the Catholic Church, sat an aged scroll considered to be the earliest written account of humanity.
Beneath the spotlight glow of a single bulb, a gold cylinder that encased an ancient scroll of treated goatskin cast its bullion-like shine across the old man’s face. It had been years since he’d returned to the vault to regard its antiquities. But ever since he had authorized Alyssa Moore’s death to preserve the interests of the Church, he agonized over his decision. What was inside the cylinder, however, would help serve to justify his choice.
For a long moment he stood within its aura, taking into consideration the scholarly regard that “magic” was science not yet understood. That Eden was simply a metaphorical reference of man’s fall from grace for contesting the wishes of God, or by the interpretations of some, against the values of the Church.
But Leo knew that within that cylinder lay the truth of Edin, a metaphorical tale that was all too real. With hands that looked as thin and fragile as a sparrow’s wings, he picked up the cylinder and carefully unfurled the scroll from the tube.
It was a crudely drawn map written in a blend of fading inks indicating that Eden was situated at the junction of the Four Rivers, the Pishon and Gihon now gone, in a passable interpretation of what is now Turkey.
Rolling the scroll further, he unveiled a diagram of a massive Mayan-like temple, not the biblical Garden of Genesis. Inside the temple were tombs extolling markings which appeared more scientific than ancient, with ships and chariots taking the dead to an afterlife without cherubs and angels, but to a place of multiple gods in chariots, a place of polytheism. This imagery alone was not catastrophic to the Church—that the people of Eden may have worshiped multiple gods rather than exercising monotheism.
The truth was far worse.
He studied the tombs, and at the crude designs of those who lie within them. And because of that he could not accept the weight of the truth.
He rolled the scroll back into its cylinder and carefully placed it on its mount. Where the gold tube came from or its history, he didn’t know. He only knew that its message was entrusted into his knowledge upon taking the papalship, and that its secret was to be maintaine
d.
The old man closed his eyes, thinking the cost was too great. By condemning an innocent woman to death to keep the truth hidden from the masses, then he may have condemned himself to the pits as well.
His heart was truly heavy. And he prayed well into the night, hoping that God would see the value of his decision. That it was for the greater good.
But he was afraid that He said ‘No.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vatican City
“We’re not about that,” said the large man wearing the cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar. He was about six four and weighed 245 pounds, but when the big man moved he did so with grace and economy, especially in combat. “Are you sure?”
John Savage looked Leviticus directly in eyes that were as brown as newly minted pennies, and shrugged. “There is no other interpretation,” he told him. “At least nothing I can come up with.”
Leviticus stood looking puzzled. He was one of the Knights of the Holy Order, the head of an elite command of soldiers who possessed a very particular set of skills far beyond the abilities of the Swiss Guard, whose purpose is to travel abroad to protect Vatican interests. Under his command, they had ventured into the jungles in the Philippines to save the lives of missionaries held hostage by terrorist factions. Other times they traveled to the Eastern Bloc to protect priests from dissidents. But whatever the mission, its aim was always to protect the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, or the welfare of its citizenry. But what Pope Leo was asking of them went against the conditions of their league or their mantra that loyalty was above all else, except honor.
“I understand that loyalty is to be placed above all else,” said Leviticus, “but to kill someone in order to preserve a Vatican secret, is that honorable?”
Savage toiled with this as well. “Do we dare question the pope?” he asked.
“If it’s to take the life of an innocent, then I say yes.”
“But if it’s to protect something of value, then it becomes an interest of the Church.”