by A D Davies
“Well, first,” she said, finally able to talk, “I told ya we’d make it.” She swallowed, gulped deep, hoarse breaths, watching the land. “Second... I read that tablet. The words changed from instructions to a warning. I don’t know how, but Valerio was right. Saint Thomas, or someone, converted it to read Hebrew once it was used. Valerio must be more than rusty. I mean, sure, it told us that Thomas saw the power, all the wonders, the artifacts that might be used as weapons, and the actual weapon inside the priest’s tomb... and he sensed the presence of God within. But Valerio must have missed the meaning of ‘scattered’ in the writing. There’s no direct translation, but as I understood it, Thomas gathered his new disciples and announced that these things were never meant to be gathered in one place. It was always supposed to be temporary. So he scattered them all. Not throughout the repository, but outside. Away.”
“All of them?” Jules said. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Holding Charlie’s hand, squeezing it with reassurance, Bridget allowed a tear to fall. “After all his killing and destroying all those books and artwork... there’s nothing there for Valerio to find!”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
It wasn’t the best feeling in the world. In fact, it pretty much sucked worse than anything Valerio had ever experienced. And he’d once suffered food poisoning in Yemen.
“Why is it empty, boss?”
It was a question that would have caused Valerio to shoot his faithful bodyguard in the head if he’d been in possession of a gun. Luckily for Horse, Valerio was unarmed, but Horse’s increasing concern and insolence were becoming somewhat grating. And Valerio’s skin seared even worse than before.
An empty box.
“A trick,” Valerio said. “A final test.”
That shut Horse up even though it was a spur-of-the-moment lie made up to deflect what might be a significant failing on Valerio’s part.
Admitting failure was weakness.
The rising din from outside had been driving him crazy, so he closed the doors by placing both hands on their surfaces. He could control them with precision, with growing ease, despite the burns. Then he tried to concentrate on the paintings, realizing quickly that the colors were not paint at all.
They were jewels.
Unlike the frescos on the way in, which must have been repainted hundreds if not thousands of times, these were inlaid stones, chipped apart and set into the walls to create images. Understandably, they were simpler than the others, but since they told a simple story that’s all that was needed.
“A volcano erupted,” Valerio said.
Horse examined it. “Could be a meteor.”
“Whatever. Catastrophe. Death. Look.”
The deaths were depicted after the eruption, creatures of all kinds, the apelike half humans resembling hominids along with taller more graceful types. But stuck in the ground next to this, a sword stood. A naked man reached for it.
“A sword, risen out of death,” Valerio said, tracing to more pictures. “The rise of great cities before the sword cuts them down.”
Destruction, fighting.
Floods, fire.
A mountain drawn around the sword with winged humanoid figures hovering like guards.
“Angels,” Horse said.
“Or their precursor. The sword hidden here.”
“Except it’s not here.”
A deafening boom thundered through the tomb, shaking the room like a magnitude-seven quake. Valerio leaned on the empty sarcophagus, which reflected fire from its gutters, dancing over its surface. He laughed. Rising in pitch until his hyena cackle echoed back at him.
“What the hell are you doing?” Horse demanded. “We need to get outa here. You said there was a back door, now—”
The next shudder threw them both aside. Horse stumbled, landing on his broken leg, and shrieked before tumbling to the ground. The whole room tipped on its side. The coffin spilled over. Valerio dodged it just in time, the thrill sparking him to life.
The doors split, and the far wall cracked open.
Horse dragged himself over to Valerio, who simply could not stop laughing.
“You killed me,” Horse said.
“Yeah, that’s true,” Valerio replied, clutching his employee as the roar of rending stone grew and grew and the ceiling and floor folded in on themselves. “But don’t you feel just so alive?”
And then the whole room crushed in on itself, and everything turned instantly black.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
With everyone strapped in place and his dislocated shoulder reset with brutal efficiency by Dan, Jules watched from the sky as the villagers gathered on the ridge overlooking their former homes. The path had taken them down a ways, then wound up to a granite outcrop disconnected from the hillside in which Saint Thomas had been interred. They knelt in prayer, all but motionless as the final remnants of the hill’s cone tumbled in on itself, taking the entire town with it.
The implosion followed a long pause in which nothing new happened. No mines went off, no new sinkholes. All was quiet. Then wider holes formed and swiftly expanded, taking first one side of the hill, which disintegrated, collapsing in the manner of the controlled explosion of an office building. It smothered the fires, replaced by acres of dust clouds and ash.
Although it couldn’t possibly all settle before they fled, through the plumes and mist, the vague shape of the original structure faded into view: jagged and misshapen but familiar the world over, four broken sides of a pyramid jutted from among the wreckage, standing for just a few seconds, then like the rest of the sprawling structure, it was gone.
“They lost everything,” Jules said.
Bridget wiped away a tear. “And the library too. All that knowledge, history from prehistory. We’ll never find anything to match that again. I...” Her voice cracked as she forced herself not to cry openly.
“You can’t know that,” Toby said. “If there was one repository, there may be more. And let’s not forget… Saint Thomas scattered many of these people’s art and culture. Their achievements.”
“The weapons,” Harpal added.
Toby nodded, but seemed to be ignoring the implications. “We’ll find it, Bridget. If it’s out there, we’ll find it.”
Jules swallowed back his own sadness at the events of the day. “Those men Valerio brought with him.”
“They knew the risks,” Dan said. “All mercs do.”
“That’s not the point.” Jules’s eyes were hot, his vision blurred. “It was all pointless. He killed them so they’d keep his secret. But there was no secret to keep. We could’ve just... gone home, let him do this.”
“Result’d be the same,” Bridget said. “He’d have killed them anyway. He’d have had all the time in the world to examine the temple, the books, the frescos. Then he’d have demolished the place so no one else could find it, and carried on looking for that priest’s weapon. We’d be none the wiser. You wouldn’t have your bangle.”
Jules looked down at the Aradia bangle in his lap, and his mouth moistened. Having reclaimed what was his, he could now give up the life of constant training, travel, fighting, theft. The easy life beckoned. His cut from Alfonse Luca’s reward would help.
Pizza.
Beer.
A couple of weeks off while he considered what to do with his life. Maybe he’d learn to cook. Be a chef.
Even now? After everything he’d seen this week?
“He valued me more than the militia because I believed in him,” Jules said. “I entertained him. He saw me as a kind of equal.”
“And because he needed you,” Toby said.
“Even after he healed and changed his genetics?” Jules continued to observe the wrecked scene though there was no time to properly scout for any who didn’t make it out, who might have survived. He accepted that Charlie needed help ASAP. “He kept me on. He said he wanted me dead, but I don’t think he believed it. He knew how it’d turn out.”
“These peo
ple,” Bridget said. “Can we help them? Rebuild, I mean?”
“Let’s go,” Dan said. “I’ll alert the Pakistanis as soon as we’re in range.”
Once Harpal leveled the helicopter in a straight line, Toby unbuckled from the front seat and traded places with Dan. He sat beside Bridget, placing himself between her and Jules. “Do you think they’ll want to remain here? After they lost the relics?”
“It’s sacred land,” Bridget said. “Destroyed or not.”
“There’ll be an investigation.” Toby’s voice sounded strained, low in tone. “But we will help them rebuild wherever they want. We’ll force Colin Waterston to commit to it if he wants our silence over this as I’m sure the British will demand.”
“What if he doesn’t play?” Jules asked.
“Well, since Charlie set up a program long ago that records all our phone activity, we have Mr. Waterston on tape requesting our help. Everything we did today was at the behest of Her Majesty’s Government.”
Jules finally detected a smile creeping into the world. “Like special agents. Deputized.”
“I’m just sorry we couldn’t preserve that library.” Toby shook his head. “Such a waste.”
Silence in the chopper. Jules leaned over to check on Charlie, who blinked and swallowed to prove she was conscious and aware.
“Where we headed?” Jules asked.
“Pakistan,” Dan replied.
Oh.
“Listen, guys,” Jules said. “I might have some sorting out to do when we land. There was a... misunderstanding a few years ago.”
“Something to do with a stolen bust of Marco Polo?” Toby said.
“Maybe.”
Toby smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can come to an understanding with our hosts.”
“Then I guess now’s as good a time as ever to hand this over.” Jules untucked his shirt and reached behind his back. “In the library, I figured this was more important than the stone tablet.”
When he produced his hand, he handed Bridget a book. Rough and brittle, but intact.
“Ditched the stone,” he said. “Saved a book instead. Could only manage one, though.”
Bridget accepted it in both hands and laughed. “Oh wow... thank you!”
“Hey, Bridge,” Dan said, passing his pack to her. “Make it two.”
She hurriedly gave the first book to Toby, who secured it on his lap. Digging into Dan’s bag, the tome she pulled out appeared bigger, and she struggled to peel the Gore-Tex outer from around it. This looked softer, made from a whole other material, perhaps from a rubber tree.
“Two.” Bridget allowed the tears this time. “Thank you. Both of you.”
“Ready for the main event?” Harpal asked. “Check mine. Stashed by your feet.”
Bridget handed Dan’s book to Toby. She yanked the backpack out from beneath her and opened it. “Two more!” She carefully but hastily took them out, one large, one small, very different covers.
“I could only fit two in,” Harpal said. “Better than nothing, though, right?”
Bridget clasped the books to her chest, and her eyes sparkled as she thanked them again and again. Four books saved when she thought there were none, and her friends had all taken a second out of running for their lives to think of her.
Including Jules.
Amid all the death and loss, it might not have been magic Jules was seeing, but there was certainly plenty of goodness left in the world.
Part Eight
For every minute, the future is becoming the past
—Thor Heyerdahl
You may be always victorious if you will never enter into any contest where the issue does not wholly depend upon yourself —Epictetus
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Brittany, France
Alfonse Luca was a happy man. So happy, in fact, that he flew his subcontractors back to France first class, paid for a private medic to supplement Charlie’s repatriation to the UK, and retrieve the Lear Jet from Pakistan on Toby Smith’s behalf. In fact, Alfonse could not wait to get his hands on the Mary bangle, so he traveled a day early to make himself comfortable in Chateau Caché.
Their elderly housekeeper was seemingly disgruntled at having to accommodate him. When he told her that he planned on donating the institute’s latest artifact to the Vatican, though, she transformed from miserly harridan to sweet old aunt, one who hadn’t seen her errant nephew in far too long, and she proceeded to spoil Alfonse with her best coffee throughout the day and with fine cooking and sugary treats. Then, once evening fell, she supplied as much alcohol as Alfonse desired.
All in all, a splendida reception.
She did not know of her employers’ exploits, of course, or if she did, she chose to ignore them. Alfonse didn’t really know that much himself, and it was not until the gang gathered in the drawing room at ten a.m., surrounded by coffee and croissants, that he got the full story.
“Four days,” Toby said. “Four days of interrogations and accusations.”
All appeared tired. Even the young African American fitness freak looked drained, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap indoors. In addition to multiple cuts and bruises on his face, neck, hands, and one forearm, his other arm was strapped up completely, a shoulder injury apparently. Bridget displayed a bandage on one leg, having suffered a burn, while Dan and Harpal boasted minor cuts and bruises. Everyone’s eyes were dark, with bags forming, and each of them looked ready to sleep for a week or more.
They were only entertaining him due to the electronic transfer of funds he had already processed, preferring not to schlep a bag of cash through French customs. It gave them little choice but to receive and debrief him.
“Charlie is recovering at home,” Toby went on, “and this... is yours.”
Although the British wanted the two bangles for themselves, Alfonse had negotiated on LORI’s behalf with the Pakistani authorities, insisting they treat the objects as a red line with MI5, largely due to the Christian dynamic of Alfonse’s interest.
Did they really want a feud with the Vatican? And in a Muslim-majority country—a significant vocal minority of whom fell into the “extremist” category—did they want to retain such blasphemous items while mobs who demanded the destruction of all non-Islamic symbols gathered and protested?
They saw sense.
In addition to his own arrangements, the British government themselves had smoothed things over with the Pakistani and Indian authorities, downplaying incidents such as crossing the border without permission—twice—as accidental incursions, and the British figured such a favor was worth losing a couple of rocks over. Similarly, Colin Waterston agreed to play nice with the Mongolians, who accepted a handsome sum in exchange for what was listed in their inventory as a minor trinket of limited interest. The cash would go into a fund for the bereaved loved ones of Valerio’s victims.
Alfonse wished he cared more about the people who died on this mission, but any empathy he once held commenced rotting with the first life he snuffed out in exchange for profit and deteriorated over the many years after. Now, having felt God’s touch, understanding that his sins angered Him, today was the first step toward reclaiming his soul.
Maybe one day he would weep for strangers.
Toby presented the kind of silver case that Alfonse still associated with firearms and opened the clasps. The red-flecked rock jewelry lay amid the foam-lined inner, perfectly preserved.
Alfonse lifted it in both hands. “Mary, the virgin mother of Our Lord Jesus Christ...” Warmth spread throughout his body, starting at his fingers and spidering to every limb. As with his confession, he accepted the touch of God. “She wore this. I am holding pure holiness in my hands.”
“Yeah, you got it.” Jules Sibeko removed his sunglasses and waved his own wrist on which he wore a nearly identical item. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are we finished?”
The Aradia bangle. Just there. Not in a safe, not hidden. A pagan artifact infused with power that could
only be utilized in conjunction with the Mary bangle. A yin and yang situation if he ever saw one. And it was better that the pair remain separated by continents as well as Vatican security.
Alfonse replaced the bangle and closed the lid. “Thank you. All of you. And I will let you get some rest. It is just that... there are many questions. The books you brought with you, for example.”
Of them all, Bridget acted the least frazzled, and at the mention of the books recovered from the site, she sat up straighter on the leather couch. “One we’ve preliminarily dated to eighteen hundred years old, so a short while after Thomas died. But it’s made of a thick paper like we have today. Not quite like our paper, but the process looks similar under a microscope. It’s treated with something that preserved it. We don’t know what yet. But its presence there means pilgrims still visited, treated it as a holy site. Probably the ancestors of the villagers who... who watched their home get destroyed.” She gave Toby a brief smile. “The secret wasn’t sealed with Thomas. Others knew. And that book, it talks about the journeys, the places the author had been. I read it cover to cover on the flight over. We have plenty to be looking into, a ton of potential sites where other objects might be hidden.”
“Interesting. And the others?”
“The second book is around three thousand years old. Again, it’s been treated with some sort of resin. Maybe the same as the other. It’s as if, when they got delivered, the people who ran the library, or whoever took it over, they were determined to preserve the writings. And that’s remarkable. And just fabulous for us.” She was almost glowing with the news, her Alabama twang clear even to Alfonse’s European ears, excited to announce it to him. “But the third is closer to five thousand years old. Which is just incredible.”