Laura waved a dismissive hand. “Shhh, the ladies are talking now.”
Milton eyed his friend. “And if we talk like that, we’re pigs.”
Sandra patted his knee. “You are, darling.”
Milton tried to regain the upper hand. “So, you’re leaving tomorrow?”
Acton nodded. “The last of the equipment we need arrived a couple of hours ago.”
“Equipment? Just what are you doing on this trip?”
Acton gave a toothy smile. “Can’t say.”
“My God, you’d think you were CIA.” Milton paused, eying him for a moment. “You’d tell me if they recruited you, wouldn’t you?”
Acton delivered his best Sean Connery impression. “I would. But then I’d have to kill you.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling.”
Sandra glanced over her shoulder at her husband as she removed her makeup. “You always have a bad feeling when it comes to them.”
Milton lay down on the bed, face first, his back aching. “That’s not true.” He reached around and massaged his old gunshot wound that had temporarily paralyzed him, a paralysis that he had been told would be lifelong. Fortunately, the doctors had been wrong. “I only have a bad feeling when they leave the country.”
“Good thing Laura’s rich. There’s no way they’d be able to get travel insurance anymore.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t been put on a no-fly list just to protect the innocent.”
Sandra giggled. “Here, let me do that for you.” She straddled him and took over, his wife having taken a course in therapeutic massage after he had been shot.
He groaned. “Oh, God, that’s the spot!”
“It’s always the spot.”
“Is it?”
“Yup. Every time I reach it, you say the same thing.” She pushed harder.
“Aaah, definitely the spot!” he moaned, his entire body turning to putty. “Every time he goes off galivanting somewhere, my back acts up.”
“Well, they’re leaving in the morning, so there’s nothing you can really do about it. You’ll just have to hope they’re going to be okay.”
He frowned. “I don’t know. This time it’s different. Usually, someone at least has an idea where they are. I don’t know if they’re going to Toledo or Timbuktu.”
“Which is safer?”
“You’d think Toledo, but who knows these days.”
“Well, wherever is safer, is likely where they’re not going.”
Milton grunted. “If I just knew where they were going, I’d feel better.”
“Hack their computer and find out.”
He chuckled. “Right, because it’s that easy.”
“For some people it is.”
Milton paused then rolled over, his wife now straddling the good parts. “Smart and beautiful. Are we talking about Tommy Granger?”
She grinned then ground her hips into him. “I’m definitely not talking about him.” She moaned. “You be Idris.”
Milton’s eyes shot wide. “Umm, be prepared to be underwhelmed then.”
She ground again. “Shut up. You’re James Bond, and I’m—”
“Michelle Yeoh!”
She stopped, staring down at him. “You didn’t take long to think about that.”
He grinned then flipped her over, pressing against her. “I think of myself as more of a Pierce Brosnan than an Idris Elba.”
She reached over and turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness. “I don’t care who you are, Mr. Bond, just put those Thunderballs to work.”
He laughed, his shoulders shaking as he failed to control it. She grabbed his hips and pulled hard. He groaned, killing any laughter, and enjoyed the fantasy, silently praying neither of them called out the wrong name.
16 |
Two Days Outside Jerusalem 10th Century BC
“Someone approaches from the rear!”
Jonathan turned in his saddle, the long caravan continuing its slow journey toward the Red Sea and eventually Africa, where this bastard son of a king, Menelik, was from. He didn’t care if he was the son of a king. He wasn’t Jewish, despite his claims to the contrary. Yes, pagans were converted to Judaism all the time, and that was a good thing, and they were welcomed into their new community.
But not this Menelik. Jonathan had heard Menelik’s mother had visited over twenty years ago and converted, then returned to her kingdom, where there were no Jews beyond some scholars sent with her. How could she possibly know what it was like to be one of God’s chosen? And how could her son? They were Jews in name only, and couldn’t possibly know the ways of his people.
And couldn’t possibly rule the Israelites.
The notion was ludicrous, and he agreed with his father.
Solomon had to be stopped.
It would be Jonathan’s duty, and that of the others, to make certain Menelik never returned. They had the Ark to protect them from their enemies, but the enemy in their midst would have to be dispatched by themselves. And though his father hadn’t suggested it, he was already formulating a plan on how to accomplish the task.
For Menelik would never reach his home.
How, he did not know.
Yet.
But in time, he’d formulate a plan, inform the others, and they would execute it, leaving no witnesses. Then they’d return home, with a tale as to how Menelik had been killed by some unknown enemy on the mysterious continent.
But what of the Ark? How do we explain that?
He smiled.
Menelik stole it!
He reached the rear of the caravan to find a breathless messenger coming to a halt, challenged by a small contingent of firstborns. As the senior among them, Jonathan addressed the man.
“Identify yourself.”
“I am Jesse, a messenger from the court of King Solomon.”
Jonathan suppressed his excitement. Could Solomon have changed his mind? He doubted it. More likely, the theft had been discovered.
But why only a messenger? Why not an army?
“What is your message?”
“By order of the King, you are to arrest Menelik and return him to Jerusalem.”
Jonathan’s eyes shot wide. “Why?”
“He has stolen the Ark of the Covenant!”
The others, all now in the know, exchanged uncomfortable looks, too many of them glancing at the cart containing their precious possession, held near the back of the caravan to minimize the chances of Menelik’s people discovering it.
“What is that?” asked Jesse, urging his horse toward the cart. “What is under that cloth?”
Jonathan blocked his path. “It is none of your concern.”
Jesse stared at him. “But I come under the authority of the king. I am to find the Ark and secure it with your help.”
“The Ark is secure, I assure you.”
Jesse’s eyes narrowed. “You act as if you already knew it was here.” His jaw dropped as he realized what was going on. “Menelik didn’t steal it, you did!”
Jonathan drew his sword and plunged it into Jesse’s stomach, twisting the blade and scrambling the man’s innards. He yanked the blade free and tossed it to one of the others, then reached forward, slapping a hand over the man’s mouth, silencing his final cries lest they attract the attention of those farther down the caravan.
The life drained and the body still, Jonathan secured him to his horse then sent it out into the night. If the man was lucky, his steed would return him home for a proper funeral, with no one the wiser as to how he had met his end.
“Why did you kill him?” asked Zimri. “Surely that wasn’t necessary.”
“He discovered our secret.”
“Your secret. Most of us had no part in this treachery.”
Jonathan regarded Zimri. “Would you rather the Ark not be here?”
“I’d rather us not all be traitors to our people.”
“So, you would happily follow this bastard child to his backward kingdom, and
spend years from your family trying to teach these heathens to be civilized, without God’s protection?”
Zimri glared at him, then finally sighed, his shoulders slumping. “No.” He waved at the horse disappearing in the distance. “But now what do we do? We can go home! The king wants Menelik. He thinks he stole the Ark, not you. Our orders are no longer valid.”
Another of the noble firstborn agreed. “We should leave now, with the Ark. We can be in Jerusalem within two days. We’ll tell them that Menelik escaped, but we managed to rescue the Ark.”
Jonathan considered the idea. “But Menelik knows the truth, and if we leave him alive, he may return to find out what happened to us. You saw the king, how enamored he was with Menelik. He might believe him, then we will be suspected.” He eyed them all. “It would only take one of you to break under questioning, and I swear, if I go down for this, I will bring you all with me for not having immediately arrested me when you discovered what I had done.”
Zimri shook his head. “Some friend you are.”
Jonathan frowned. “I did this for all of us, to protect us so that we didn’t die. Do you really think I want any of you to die to protect me? We need a better plan, one that will confirm what the king already suspects.”
“I think we should just return home, and pray Solomon believes us.”
Jonathan shook his head. “You’re forgetting one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“We just killed the messenger?”
“You killed the messenger. But how is that important?”
“If we return without the messenger, don’t you think the king will wonder how we knew to come back?”
Zimri cursed. “So, we’re stuck on this ridiculous journey because you couldn’t control your blade.”
Jonathan regarded his friend, someone he had thought intelligent to this point. “Do you honestly think the king sent only one messenger?”
Zimri stared at him blankly.
“We can expect that at least several were sent to find us, and this was but the first to arrive. And if you all would simply listen to me rather than question me, I’ll tell you exactly what we need to do to ensure we’re home with our families inside of two days.”
Zimri bristled. “Very well. What do you have planned?”
Jonathan gestured toward the cart with the Ark. “First, we need to do something about that.”
17 |
Aksum Emperor Yohannes IV Airport Aksum, Ethiopia Present Day
Acton stepped down from their chartered jet, a Boeing Business Jet Convertible, much larger than they were accustomed to, their cargo much heavier than normal.
But it was still air-conditioned.
He tugged at his shirt, the heat already oppressive. “Good thing it isn’t summer.”
Laura appeared unaffected after years of desert digs. “On our way back, I want to stop at the dig in Egypt, see how my old students are doing.”
Acton watched as the Ethiopian groundcrew quickly unloaded several pallets of equipment, along with supplies to tend to their needs should their hosts not be able to provide the basic necessities without sacrificing to the point it affected their own.
“You are true to your word!”
Acton turned to see a smiling Father Amanuel, his hands outstretched. He grasped Laura’s shoulders, delivering a kiss to each cheek, then did the same to Acton.
“You have everything you need?”
Laura smiled. “Assuming the diesel generator arrived.”
Amanuel nodded. “It arrived earlier. We’ve already loaded it.”
“Excellent. It’s of sufficient power to keep everything going, and we’ve brought a battery backup that will last several hours should there be any delays in refueling. We also have all the supplies necessary to build the portable containment chamber you requested.”
Amanuel’s head bobbed in appreciation as he eyed the pallets. Some words were exchanged, and soon everything was loaded into the back of several old trucks that appeared to be vintage World War Two surplus. “I am excited to get started on this project.” He led them to a nearby notorious British luxury car that had seen better days, a Mercedes hood ornament replacing the jungle cat.
Does that make it more reliable?
“How far is it?”
“Not far.” He held open the rear door. “You’ll ride with me. It will be much more comfortable than the trucks.”
Acton climbed in, sliding to the far side, and Laura followed. Amanuel joined them and closed the door. The driver, dressed in the yellow robes of a monk, started the car, and they pulled away, the trucks following. They drove in silence for some time, giving Acton an opportunity to take in the small, bustling city of Aksum. Long the poster child of poverty and failure, Ethiopia was slowly making a turnaround, and evidence of that surrounded them in the forms of new construction, and luxury goods hawked from street vendors and storefronts alike.
But the poverty was evident, too many emaciated frames peppering the street corners with hands out, begging for scraps or change. It made him thankful they had brought their own supplies, for he didn’t expect there to be much to go around where they were heading.
This was among the poorest of the poor countries.
Yet cellphones abounded.
And weapons.
AK-47s and other variants seemed almost ubiquitous, and it had Acton wishing they had weapons of their own. He spotted an AK-47 on the front seat of their “Mercedes,” and wondered if the driver knew how to use it, or if it was there for show.
A warrior monk?
It wasn’t unheard of in history, the Templars the most obvious example, though he doubted he would be willing to put his life, or that of Laura’s, into their driver’s hands.
They soon left the city, Father Amanuel evidently more comfortable outside of the hustle and bustle of Aksum, now more animated in his hosting duties, pointing out various landmarks, churches, and places where he had preached in his younger days.
It was an interesting if bleak drive, and Acton found himself drifting in and out of sleep from the jetlag, when the driver made a sudden turn off the road and into the grass lining it, forcing Acton wide awake from the jolt of adrenaline surging through his body. He stared ahead, spotting a slight trail carved through the grass, and said nothing, though Laura’s hand was gripping his a little tighter than a moment before.
They came to a jarring stop, their driver using the emergency brake, making Acton wonder if they had any functioning regular brakes.
“We’re here.”
Acton’s eyes narrowed as he stared out the window. There was nothing in sight beyond a windswept plain, grass gently blowing in the breeze, a few scattered trees about.
And not a single structure that might house a person, let alone the Ark of the Covenant.
The driver opened the door for Father Amanuel, and Acton opened his own, stepping outside and making a quick scan of the area, still finding nothing, before helping Laura out.
He turned to Amanuel. “Where are we?”
“My church and my home.”
Acton exchanged a confused look with Laura. “But there’s nothing here.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
Amanuel strode forward, toward nothing, as far as Acton was concerned, their transport trucks arriving and parking behind them. Acton took Laura’s hand and they followed the elderly priest, Acton’s head on a pivot as he tried to find any evidence of civilization when Laura tugged on his hand.
“Look!”
Acton turned and squinted at where she was pointing, not sure of what he was seeing. It appeared to be a moat, carved into the ground, a near-perfect rectangle, guarding another lying within. And as they neared, the first few steps of a staircase, cut into the bedrock, descending into the moat, became visible.
And he gasped as he realized what lay before them.
“Unbelievable!”
18 |
Approaching Elath 10th Century BC
Jonathan eyed the port ahead, one of Menelik’s men already informing them that the boats had been arranged to take them through the gulf and into the Red Sea, then finally its western bank.
Yet they were never to have boarded the boats.
The expected messenger from King Solomon had never arrived. He had no explanation. They had to know their route, and would know this was one of their stops along it. He could only hope that a messenger was waiting for them in the city ahead, but if they were, it could prove problematic.
The caravan was long, and his carefully laid plan had assumed the messenger would approach from the rear. His men had moved the cart with the Ark farther along the caravan, mixing in with the tail end of Menelik’s entourage. Their orders were to rejoin him and the others should a messenger arrive, so that when they searched the caravan for the Ark, it would be found among Menelik’s men, with the messenger never having a chance to see it was guarded by the firstborns.
But if the messenger approached from the front, he would travel the length of the caravan looking for the firstborns, and the first he would encounter would be those guarding the Ark.
It would mean the complete failure of his plan, and this time killing the poor soul wouldn’t be an option, as Menelik would see the man.
The entire situation had his heart pounding as they entered the valley leading to the port ahead, the glistening waters normally a beacon to those who approached, but for him, it was a constant reminder of impending doom.
For once they boarded the boats, no messenger would ever reach them, and he and the others would be doomed to spend the prime of their lives serving this bastard child.
Though there was another possibility.
His own friends might turn on him. He had heard grumblings, several already vocally blaming him for their situation, yet he had to remind them, firmly, that if he hadn’t stolen the Ark, then no messenger would have ever been sent. It was his actions that had given them the only hope they had to escape their fate.
Though if his plan failed, and they were faced with no other option but to board the boats and leave their homeland behind, his friends might turn regardless.
Keepers of the Lost Ark Page 6