by Brad Ricca
Six / under ways, / whoever / a measuring rod’s length
Goes down / here to / Five spear’s lengths
The water
Six = the number of the evil one
Spearlengths cubits
Monty watched as Millen then pointed to the map.
“Spear lengths correspond to meters. Watch.” His finger pushed along one of the several divided passageways springing from the main shaft tunnels, slowly down to a separate chamber that seemed to exist all on its own. There, someone had drawn a small pool with something suspended above it. It looked like a box. Straight, heavy lines radiated from its top.
“What is that?” Monty said, pointing to the strange drawing. Vaughn and Fort looked at each other.
“This is what the cipher leads to, Captain Parker, and what it has tried to protect for thousands of years. This is why Dr. Juvelius, and we, seek to go to Palestine.”
Monty looked at the picture, at the box.
“The Ark of the Covenant,” said Millen, placing his finger on the page.
Monty looked up and stared at the man. He looked at his lawyer, who appeared similarly dumbfounded. It was like staring into a mirror. For the first time since the war, Monty Parker, the easygoing soldier, the gentleman with a reputation for sport and conquest in all areas of life, seemed unable to form a thought.
“Like in Tara?” asked Monty, stumbling for a reference point. A few years earlier, a significant excavation was undertaken in Ireland to unearth the Ark, which some believed had been carried there ages ago by Israelites who had emigrated to Britain after their captivity in Assyria. It was a highly publicized affair and had garnered its share of loud protest. The incident at Tara was also a colossal failure; the diggers found nothing but damp Irish soil, with its distinct air of sulfur.
“No, no,” said Millen. “This is the true Ark. The legendary vessel that held the remains of the Ten Commandments themselves! The means to communicate with God!”
There was a pause in the room, as the moment—and its impossible volume—began to necessarily dissipate, like sand through their hands.
“A story,” Monty mumbled, or something probably like it.
Millen looked him in the eyes. “For over two thousand years, the whereabouts of the Ark of the Covenant have been one of the world’s greatest mysteries. The question of whether it has remained safely concealed somewhere under Solomon’s Temple or was taken away by one of the many besiegers of Jerusalem has never been truly answered.
“There is no objective in the world,” said Millen, with great seriousness, “that can be compared with the quest for the Ark of the Covenant.”
There was silence in the room again. The noises out on the street seemed sharp.
“How much might it be worth?” asked Martineau, clearing his throat, but also unable to help himself.
“We estimate somewhere around one hundred million,” said Vaughn, looking over his spectacles. Martineau stifled a gasp. Fort nodded.
“So, what do you think, old man?” asked Vaughn, looking at Monty.
“No,” said Monty, his teeth clamped down on his pipe.
“What do you mean?” asked Vaughn, exasperation in his voice.
“No.”
“Well, I have to say that is awfully sudden of you. We certainly hope that you will at least give us a chance to convince…”
“I didn’t mean that,” interrupted Monty. “The Ark. It’s not worth one hundred million.” He paused. “Double it. Two hundred million, easy.” Silence covered the room again.
“We would form a Syndicate,” said Vaughn, quietly. “Just us founders. We would retain equal ownership and all decision-making capabilities.”
“You will need money,” Monty said.
“We think we can raise that through subscriptions. Keep it private, you know.” Monty had to agree. Something like this would bring out all the deep pockets from their billiard rooms. They would probably have to turn many away.
“We want you to lead it,” said Vaughn. “Dr. Juvelius will join us. We have another man in mind, a Swedish military man who has done some work in the Congo. You would have to negotiate for the land rights with the Turks. If we can get that accomplished, the locals should be much easier to deal with. Your … ah, charisma and discretion, as well as your reputation, should be of great help.”
Mr. Martineau looked at Monty, almost pleadingly. Monty knew what they really wanted him for. They didn’t have to say it. He looked at the map again.
“It would have to be a secret, of course,” said Vaughn. “We’ve been talking about claiming we are a construction concern or something, building something nice for the locals.”
“What’s this?” Monty asked. He used his pipe to point to the straight lines coming out of the box on the map. They looked like a child’s drawing of the sun.
Millen leaned over. His accent heightened the feeling of each word. “Dr. Juvelius thinks the Ark is protected by traps and guardians. He thinks that these lines represent a type of deterrent, perhaps radium, which is very dangerous. He thinks this is why, when the Israelites carried the Ark before them in battle, they were unstoppable.” Monty stared at the drawing.
“The power of God,” said Millen.
“I think you could raise the money,” Monty said, sitting up in his chair. “Quite easily. But you’d first have to send a team to Jerusalem to make sure this cipher of yours actually works.” He eyed Millen suspiciously.
“What are you saying, Monty? You’ll do it?” asked Vaughn.
Monty looked at him.
* * *
When Monty left Martineau’s office, he shut the door evenly and was only half surprised to see the same rabbi still seated in the hallway, slouched into a position of impressive repose. Monty nodded a goodbye anyway, which looked much like his hello, all the while wondering if the holy man had heard any of what had been said or had slept through it all.
Monty put his pipe to his mouth and walked out onto the East End streets.
Three
Monty Parker
ASCOT, ENGLAND, JUNE 1908
Racehorses thundered by as Monty adjusted the cuff of his right sleeve. He shut his eyes at the familiar pounding it made in his chest, but it lasted only a moment. He turned his head back toward the wrought iron staircase. There on the second stand he saw the royal family, perfectly seated in their white high-backed chairs like a set of finely decorated cakes. On the table near King Edward, with his salt-and-pepper beard, were the day’s three prizes: the Gold Vase, the Royal Hunt Cup, and the magnificent Gold Cup, all under glass and guarded by constables. Monty saluted their box, filled with pink Dorothy Perkins and white roses. The royal family had been lately rare to the races. The Prince and Princess of Wales were also there with some of their children. Queen Alexandra smiled as the barrel-chested Edward looked out over his loud subjects.
Spread out before him in a sea of chatter and laughter, the area was packed to the seams with over two thousand people. Heavy rains had soaked everything to puddles the night before, but the sun had come out and saved the day. The women in their dresses strung their arms between the elbows of wealthy men with toppers and canes. Monty squinted at an acquaintance or two, nodding and smiling. Though many were wondering if White Knight, last year’s winner, could hold off Lord Rothschild’s Radium, the horses were only the secondary attraction. People did not come all the way to East Berkshire for the races, not really; they sought to be in the company of the king and queen. Monty was not interested in either. He was at the Royal Ascot this year for something else.
The Most Beautiful Woman in the World.
Monty laughed to himself. That is what the press had called her, repeatedly, complete with a lush image of her, posed in a shiny, snakelike dress. Monty showed his badge to the porter, who nodded approvingly. The small disc was stamped ASCOT ROYAL ENCLOSURE over gold with a court of arms and the Royal Crown. For most, this small but powerful trinket, which permitted him into the most excl
usive section of the track, was completely unattainable. For Monty, it was just one of the many advantages of being the brother of the Earl of Morley.
The current race ended to shouts and cheers. Monty continued to look around, trying, rather badly, to disguise his reconnaissance. Beds of rhododendrons bloomed in beds of scarlet, pink, and white. There was a good chance that she was not even here. Since her divorce had been announced, there had been some question about whether she had lost favor with the royal family. The papers had noted that this might prohibit an invitation this year. Though the rule was an unwritten one, it was tantamount to the Magna Carta: no one who had known so-called “domestic difficulties” shall be admitted to the royal enclosure at the race. It was the opinion of the writer, Charles P. Norcross, that she should “certainly not” be invited, though “perhaps” there was some chance she might. Norcross wryly remarked that all Ava’s problems would disappear if she simply married an Englishman. Monty had smiled at that. Of all her suitors, the newspaper said that “Captain Montague Parker was generally accorded the position of favorite.” The writer wrote, in fact, that “Parker’s recent attentions to Mrs. Astor were indefatigable.”
Of course she would be here, thought Monty. Ava Lowle Willing Astor had crossed the Atlantic and had struck British society like a bolt of lightning. Ava was beautiful, almost supernaturally so, and she was utterly and completely rich. Or at least she was going to be when her divorce from John Jacob Astor was complete. The current rumors set her eventual settlement at ten million U.S. dollars. She had children: her sixteen-year-old son, Vincent, had sailing adventures with his father, while her five-year-old daughter, Alice, had a governess. Regardless, Ava’s hand, once free, would be the greatest treasure in England. It was no wonder that Monty, who was nearly thirty, was one of her interests. It would be a fine match for him. His older brother had not yet married either, meaning Monty might—might—someday take his place as earl, though he of course hoped not. But Ava knew that he might. English society was, as always, a labyrinth of guessing and aim.
He saw her before he heard her. Up by the stairs, there was a flash of that dark hair, but it was really her voice, loudly saying hello to someone she had probably just met. Monty grabbed another drink, quite possibly not his own, and stood behind a woman in an especially palatial dress who was lost in a pair of bronze binoculars.
Monty watched as every set of eyes—man and woman—tried not to stare at Ava. He could hear her. She spoke in a very practiced way, but he could pick out her accent anywhere. He moved his head to see her. He saw a flash of white. Ava always wore the type of dress that the English seemed, on the whole, not quite yet ready for. Today’s seemed to have the usual absences that Monty knew would be written about in the newspapers. When she turned, he could nearly see her entire bare back. This was her calling card, for her followers and enemies alike.
Monty knew that while Ava was overjoyed to soon be rid of her boor of a husband, she had been apart from him for some time. Her own social adventures aside, everyone knew that her husband’s attentions had also been elsewhere, and not just in the luxury hotel business. Their marriage had been one of American royalty, not of blood, but of cash. Its end would be long, drawn out, and transactional. She was a complicated and fascinating woman, thought Monty. He looked again; she turned and caught his glance just as she was speaking to someone else. It was her eyes: like smoke, soft and dark, that were deathly. Monty turned away and cursed himself. The Grenadier Guard, trained to be as still and solid as a block of stone, had caved. Monty shook his head. There was nothing “certainly not” about her. There was nothing remotely “perhaps.”
Monty turned his attention to the horses. They were getting ready to scrimmage. His mother drew horses, seated in the great library at Saltram. As a child, Monty would stand next to her, in her white dress and blue jacket watching her pencil pull out the curves and lines. This was before Jack, his younger brother, came along. She loved horses. He heard Ava again and knew he would have to wait his turn among her many admirers. Or more likely, she might just leave without talking to him at all, especially since she knew he had seen her. The next horses were gathering in the stalls, getting ready for the race. Their riders adjusted their thick saddles and buckles to make sure everything was safe and sure.
“Captain Parker, I presume.”
Her voice. Monty turned and took his hat off.
“My dear Mrs. Astor,” he said, bowing his head and kissing her hand.
“Stop with that,” she said.
“Ava,” he said. She closed her eyes and smiled, taking in the sound of her own name. She greatly preferred his British pronunciation: Ah-va. Monty found it hard sometimes to know what was real and what was artifice with her, but he very much knew what she liked.
“I had read that you weren’t invited,” said Monty.
“Rubbish. I’m still married, aren’t I?”
“You could have fooled me.”
“Scandalous.”
The papers also noted that Monty was one of the only people in the world who seemed capable of making the soon-to-be-former Mrs. Astor smile, just as she was doing at that moment. Those who knew her well thought such a power impossible. As the gossip columns had reported, Ava and Monty had indeed been “talking” for months, as they put it. She looked up at him, squinting her eyes in the sun, smiling. There is that moment when the idea of the thing and the very thing itself become real, when doubt becomes flooded with light and vanishes.
It was then that Monty thought he saw something flash across her face. Something new. She saw his recognition and moved to disguise it. Ava looked up at his captain’s hat.
“Well, I daresay it’s better than the dead bear,” she said, pushing the lid up. He laughed. Monty knew that she positively loathed his guard helmet—four feet tall and made of Canadian bearskin, meant to terrify enemies on the battlefield. Monty wondered if she did not like him being in the guard at all, even though his duties at the present were completely ceremonial. It was a respectful post, though not perhaps respected. It depended on who you asked, like anything.
The gun sounded, and Monty jumped. He could not help it. Ava touched his arm.
The crowd gasped, then screamed. Monty turned to see a rider sailing through the open air. He hit the ground with a hard jolt as another horse rode by, kicking him in the head. The dirt that immediately rose into the air confused everything. The other horses scrambled and took off in different directions. The rider’s blue cap could be seen several feet away from the haze. Once it cleared, the downed rider, dressed in cerise with gold sleeves, could finally be seen lying in a heap. He was not moving. Ava grabbed Monty’s arm.
The empty horse trotted around, confused, with a wild, bulging eye. Monty could not tell if it was injured. A man in white ran onto the track at full speed as the entire crowd watched.
The medic finally reached the rider, who was still unmoving. The rider then began to stir in a crooked manner and Monty heard Ava exhale. After a few moments, the rider got to his feet, shaking his head. The crowd clapped. The rider’s horse came over and he patted him on his black nose.
Monty turned back to Ava. She had her head turned back to the crowd. Monty was used to this; she was an inveterate creature of the social world. Still, Monty couldn’t help following her line of sight. He recognized the man across the enclosure, who doffed his hat and smiled back at her.
Him.
Lord Curzon was handsome, with a dark complexion and slick black hair. He had medals pinned to his breast and seemed to stand at attention. He had been viceroy of India for a time when Monty was stationed with the guard there. Though Curzon had restored the Taj Mahal to its milky glory and had pressed some new territories for the empire, he was seen by many as another smooth-faced Eton boy playing at government, most notably because of the way he completely mishandled the great Indian famine. Nearly one million people died. This man was looking at Ava.
And she was looking back.
&nb
sp; Monty had read in the same newspaper article about Ava that Curzon was another one of her potential suitors, but Monty had thought it a ludicrous fabrication meant only to sell more papers. Curzon had recently lost his wife, an American heiress to a department-store fortune. It was then that Monty Parker realized that it did not matter what the London papers wrote or how little he thought of him. Monty had gone to Eton, too.
“It was nice to see you again, Monty. I must…”
“Ava,” he said.
“Oh, Monty, don’t be like that. I’ll be back.”
“Him?”
She smiled, stopped, and turned back to Monty. She ran her hands over his coat, her hand pausing at his sleeve. She shook her head.
“Maybe if you got out of that dreary uniform once in a while.” She looked up and smiled again, with the same look he had seen earlier. Only this time he knew what it was. It was a fleeting sort of sympathy, and it felt like being grazed by a bullet.
“Oh, cheer up,” she said, “I’ll be back.”
As she pushed away, Monty saw the Gold Cup flash again in the sunlight.
“I’m going to be going away for a bit myself, actually,” he said.
“Oh no, will you come back?” Her mind and eyes were elsewhere.
“You know I will. I’m going on an expedition,” he said, in a much lower tone. “To find something.”
“Oh really? How exciting! Tell me! I’ll keep it secret.” He had her full attention now.
“The Ark of the Covenant,” he said, and though the words sounded like strange music coming from his mouth, they felt good to say in her presence, in the open air, though they seemed a pitch off from the very place he was standing. He had not yet told Vaughn that he would lead them when they had asked weeks ago, but now he supposed he just had.
Monty saw her eyes, deep and used to American mansions and millions. She looked at him in pure seriousness. There was an inside to the moment—quiet and still—but there was an immeasurable outside that Monty knew he would be entering soon. He stayed.
