Barnaby walked to a walnut cupboard and pulled out a bottle. Uncorking it, he poured stiff drinks into two water glasses and said, “Drink this.”
Lexy drank hers in one long swallow, remembering the fiery warmth of it from past ceremonial occasions with Barnaby.
“Calvados,” she said to Macaulay. “Apple brandy from Normandy.”
“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” said Barnaby. “I’m running a hot bath and will try to find some spare things for you while yours are in the dryer.”
After all his years in the air force, Macaulay had a good feel for accents. The old man’s voice was intrinsically English and highborn. He heard the faint echo of the arrogant ruling class.
Fifteen minutes later, they joined Barnaby back in the galley kitchen. Lexy was wrapped in a gargantuan terry cloth bathrobe, and Macaulay was swimming inside one of his nightshirts.
Barnaby had already brewed a pot of coffee, and he was now scrambling a half dozen eggs in a large skillet. The smell of the food reminded Macaulay that they hadn’t eaten anything since the FBI agent had given them the lobster rolls.
“So why are you on the run?” asked Barnaby, pouring the coffee.
Macaulay started with what happened to them after their arrival at the Bangor airport. When he finished the brief account, Barnaby said, “And you’re sure this man Langdon was an agent of the White House antiterrorism task force?”
Macaulay retrieved Langdon’s briefcase from the living room and opened it.
“Here are his credentials,” said Macaulay, “and here are the photographs he showed us. This disc is a recording of our statements in which we told him everything that happened to the Hancock expedition up on the ice cap.”
Macaulay held off telling the old man about Falconer’s memory card.
“Instead of repeating the story again, just give me the disc and the photographs,” said Barnaby. “While you’re having breakfast, I’ll watch the interview.”
Taking his coffee, Barnaby went into his study and shut the door behind him.
“Why didn’t you tell him about the memory card?” asked Lexy.
“Because I no longer know who we can trust,” said Macaulay.
“You can trust Barnaby,” she said fervently. “And we’re going to need him to translate the markings that are hopefully recorded on the card.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
Finishing his meal, Macaulay strolled around the apartment, trying to get a better sense of the man. Obviously, Lexy believed in him blindly, but that could simply be a product of past hero worship. Or maybe even more.
The apartment felt like a bachelor’s lair with its blond Scandinavian furniture, interior window shutters instead of curtains, oil paintings of sailing ships. Books filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves in the living room. After scanning the titles, he found it odd that none of them related to the study of the Norsemen, which was supposedly the old man’s livelihood.
Wandering back into the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and saw it was loaded with red meat, brown eggs, wine, Cuban cigars, and imported beer; this also seemed strange for a man supposedly recovering from open-heart surgery.
Barnaby reentered the kitchen to see Macaulay examining the contents of his refrigerator. There was a look of detached amusement in his eyes as he divined the younger man’s thoughts.
“We only go through this existence once,” he said, “and I don’t plan to spend mine eating seaweed and low-fat granola.”
Barnaby led them back into the living room and stretched out on the sofa. Lexy and Macaulay took seats in the club chairs facing him.
“We’re dealing with the ancient curse,” said Barnaby, his slate gray eyes looking to Macaulay like great nail heads in the reflected glow of the fire.
THIRTY-FOUR
30 November
Brattle Street
Harvard Square
Cambridge, Massachusetts
“The ancient curse?” asked Lexy.
“It has taken many forms over the aeons,” said Barnaby, “but there is one word for it, and that is religion, the attempt by man to resolve the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe by giving his existence a divine foundation.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” said Macaulay.
“You look like an ex-military man,” said Barnaby. “I’m sure I don’t have to enlighten you about all the meaningless wars fought through the millennia under the banner of the great religions. My favorite is that of Sir Godfrey de Bouillon, who captured Jerusalem under the flag of Christendom during the First Crusade in 1099. Unable to determine with any certainty which members of the populace were Christians and which ones might be Muslims or Jews, he ordered them all to be slaughtered, after which he knelt in supplication to his savior Jesus Christ with his bloody crusader sword and prayed in gratitude for allowing him to deliver the holy city from the infidels.”
“What does that have to do with what happened in Greenland?” demanded Macaulay, now sure the old man was just another Harvard blowhard.
Barnaby picked up the sheaf of photographs, peeled off the top one, and held it up in front of them.
“Hjalmar Jensen,” said Lexy.
“Hjalmar has been a true believer as long as I’ve known him,” said Barnaby, “and that goes back a long way.”
“A true believer in what?” asked Lexy.
“The Order of the Ancient Way . . . the divine revelation of the Norse gods,” said Barnaby. “Today it is derided as paganism by Christianity, but the Norse religion is almost as old as man itself. And you should know that worshippers of the Norse faith do not share the message of gentle love preached by the carpenter from Galilee. They believe in . . .”
“The Hammer of Thor,” said Lexy.
“Yes,” said Barnaby. “Thor . . . the ancient deity responsible for thunder, lightning, and storms, but also imbued with the sacred power to protect mankind. He was worshipped as a god throughout all recorded history, including the Roman occupation of Germania long before the birth of Jesus. Of course, he is only one of the Norse gods.”
“Sorry, but it sounds totally ridiculous,” said Macaulay.
“Oh really,” replied Barnaby. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Macaulay?”
“I’m not,” said Macaulay.
“Well, I don’t ride with God’s cavalry either,” said Barnaby, his voice tinged with sarcasm, “but a third of the American people reject the theory of evolution, the fundamental underpinning of the science of biology. They believe that God created humans within the last ten thousand years. You don’t think the Norse gods sound plausible? Let’s look at the other so-called plausible religions.”
Barnaby got up from the couch and stood over Macaulay, almost dwarfing him.
“Fifteen million people currently embrace a faith created just two hundred years ago by a New York polygamist who made his living as a treasure hunter, selling shares in his venture by claiming he had found a magic stone that allowed him to see underground, which he then used to find two golden plates buried in upstate New York. Of course, only he could translate the words on the plates, which no one else ever saw, and the manuscript was published as the Book of Mormon. When he was shot to death in 1844 by an armed mob while in prison for treason and polygamy, Joseph Smith’s last words were, ‘Oh Lord my God.’ Not quite as powerful as ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they do,’ but Smith had five bullets in him at the time.”
“I think I get your point,” said Macaulay, but Barnaby wasn’t finished.
“Or how about this idea for a religion,” he went on, his eyes boring into Macaulay’s. “It was created after the Second World War by a mentally unstable man who had undergone a nervous breakdown after being relieved of command of his navy patrol boat, and was later arrested and convicted of larceny while indulging in what he called sex magic rituals w
ith his spaced-out friends. After writing several science fiction stories in his trailer home, he told his friends that writing for a penny a word was a waste of time and that he could make a million by starting his own religion. After taking the time to marry his second wife without divorcing his first wife, he started a religion based on the premise that seventy-five million years ago, an intergalactic dictator sent billions of human beings here to Earth in spacecraft, after which they were all murdered with hydrogen bombs and became theta beings, the source of life. Of course, this was only to be revealed to church members who donated large amounts of money.” Barnaby paused for a moment before adding, “Scientology has eight million believers.”
“Okay . . . I get it,” said Macaulay, sounding almost chastened.
“There’s something I haven’t told either of you,” said Lexy. “Langdon had a small tattoo on his wrist. It was the Mjolnir. And the Mjolnir emblem was stitched onto the chests of the uniforms of the men who attacked us on the ice cap.”
“What is the Mjolnir?” asked Macaulay.
“Thor’s hammer,” said Barnaby. “In Norse mythology, it is a fearsome weapon, sometimes described as an axe, and one that can never fail, that will never miss its target.”
“It is obviously their amulet,” said Lexy to Macaulay, “their equivalent of the crucifix or the Egyptian Tarveret.”
“Evidently,” said Barnaby before walking back into the kitchen to pour another drink. Glancing out the darkened window, he saw that a car was parked across the street in the no-standing zone that ran the length of the block. The tiny glow of a cigarette momentarily came to life behind the windshield.
“What do these people actually believe?” asked Macaulay when Barnaby returned to stand in front of the fire. “What do they want?”
“Like the Jews, Christians, and Muslims, Hjalmar’s faithful believe they are the chosen people, charged with the responsibility of saving humanity by preserving the Nordic race as the stewards of the world. Their catechism is that the Norse gods began their existence as mortals, humans who through their extraordinary accomplishments reached eventual veneration as gods, called upon in prayer by successor generations in the face of famine, flood, and war.”
“Not only is God on their side,” said Lexy, “but they could actually become one.”
“Exactly,” said Barnaby. “To these people, Leif Eriksson is a deity. If they find his final resting place, it will become the Norse religion’s equivalent of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. To men like Hjalmar, your friend Hancock was a desecrator. Imagine how Islamic fundamentalists would react to an infidel digging up Muhammad’s tomb in Medina.”
“How many believers are there?” asked Macaulay.
“Who can say?” responded Barnaby. “Back in the early 1990s, Hjalmar and I were on a dig together at a place called Skjak where one of the first Norse churches was built. We were snowed in there for more than a week. In those days I wasn’t quite as cynical as I am now, and Hjalmar thought he could help to save my eternal soul. He confided that he was a practicing believer of the Forn Sior, or the Ancient Way, and that his congregation in Oslo numbered in the thousands. He assured me that great men of wealth and prestige of his faith had begun to penetrate the highest circles of power in Europe, and that the message of the church was spreading to America and even Russia.”
“The master race again?” asked Macaulay.
“No,” said Barnaby. “They’re different . . . smarter. I’m sure they see their aims as benign, even as they commit ruthless acts to achieve them. They are looking to save a world they see descending ever closer to chaos. He told me the church had a brilliant team of Scandinavian geneticists working for them. Frankly, it sounded like The Boys from Brazil.”
Macaulay had heard enough.
“You should know that we have the memory card from Rob Falconer’s camera,” said Macaulay. “Lexy thinks he photographed the rune stone in the Viking cave before Jensen killed him, and that the markings might hold the secret of Leif Eriksson’s burial place.”
Barnaby’s eyes reflected true amazement.
“I’ve been waiting for this all my life,” he said as the lights went out.
“It’s probably just another outage,” he said, going into the kitchen to check the circuit breaker panel. After seeing that none of the circuits were tripped, he was about to head back, when he glanced out the window and saw the lights in the apartment across the way.
He looked down at the street. The car he had seen in the no-standing zone was no longer there. It had been replaced by two others. He could see the indistinct shapes of men in the front seats. Mildly curious, he walked to the back bedroom that faced out over the alley behind his brownstone.
The car that had originally been parked on Brattle Street was now blocking the mew gate that led from his building into the alley. A man in a raincoat was standing next to the car, looking up at his apartment. A second man was approaching the rear entrance, carrying a short rifle.
Barnaby walked back into the living room and stood by the fire.
“It would appear we are surrounded,” he said.
THIRTY-FIVE
30 November
Brattle Street
Harvard Square
Cambridge, Massachusetts
A woman began to scream on one of the lower floors of the apartment building. Her frantic cries ended ten seconds later.
“Do you have a gun?” asked Macaulay.
“Why would I have a gun?” said Barnaby.
Running to the dryer in the laundry room, Lexy retrieved their clothes and hurriedly put hers on. They were still clammy, and she momentarily wondered if she would ever be truly warm again. In the kitchen, Macaulay stuffed the contents of Langdon’s briefcase, including Falconer’s memory card, the photographs, and Langdon’s iPad, into his pockets.
Throwing on a belted raincoat over his red flannel nightshirt, Barnaby picked up a flashlight in the kitchen and led them to one of the bedrooms. Opening a closet, he removed a wooden stepladder and placed it under a rectangular access panel in the ceiling. Climbing the ladder, Barnaby shoved up the access panel and disappeared through the opening into a crawl space above the crossbeams.
After following Lexy up, Macaulay pulled the stepladder up after him and replaced the access panel. Farther along the crawl space, Barnaby had already unhooked the reinforced wooden hatch that opened onto the roof.
“Damn,” said Macaulay.
“What is it?” asked Lexy, alarmed.
“I forgot the disc drive of our recorded statement in Bangor.”
“I’ve got it,” said Barnaby, shoving the roof hatch away from the opening.
“Let me go first,” said Macaulay.
“Gladly,” said Barnaby.
Macaulay slowly raised his head above the opening and glanced around him. No one was moving on the other roofs. He saw that all the brownstones on Barnaby’s side of the block were approximately the same height and appeared to abut one another.
In one direction, the line of buildings ended at the edge of a tree-filled park. In the other, the last brownstone was flanked by a larger structure that was still indistinct in the gloom. He decided to head that way.
Helping Lexy and Barnaby up through the opening, Macaulay snugged the hatch down over the crawl space and guided them over the low brick wall that separated Barnaby’s building from the next in line. Two steps across the roof, he nearly fell into a shallow lap pool, its greasy-looking surface clogged with moldering leaves.
He went quickly across to the next roof with Barnaby bringing up the rear. This one had a miniature mansion constructed on it with columns in front. Macaulay could hear the cooing of birds inside and realized it was a high-end pigeon roost.
The next one had a terraced garden, and the one after was covered with staging equipment and new roofing shingles. Stepping acr
oss the construction material, Macaulay glanced back at Barnaby’s building. There was no movement yet above the roof hatch.
As he reached the last brownstone in the block, he gritted his teeth. There was no fire escape on the side of the building and the larger one beyond it was at least ten feet away.
A long board was lying at the roof edge, but even if it could have reached the windowsill of the next building, Macaulay knew it would never support Barnaby’s weight.
“Have you ever done any rappelling?” asked Macaulay as the others came up to him.
“We’re archaeologists,” said Barnaby as if the answer were self-evident.
Macaulay jogged back the way they had come until he reached the construction materials. Picking up a coiled bundle of rope, he looked around for work gloves, settling for the strips of canvas that had been used to anchor shingles to the pallets.
“There’s no time to make a friction hitch,” he said, uncoiling the rope at the edge of the roof. “Wrap these canvas strips around your hands before you slide down. It looks to be about forty feet.”
Barnaby didn’t hesitate. As soon as Macaulay had anchored one end of the rope around the chimney, he was over the side with his feet braced against the wall of the building. For all of his immense bulk, he was surprisingly agile on the rope line, reaching the ground in only four backward jumps.
Lexy went next. Macaulay waited for her to touch ground before grabbing the line and slipping over the edge of the roof. As he went over, he heard the sound of shattering glass. Across the dead space between the two buildings, he saw one of the windows disintegrate from the force of an exploding bullet.
Glancing back toward Barnaby’s brownstone, he saw a man poised above the roof hatch with a suppressed rifle. Macaulay dropped below the roofline before he could fire another round.
Valhalla Page 16
