Occasionally Maasai herdsmen approached their camp out of curiosity, and would stand, leaning on their long spears that doubled for fending off the hyenas and as cattle prods. Tall and slim, when approached by the men of the expedition, they drew themselves up to their full and appreciable height, affecting fierce visages; but with women present, they smiled and remained relaxed. She had learned a smattering of Swahili in their week in Tanganyika, and while the Maasai seemed not to prefer that language, mostly using their native Maa, she gained the impression that they were concerned about foreigners camping there. This was clarified by the expedition’s interpreter, the Indian, Avtar, who was enlisted when they had first arrived in the port city.
He explained, “The natives believe that the volcano is sacred, and the home of some sort of death-god. This deity is represented by a monster crocodile, its jaws yawning wide, displaying stiletto teeth. The legend is apparently based on the not-infrequent and mysterious deaths of cattle and other animals that stray into the depression. The deification of the crocodile apparently was derived from its apparent immunity to that frightening phenomenon. Suffocating gas settling into the depression easily kills off mammals and birds. That reptile’s greater ability to go without air gives it the patina of immortality.
“There are other stories perpetuated over the campfires. One is of the crocodile god entering villages on moonless nights, dragging off a cow whose blood has just been taken for a meal, or even a sleeping woman.”
That idea intrigued Diana. There had to be a common denominator in the tale. Could it be the blood? The fresh wound in the neck of the cow, or a menstruating female? Her attempts to obtain further details drew only evasive answers. She was left with a question: Did crocodiles, like sharks, have such a keen sense for the smell of blood? Her persistence penetrated their reluctance. Gradually, the story emerged about the deadly depression, and how the spirits of the animals that were overcome there would come out at night and haunt their villages or lone herders.
Diana nudged Max, saying, “That sounds like one of those ghost stories told over a scout troop’s campfire to frighten the tenderfoot. But the story that caused the Maasai to change the subject, about the croc seeking blood, somehow has the ring of truth to it. Listen, Max, you well know the taboos that primitive cultures have about menstruation. Here there may still be a reason for shutting women away at that time of the month. Myths, indeed, often have some basis in fact.”
“Oh, come now,” Max retorted, “It’s all ignorant superstition, and you know it as well as I do. But I will buy the part about deadly gas killing the animals in the depression.”
Diana nodded, “Joe and I were down there early today, and it was okay then. But the depression must contain vents that emit poisonous gases, heavier than air, that collect in toxic concentrations.”
Joe Cavanagh, the nuclear physicist, added, “Or carbon dioxide. CO2 isn’t toxic, but it’s heavier than air, and can collect over low-lying ground when the usual breezes abate, no longer flushing out the gas. It displaces breathable air, killing by suffocation.”
“That’s it,” she said, “but isn’t it odd that we didn’t see bones among those rocks? Wait--I forgot about the hyenas! I heard them last night, maybe down there.”
Joe picked up on that. “You’re right. Remember all the yellow jackets you remarked about when we were in the depression? Carrion would explain not only their presence, but also the lack of any blood or other remnants of a kill.”
Ever the skeptic, Max laughed at that, saying, “You’re over your head on that one, physicist. Don’t tell me those insects consumed the bones too.”
“Max,” Diana cautioned, “you’ve forgotten the hyenas. They’re not stupid, and being conditioned to the hazards there, they would naturally drag their meal out of danger so they could consume it at leisure. And even though CO2 has neither odor nor color, the hyenas would soon learn that the presence of a breeze makes it safe to go there.”
Suddenly she had the feeling that she had been there before. But, except for the volcano, the terrain hardly resembled that in her story. Around a million years had passed, enough time to change everything. She finally attributed her “déjà vu” phenomenon to her laborious study of the GeoSat signals, and her previous research on the region.
Gazing at the volcano, she thought of the cattle that would point in certain directions, like bird dogs pointing to pheasant in the cornfields of the Midlands at home. She couldn’t be sure, in the heat-shimmering air, which way they were pointing just then. No matter, she thought, the magnetometer and the scintillation counter will be all we need to locate our objective.
The following morning found the expedition members eager to get going. Max delegated the task of final localization of their objective to Diana. She took the geologist, the physicist with the sensors down into the declivity that defined the base of the mountain, but not until ascertaining that the depression was free of noxious gases or suffocating carbon dioxide. Finding no danger, they descended, clambering down piles of obsidian and hardened ash, stepping carefully to avoid the sharp edges, and wary of the resident snakes, which, they had been warned, were highly poisonous.
At the bottom, they unpacked their equipment, soon locating the position of the magnetic field by triangulation. Jon Ballard, the geologist, who did the calculations, estimated that the source was certainly not volcanic, but was more than a hundred feet below the surface and a hundred yards north, beneath the ravine into which they had descended.
Diana called out from where she and Cavanagh were seeking radiation above the background level. “There’s no way we can dig down far enough without appropriate excavation equipment, and that won’t arrive until next month.”
When they returned to base camp and deposited their gear, she found the professor dictating to his secretary, Myra. Happy to see Diana, Max got up. “Just some letters to headquarters back home. I thought we should keep them posted about our progress.”
She looked at him quizzically. “A capital idea, as I also have letters to my son and parents, but how shall we get the mail out? The nearest post office is in Dodoma, and you know what that means. A stamp could end up costing another big tariff.”
“You’re right,” he replied, “but I already thought of that. We’ll keep the letters until the drilling crew arrives. Along with the heavy equipment, they’re bringing a small plane.”
“Oh,” she asked, “a plane? And are we to have a pilot as well? I didn’t see either included in the bill of lading or the passenger list in San Pedro when I visited the ship.”
“No to both questions,” he said, rather sheepishly. “I arranged for the aircraft, one of those war surplus ‘Grasshoppers’--you know, the planes used for artillery spotting and liaison. It’s to be picked up in Dar-es-Salaam, disassembled, and trucked to us here.”
Diana saw it coming. As far as she knew, she was the only member of the party with a pilot’s license. She hadn’t flown in over a year and knew only a bit about that particular plane, except that it was light, easily handled, and could land and take off within a very short distance. Her experience in a similar British craft, with over fifty hours logged solo, probably qualified her to fly what sounded like a Stinson L-5.
“I hope it will come complete with maintenance manual. I wouldn’t want to have to land out there in the bush somewhere due to mechanical problems.”
“Oh, it’ll be brand-new,” Max assured her, “I’ve been told that since the plane has never been used, it will be in perfect condition.”
She looked at him reflectively, and then said, “Was the salesman that mean-looking blond chap you had lunch with the day we arrived?”
“Well, yeah, he did help arrange it,” he replied a little defensively, “What’s the problem? He’s very important to us; he's the British Minister in Tanganyika for mines and oil exploration.”
She didn’t want to upset her boss, but after all, even with such credentials, trusting a stranger in that type of sa
le was dangerous. Besides, something about him had struck her as not right. Maybe it was his body language, or his habit of rubbing a nostril whenever he answered a question. And those ice-blue eyes! Lighter even than her father’s. Finally, she confided to Max, “I just don’t trust him. Don’t ask me the reason, I just don’t.”
The professor looked at her in amusement, saying, “Oh, come now, Diana, as a scientist, you have to learn to be more objective. You’re supposed to base your conclusions on facts. Did you know he’s an Afrikaaner and a mining engineer, and comes with impeccable credentials? That he hails from Johannesburg, and was hired by the British to oversee mining and oil exploration in Tanganyika? How can you fault that?”
“Easily,” she responded firmly, “because I just don’t trust him, and until that plane has been thoroughly checked out by our mechanics, it’s not to be relied upon, either.”
They waited three weeks for the heavy equipment to arrive, and spent several days exploring the region just south of the maximum magnetic field they had located. Max thought it a waste of time, but Diana persuaded him by unfolding her map that showed the other focus of interest, some distance away. Of importance was the presence, in the jumble of talus and ash, of rare angular fragments, not obviously metallic. While they could use their rock hammers to shatter obsidian like the volcanic glass it is, and beat hard pumice into powder, they could not make a dent in that unknown material. It looked to be a super-hard ceramic, as if forged in monstrous heat coupled with great pressure. The mystery material was similar to a diamond’s hardness, yet could not be shattered by a sharp blow. It was very light, half the weight of aluminum, allowing them to carry what little they found of it back to camp in their packs for later analysis. Diana pointed out that the material had the exact sheen and color of her pendant.
NINE
Dangers
Father Celestre found the café that had been designated as his rendezvous with his Mafia connection. It was down among a whitewashed block of buildings off the principal street in the Arab quarter of Dar-es-Salaam. Heat from the sun compounded with the glare reflected from the walls made him wish he’d had the forethought to wear Arab garb. He had stuck with Western clothes, including his clerical collar, in order to maintain his identity as a Western cleric of some type.
Tanganyika had been fertile soil for the sowing of the Christian religion, resulting in one-third of the population following one of the several denominations with which all religions were cursed. What was it about belief in the divine, he thought, whether in one or many gods? Starting with something imaginative seems to give the human mind license to engage in all sorts of religious free association, taking spiritual imagination in every direction. Tanganyika, he mused, is crawling with missionaries of every persuasion, including Jehovah’s Witnesses, Seventh Day Adventists, and Mormons.
As a priest, he would have been expected to decry this fragmentation of the one true church, except that his superior education, coupled with his having been neglected as a child, allowed him to think for himself. He saw the breakup of Christian unity as part of the doctrine of free will. If the Popes had kept on the path of Jesus and Peter, they could have avoided the evils that spawned the Reformation. The many offshoots of that rebellion against Rome would never have occurred; not then, anyway.
But, thinking of the more recent splintering off from the major Protestant sects that produced such religions as the Latter Day Saints, such subdividing could go on forever. And that wasn't the case just with Christianity. He thought of the Muslims, a strong presence in that region of Africa, especially along the coast, and the Hindus, brought over from India for labor, who had mostly become storekeepers or professionals. How many different sects, practicing their polytheism, have been in that religion generated over the years?
It took time to find the place where he was to meet his fellow Mafioso, a dive run by one of the ubiquitous Omani Arabs. Long before most Europeans arrived, Omani Arabs had established themselves on the coast and along the trade routes into the interior. They had grown rich after they expelled the Portuguese, and thrived until the Europeans returned in force. First it was the Germans, and then the British, who still remained in charge officially. Gradually, however, power was being yielded to the native Africans and TANU. The confusion that movement was creating would help obscure what he and his accomplices were planning.
The question was, what were the Americans actually up to? On the one hand, he had his orders from the Vatican, to monitor, and to control, if possible, any heretical ideas that might arise from the expedition’s findings. That would be the easy part of his mission, he thought. Not alone among his fellow clerics, he was extremely skeptical about any such discoveries that might emerge from the dig. What did they expect to find, the Holy Grail?
His Mafia commission was the other, more demanding, task. In contrast to the impossibility of squelching spiritual ideas, their plan was literally down-to-earth. If some material discovery of value took place, if they used enough force or guile, it would be theirs. He knew the Americans comprised two groups, paleoanthopologists looking for signs of early man, and the Cartel, bent on finding a possible rich oil strike. Oil was gold, they all knew, and the Mafia Dons were interested mainly in the payoff, directly realized as the yellow metal. Technology revealed by the effort could be an even better source of money, wealth and power.
It was the implementation of those considerations that was the subject of the meeting in the dimly lit Arab dive. The location was ideal. It would be unlikely that Italian would be understood by any of the few elderly men drinking cardamom-laced coffee or puffing on hookahs. Once there, locating his contact was easy. Guided by the bright red glow of a furiously pulled-upon cigarette, Celestre proceeded to the darkest corner of the smoke-filled room. There he found a squat fellow Sicilian, motioning to the chair across the small table, calling in Arabic for a pot of coffee and two cups. In his local garb, he could easily have been mistaken for an Arab, with his olive skin and curly black hair. His face bore the scars of smallpox, which lent an appearance of toughness that an unblemished face would not have.
In a gruff voice, he introduced himself curtly. “Carmelo Manzone, your superior.”
Celestre had to acknowledge that when they shook hands; even with his own appreciable strength, it was as if his hand had been put into a vise. With everything he said, Manzone accentuated the force of his words with his fierce dark eyes and the combative body language he exuded.
“We’ve infiltrated the digging team as truck drivers, giving us five men with them now, and when the drilling unit arrives, we’ll number over a dozen. As my contract with the Americans states, the management will have to deal with Staltieri, their head driver. And he answers only to me. We’ve a cache of arms there already, ostensibly for use if needed for protection from wild animals and possibly restive natives. But they’re to be used when and if the time comes, for ‘enforcement,’ should there be treasure.”
Reflecting on his duties as a Vatican spy, Celestre asked how he was to fit into the Mafia’s plan.
“As a Roman Catholic missionary, you have a short-wave radio for communication with Rome. Use it also to keep our headquarters apprised of any progress, employing, of course, encryption. You’re to use this codebook for the next three months, providing the cypher is not changed. No doubt Catholics will be among the Americans, and as a priest visiting camp each Sunday, you will receive messages from my assistants during confession to send me.” Then he added, “Warn them not to attend confession too frequently. It could arouse suspicion.”
The sun was a red orb low in the west when Celestre returned to his hotel near the docks, thinking about what he had learned from the Mafioso. He would be acting primarily as a priest and a radio operator. Of course, he would be armed also, with the Beretta automatic he always carried now under his habit or whatever he was wearing. From whom he had to defend himself was unclear. So many possibilities, he thought, as he wondered what was in it for him. If
the Mafia prevailed, his position in the Vatican would be finished, unless he could somehow come up with a religious relic or a spiritual gain among the natives. Little did he realize the forces gathering with which he’d have to deal.
Death at the Dig
By midnight, after a busy day, all were sound asleep. The hyenas, for some reason, were whimpering and coughing instead of making their usual nocturnal racket that was reminiscent of fiendish laughter. They remained well outside the perimeter of the camp, thus failing to arouse anyone in the expedition, even when there was a quickly stifled scream from one of the tents. In the morning, one of the female graduate students failed to turn up for breakfast. Max, who had just arrived at the table hand-in-hand with Liz, another post-grad, sleepily asked where Joan was. No one had an answer.
Liz said, “She’s probably sleeping in, having had the luxury of our tent all to herself last night. I’ll go wake her.”
A minute later, she ran up to the group, screaming. “It’s Joan! The tent has been shredded, her cot is bloody, and she’s gone!”
Everyone stopped eating breakfast and sprinted to the shambles of the tent. Ballard, the geologist, pointed out the bloody trail that extended from a huge gash in the canvas toward the shallow, boulder-strewn creek that led into the depression at the foot of the volcano.
He called to Max, “Come on, we have to follow that!”
As they ran to get their weapons, Diana investigated the interior of the tent. The wood of the cot had been shattered, almost bisected, by whatever creature had left bloody serrations that suggested tooth-marks. Shocked as she was by the scene there, as Diana looked around, she saw an open box of sanitary napkins on Joan's bedside chest. Good God, she thought, the crocodile legend is true!
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