by J. F. Penn
She walked to a white table by Martin's desk, where a leather-bound book lay propped on a wooden stand to keep the pages from bending back too far. She took the pair of thin white gloves Martin handed her so she could touch it without damaging the fragile pages. Stepping closer, Morgan opened the book randomly, the gold edges flashing in the light as she examined the diagrams, symbols and Hebrew words.
"It's a Sefer Yetzirah," Martin said with triumph. "The Book of Creation or Formation, supposedly written by Abraham, or more likely by the great Rabbi Akiva. It's not exactly easy reading, but it's considered to be one of the earliest extant books on Jewish esotericism. It's very exciting to have one here, I must say."
Morgan nodded, a frown on her face as she bent to the manuscript, pushing back the dark brown curls from her face in order to see more clearly. She touched a finger lightly on one page.
"There's a stain here," she murmured, pointing out a russet blotch on the edge of one page.
"Um, yes, yes," Martin was hesitant. "I have some ideas about what that might be – I've sent a sample to be tested."
Visions of the bloody murders she had witnessed in the last few days came to Morgan's mind, and she closed her eyes for a second, pushing the images away.
Opening her eyes again, she picked up a letter from the table beside the book. It had arrived in the package with the manuscript and was still unopened. Her name was on the front. The handwriting was her father's, but Leon Sierra had been dead for three years, blown apart by a suicide bomber on the number twelve bus in downtown Beersheba, Israel. Another pointless death in a struggle that most thought would never end. The letter was curious, as this package had only arrived a few days ago, even though it had been written before he died. Morgan's heart beat faster at the prospect of reading her father's words.
Martin interrupted her thoughts.
"The book is from Amsterdam, where many Jews from Spain ended up over time. It became an early center for Hebrew printing and publishing, as well as a hotbed of Kabbalism." He pushed his thin wire glasses back into place. "This particular manuscript is notable for the illustration in the front. Look."
Pulling on his own thin white gloves, Martin carefully turned the pages until the frontispiece was shown.
"This is an amulet for protection against Lilith, the Night Specter, one of the impure demons of Jewish Kabbalism. She belongs to Gamaliel, called the Polluted of God, and she kills young children unless this amulet is displayed. It's rare to see this, dare I say, superstition – in a Sefer Yetzirah. I wonder why it's here?" He turned a few more pages. "This is odd, too. This one page was loose, removed from the bindings but left within the book alongside your father's letter."
The page was covered in strange symbols and what looked like a form of Hebrew prayer, but she had never seen anything like it before. Morgan's frown deepened. She picked up the brown paper wrapping that the book had come in. Her name was inked on the front in her father's sloped handwriting, but the address had been written in a different style and had clearly been added more recently.
"Where was the package sent from?"
Martin looked up from the book. "I tracked it back to a central post box in Barcelona, near El Call, the Jewish quarter of the old city. Or at least where the Jews used to live …"
His voice tailed off and his eyes flicked nervously to Morgan. Since a fire at the Grand Lodge of England when they had both narrowly avoided being burned alive, Martin had been more protective of her. Morgan appreciated the gesture, but the history of Spain's Jewish population was nothing new, repeated around Europe in those dark centuries. Based on her recent trip to Budapest, the story wasn't over yet.
"My father, Leon, was a Sephardic Jew," she explained. "The Sierras originally came from the south of Spain near Granada and left during the expulsion in 1492, when Spain united under Ferdinand and Isabella and they forced conversion, death or expulsion." She tilted her head to one side, trying to remember the details of the north-eastern area of Spain. "I think that Barcelona was mostly cleared of the Jewish population in 1391, with pogroms wiping out many of them, and then the expulsion finished off the rest. But I've heard that there's an active synagogue there, small but growing once again. Whoever posted the package must be part of that community, so they shouldn't be too hard to find."
Martin nodded. "I was able to lift a couple of partial fingerprints from the package, and I've set a search on them. Shouldn't be too long before we have some leads."
Morgan's fingers brushed the faded blue ink on the envelope, imagining her father inscribing the words years ago at his desk in Safed. His head would have been bent to the desk, his hand flowing over the page as he whispered words from the Torah or sang snatches of the Hebrew songs he loved so much. He had been a secular archaeologist earlier in life, but after she had joined the Israeli Defense Force as a psychologist, Leon had discovered his faith in the scriptural analysis of Kabbalah, a form of Jewish mysticism. Leon had practiced gematria, a way of analyzing the numeric value of words to divine meaning in their numeric equivalents. Morgan remembered him telling a story of Rabbi Ishmael from the Talmud, who watched a scribe writing sacred words on a Torah scroll:
“My son, be meticulous in your work," the Rabbi said, "for it is the work of Heaven. Should you omit one single letter, or add one too many, you would thereby destroy the whole world.”
The precision of words was of primary importance to the Kabbalists, so on one level Morgan was desperate to know what the letter said. On a deeper, emotional level, the thought of opening it frightened her – knowing these would be the final words she would ever hear from her father. She took a deep breath and reached for the letter.
Chapter 2
Morgan opened the envelope carefully, trying not to damage the letter within. Inside, there was a single page of cream paper with her father's message on one side.
Morgan, my daughter,
I hope you never have to read this, for if you do, then you are the last of the Remnant. We have protected the location of the Key, but now we are threatened and it is in jeopardy.
It falls to you now.
Those who seek the Gates of Hell must not find the Key. It is not for us to open, for to do so will usher in the Last Days.
I love you.
Papa
As she read the words, Morgan could hear her father's voice in her ear, his breath in the air around her sweetened with the honey cake he'd loved so much. Her tears dropped onto the page, making the blue ink run a little. She wiped her eyes and dabbed at the smudge with her sleeve, not wanting to mar his precious words.
"I don't know what it means," she said, shaking her head as she handed the letter to Martin. "He believed in the spiritual realms, but I've never heard of this Remnant, or a Key – or even the Gates of Hell, in this context. What do you think?"
Martin examined the words, his forehead creased in concentration. "Hmmm … The Gates of Hell are usually mentioned in association with the Christian Church, not the Jewish tradition. Jesus addressed the apostle Peter, calling him the Rock on which the church would be built and the Gates of Hell would not prevail against it. But your father being Jewish, it's definitely odd. Give me some time and I'll find out about this Remnant for you."
He handed the letter back to Morgan and she laid it gently on the table. Martin was not one to shrink from a challenge. His life's work was to build the most complete database of human knowledge – not the easy stuff that Google archived, but the secrets and mysteries, the conspiracies and truths that most did not even want to know.
"He was a Kabbalist scholar in the last years of his life," Morgan said, her voice wavering as she fought back the tears that threatened.
She remembered standing in her father's little house in Safed, north of the Sea of Galilee, the last time she had seen him. Her husband Elian had been killed on the Golan Heights during a skirmish with Hezbollah, and she had traveled up there for her father's combination of love and fatalistic acceptance of God's will;
his sense that nothing happened without a reason, even if that reason didn't benefit the individual directly. Morgan could never bring herself to believe as he did, but given what she had seen with ARKANE in the last few months, perhaps she was now beginning to witness that supernatural side for herself. She was aware that beneath her, in the very lowest levels of the ARKANE vault, lay the Pentecost stones and the Devil's Bible alongside other artifacts of great power. Why not add the Key to the Gates of Hell?
Morgan found herself smiling at the thought, so far from the beliefs she had entered ARKANE with not so long ago.
"Glad to see you smiling again, Morgan."
The voice was deep, with a hint of South African heritage, and Morgan turned to see Jake Timber in the doorway. He wore a blue tailored shirt that fitted his muscular body, noticeably leaner after his convalescence. Despite his recent injuries, he still moved like a powerful jungle cat as he entered the room, a beautiful predator Morgan was undeniably drawn to. She wanted to go to him, touch the corkscrew scar just above his left eyebrow, tell him how scared she had been and how glad she was to have him back. All she could do was smile more broadly.
"How you doing, Spooky?" Jake said.
Martin flushed a little at the term of endearment, the nickname Jake had bestowed upon him based on his uncanny ability to discover hidden things that no one else would have considered. Morgan knew how much Martin looked up to Jake, and that he would do anything for his friend. The three of them had made a good team in previous missions, with her and Jake out in the world, and Martin and his hacking skills their secret weapon back at base. Morgan let herself revel in the moment, three friends reunited in a brief span of calm – a rare situation and one she didn't take for granted.
"Jake, I'm so glad you're back," Martin said, a trifle stiffly. He put out a tentative hand, as if he'd learned that's what you should do when you see a male friend. Jake skillfully ignored the gesture, understanding that Martin hated physical contact. Instead, he produced a pack of colored paint markers from behind his back and put them in Martin's outstretched hand.
"These are for your wall. I found them in the therapy ward at the hospital, and thought you'd do a better job than me at using them."
Morgan's smile widened at the pleasure in Martin's face as he accepted the unusual gift. For a man with so many PhDs, he liked coloring as much as Morgan's little niece, Gemma.
"I don't have anything for you," Jake said, turning to Morgan. "Sorry about that, but perhaps I can keep you company on your next mission. It sounds like you've been having way too much fun without me."
His amber eyes darkened and Morgan recognized the undercurrent in his words.
"You didn't miss much, to be honest," she said. "And it's been no fun without you."
But her words hid reality, for if Morgan was honest, Jake had missed a lot and she had definitely changed while he had been in hospital. She thought of her hunt across Egypt for the Ark of the Covenant, the labyrinth under Budapest, and the extraordinary abilities of Blake Daniel in the halls of the British Museum as Neo-Vikings wreaked havoc in central London. Would she and Jake be able to return to the trust they had previously established as partners since he had missed so much? Had she become too independent in his absence, too used to working alone?
"What's this book then?" Jake asked, breaking the tension. "New mission?" He walked to the table. "It's always a manuscript, isn't it? I wonder if in the future, ARKANE agents will find old tablets or laptops and regard them as we do these objects."
Morgan handed him her father's letter. "It's not a mission," she said. "It's more of a personal investigation right now. The book was sent by my father along with this note."
Jake raised his eyebrow, the corkscrew scar twisting with his surprise.
"But your father is …"
"Dead, yes, no need to step lightly around that fact." Morgan turned back to the pages of the book. "I can read some of the text, but the meaning is obscure although it must be something to do with the Gates of Hell."
Jake shook his head in mock resignation. "Gates of Hell? You really take me to the most fun places."
Morgan smiled again, and she realized that she had missed this. Jake's sense of humor was part of what she loved about working at ARKANE. He made life-threatening situations far more attractive.
Martin's computer chimed, a complex bell fragment that left the listener wondering what the missing note was, like a question mark in the air.
"Must be the fingerprints from the package." Martin bent to the computer screen. "I'm surprised they're back so quickly."
He scanned the screen, eyes widening, his already pale face becoming whiter as he read what was there.
Chapter 3
Martin straightened, his face stricken.
"What is it?" Morgan asked as she and Jake moved to join him by the screen. Martin instinctively moved away from them as he explained.
"The fingerprints on the package belong to a man found dead this morning at the base of the Sagrada Familia basilica in Barcelona. The police report indicates suicide. It seems that he jumped from one of the towers."
Morgan looked down at the face of Santiago Pereira, a stonemason, sculptor and a Jew of Barcelona. She grasped her father's letter tightly in her hand.
"Jumped, perhaps," she said. "Or maybe he was pushed. It's too much of a coincidence. Either way, I have to go there. Martin, can you call Marietti and say I'm on my way up? I need some time out for a personal trip."
Jake reached out a hand as Morgan turned towards the doorway. His fingers were warm on her bare skin, his latent strength evident in just this one touch.
"Want some company?" he asked, and there was a deeper question in his amber eyes.
Morgan hesitated, part of her wanting to keep her father, her family, partitioned away from ARKANE. After all, they had been willing to risk her sister and niece during the fires of Pentecost. She thought of the end of that day, of watching the ashes smolder alongside Jake, how their fingers had entwined in the sunrise.
She nodded. "I could use some help with Marietti actually. I'm pretty sure he has us earmarked for something else."
Jake chuckled. "Yeah, right. A mysterious Jewish manuscript that might lead us to the Gates of Hell? Marietti won't be able to resist this."
Morgan turned back at the doorway. "Actually Martin, I'll take the letter and that extra page of the manuscript. It must have been kept separate for a reason. I'll try to figure it out en route to Spain."
Martin carefully folded the page and put it into the envelope with the letter, handing it to her.
"You two go safe now," he said.
***
Director Elias Marietti's office was in the public-facing building of ARKANE, several stories above ground with a window that looked across Trafalgar Square to Nelson's Column and the Fourth Plinth, an art space currently hosting a bright blue cockerel. Marietti was staring out towards the National Gallery as Morgan and Jake entered the office, his back slightly hunched, shoulders tight with strain.
As he turned, the light from the window illuminated the white in his hair and Morgan noticed that he seemed to have aged recently. The creases in his forehead had deepened and his eyes were heavy lidded, bags of purple under them like bruises as the shadows played across his strong features. She knew that Marietti had protected the secrets of ARKANE for many years, but she wondered whether something new had caused this recent change in the Director's features. Now, however, was not the time to ask.
"Martin told me about the book and the letter, Morgan." Marietti was always gruff and to the point; today was no different. "What do you hope to find if you go to Barcelona? We have too much to do here right now. I need you both." His eyes flicked to Jake. "There are things I haven't told either of you yet. Things that concern all of us."
There was a challenge in Marietti's eyes, as if he wanted to hammer the world into submission and the members of his team were his blunt instruments. Morgan strode into the center of t
he room, leaving Jake in the doorway. This was her fight, and she knew Jake's allegiance would be tested. After all, Marietti was his mentor, the man who had recruited him into ARKANE years ago.
"There will always be something going on," she said. "You told me yourself that our fight will never end, and I left the manuscript alone to investigate the staff of Skara Brae because you were concerned about the threat of Ragnarok. I almost died on that island, you know that." She hesitated, unsure of the tone she wanted to use. "Whatever you say, I'm going to Barcelona. My father wrote that letter to me and I need to know why Santiago Pereira sent the book and why he died. The Gates of Hell are probably just a metaphor, an old man's fantasy, so I might only be a few days. But I am going."
Marietti was silent, turning to look at the oil painting on the wall, his face in momentary contemplation. Every time Morgan had been in the office, there was a different painting on the wall, courtesy of Marietti's love of art and his special relationship with the creative establishment in London. This painting showed the corpse of a young girl laid out upon flagstones in the snow, surrounded by doves and pigeons. Her dark hair was spread like a nimbus around her face, her red skirt entangled with her legs. Her breasts were bare and ropes were wrapped around her wrists, as she lay at the foot of the cross she had been crucified on. It should have been a violent image, evoking horror at the girl's murder, but the snow lent it a peaceful aura, drawing the viewer into a moment of calm.
"It's St Eulalia," Marietti said, "as portrayed by John William Waterhouse in the Pre-Raphaelite style. She was a saint of Barcelona, tortured and crucified for her beliefs during the persecution of Christians under Diocletian in the third century." He turned, his eyes boring into Morgan's. "The Jews have not been the only ones to suffer in that city, so be careful what you search for, Morgan. You might just find it."
