Maze Master

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  Martin’s smile faded. “I did not mention that to Shirazi.”

  “I believe that palindrome is the key to finding the Marham-i-Isa. It is hidden in Black Canyon, near the Kharga Oasis.”

  “If you know where it is, why do you need my palindrome?”

  “I know the general location, but not the exact location, and I’m out of time. The authors of that Coptic text knew the name of the village that sits on the canyon rim near the cave. Or I think they did.”

  He took another drink of wine. “And, if you knew, you’d go after it?”

  “Absolutely.” In a low voice, she asked, “What’s the name of the village identified in the palindrome? It’s the last clue I need to find the cave.”

  Sunlight fell through a gap in the vine canopy and glared in Martin’s right eye. While he shifted in his seat to avoid it, his mind raced. “After that, you won’t need me, correct?”

  “Afraid I won’t take you with me?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “Professor, you’re far more versed in the intricacies of the Marham-i-Isa story than I am, and you speak many ancient languages that I do not. I guarantee you I’ll take you with me.”

  He paused. “Let’s get back to the border wall. If it’s not going to hold back the plague, then the disease is going to escape quarantine soon. What if it escapes while we’re out there? We may be exposed.”

  “And we may not. Life is full of risks. Come with me.”

  He gave her an exaggerated shake of his head. “I—I need to think about this.”

  She smiled, finished her coffee, and rose to her feet. As she did, she pulled a card from her blue shirt pocket and handed it to him. It had only an email address written on it. “If you change your mind, contact me at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. At 8:03 this email will no longer exist.”

  As she walked away, the eye of every man in the restaurant followed her.

  When she disappeared from sight, Martin flopped back in his chair and sucked a deep breath into his lungs. He’d give anything to know the location of the Cave of the Treasure of Light. Unfortunately, he’d studied every geological report, every map, historical and modern, and it was nowhere to be found. He’d spent a decade of his life searching for the legendary Marham-i-Isa. The ancient name of the village that guarded the ointment was Batatab, but at some point in history, the name must have changed, as so many place names had over the centuries. Or maybe the desert had just swallowed the village. If he gave her the name, did her intelligence sources have a way of finding the modern village built upon the ruins of Batatab?

  “Here you go, Dr. Nadai,” Doug said as he set Martin’s sandwich in front of him.

  “Thanks, Doug.”

  “Would you like another glass of wine?”

  “Yes, and the sooner the better.”

  “On its way.” Doug smiled and jogged back into the restaurant.

  Martin picked up his almost empty glass and chugged the last swallow while he considered the ramifications of what had just happened.

  The only way anyone, anyone, could know about the palindrome was if they could hear through the walls of the study in his home. Or maybe see through the walls. He thought about the window that flooded his desk with sunlight. Was she using some kind of telescopic device to scan the documents spread over his desk?

  A chill started at the bottom of his spine and worked its way up into his brain where it brought him wide awake. More awake than he had ever been in his life.

  CHAPTER 5

  SEPTEMBER 20. MONASTERY OF SAINT JOHN OF JERUSALEM, BUILT IN 1099, MALTA.

  He heard them outside his door and hesitated for a moment, the piece of blue chalk still in his uplifted hand.

  The air had an earthy fragrance from the morning rainstorm that had swept Valletta. Drawing it into his lungs, he continued writing the Word of God on the cold white walls of his cell. A hexagon. A pentagon. Gray storm light fell through his window and glowed from the shapes as he drew them, as though the instant they appeared, God changed them into light, just as He had changed the water into wine over two thousand years ago in Cana.

  Through the door, Ben Adam heard the director, Brother Provincial Andrew Paul, ask in a low voice, “He has spoken to you, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, Brother. A few words. Why?” Brother Stephen’s voice was barely audible.

  “He’s been here for two and half years and has only spoken to two people. Me and now you. I don’t know why he chose you—you’ve only been here for three months—but I thank God he did. I need your help.”

  Door keys rattled.

  Stephen asked, “Has something happened?”

  “Yes, but I don’t wish anyone else to know about this. Not yet. It would cause an unnecessary distraction. There is sickness in the city of Valletta. Most of the brothers are volunteering at the tent clinics the Russian government has set up.”

  “I understand,” Stephen said obediently.

  Brother Andrew Paul inserted the key in the lock, knocked lightly, and called, “Brother Ben Adam?” as he opened the door.

  Ben Adam didn’t look at his brothers. He had to finish the holy words before he forgot them. His memory had grown as unpredictable as the spring winds, blowing his thoughts this way and that. Often, he had no idea what was a true memory and what he’d made up.

  With great care, he drew a hexagon, then attached to it another hexagon, and another …

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Stephen’s mouth drop open as he scanned the walls. In an awed voice, the young red-haired monk whispered, “What is this?”

  Stephen turned around in a full circle, and for an instant, seemed to spin with the spiral that looped around and around the walls.

  “He says God speaks to him in shapes, not words.” Andrew Paul replied, then quietly asked, “Brother Ben Adam, please, let us help you?”

  Tucking the piece of chalk in his pocket, he let his arms fall to his sides. Blood ran warmly down his fingers and dripped onto the floor. It had almost stopped now, just a few drops. He wiped his palms on his robe before he turned to face his brothers.

  “Dear God,” Stephen cried. “How did he hurt himself?”

  Stephen ran forward to grab Ben Adam’s hands and turn them over, examining the holes in the palms. Gradually, as understanding dawned, his eyes went wide and glistening.

  Stephen’s grip felt warm on his skin. He hadn’t realized how cold he was.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Andrew Paul said. “They will heal in a matter of hours.”

  “This has happened before?”

  “A few times. That’s how he came to us. One of the villagers found him wandering the streets with our Lord’s wounds on his body, and brought him here. He told us his name was Ben Adam.”

  “Then you believe—”

  “Of course I believe.” A patient smile came to Andrew Paul’s face.

  Stephen stepped away and swallowed hard. When his gaze lifted to the walls again, curiosity lined his face. “These symbols … the whole room looks like it’s etched with an intricate ropelike spiral filled with interconnected shapes. Are they related to the stigmata?”

  Brother Andrew Paul frowned at the shapes that ran around the cell like a giant serpent coiling up tighter and tighter as more lines were inscribed beneath the last. “I don’t know, but this happens every time he visits the catacombs. Often he vanishes into the labyrinth for days, and when he returns, he writes down the words God has spoken to him.”

  “This is a language? The language of God?”

  “He says so,” Andrew Paul answered, then quietly asked, “Brother Ben Adam, may we talk with you?”

  “F-Forgive me, Brothers. What did you need?” The stammering was new. His brain seemed to be locking up, and his delusions were getting worse.

  The little girl in the old-fashioned clothes—knickers and a tweed cap—waited in the doorway. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his mind. Sometimes, if he just concentrated, he could control them. New
scents wafted in on the air, bread baking and the pine oil the brothers used to polish wood.

  Brother Andrew Paul said, “I brought Brother Stephen to stay with you while I go to fetch bandages for your wounds.”

  He opened his eyes. “No, no … the labyrinth … I must get back.”

  Ancient tunnels and burial chambers honeycombed the rock beneath the island, running for hundreds of miles, some even extending beyond the shores, so that, in places, a man could hear the ocean roaring over his head. Legends said one of the lost tunnels had been hewn by the Knights of Malta in the sixteenth century and ran all the way to Rome. He had not found that one. But he had found the bomb shelters where food and water were stockpiled behind iron doors, kept in the event of an island disaster.

  “Not yet, Brother,” Andrew Paul placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Please, let us care for you first.”

  Andrew Paul turned to Stephen. “While I’m gone, please try to convince him to lie down and rest. He hasn’t eaten or slept in three days, not since he returned from speaking with God.”

  “Of course, Brother.” Stephen gave Ben Adam a worried look.

  Brother Andrew Paul silently walked across the cell, exited, and closed the door behind him. The old-fashioned girl just walked through and stood in front of the door inside the cell.

  “Brother, may we sit down together?” Stephen took his arm and slowly guided him to the bed. “Everything’s all right. I’ll stay with you until you heal, or as long as you need me to.”

  He sat, wiped his palms on his robe again, and laced his bloody fingers in his lap. Sunlight had broken through the clouds outside and sparkled in the latest genetic sequence, which brought tears to his eyes. He’d been searching for this his whole life. He wasn’t finished, but he was close, so close. Later today, he would inscribe the last words.

  “What’s wrong, Brother?” Stephen slipped an arm around his shoulders and held him. “How can I help you?”

  “The M-Mark of the Beast. It’s right there.”

  “The Beast?” Stephen searched his face. “I don’t understand.”

  Ben Adam smiled faintly. “Book of Revelation. ‘There fell a foul and p-painful sore upon the men who had the Mark of the Beast.’ It’s been inside us all along, frozen in time in its ancestral state for millions of years. God told me how to kill it. See it?”

  Stephen frowned at the shapes spiraling around the walls. At his young age, with his simple education, the molecular structure must be incomprehensible. But he did know the Bible.

  Stephen said, “Oh, yes, chapter sixteen. The mark appears right after the seven angels pour out the bowls of God’s wrath upon the earth.”

  Sobs suddenly assaulted Ben Adam. He bent forward and propped his elbows on his knees to ride them out. When he could catch his breath, he reverently said, “Yes, God’s wrath.”

  “Is that what the words mean? God has revealed the End of the World to you? In these … shapes?”

  Drops of blood from his hands mixed with teardrops to create a strange stippled pattern upon the ancient stone floor. “I must get back. To the labyrinth. Anna needs me. She will understand the Word of God. She will know salvation when she sees it.” He paused and his eyes widened. “And damnation.”

  Stephen tenderly patted his arm. “There is no Anna here, Brother. Please, lie down and try to rest. You’re so exhausted.”

  Stretching out on his side on the bed, his thoughts wandered to distant places where he was not certain he had ever been: Batatab, Karnak, Ashkelon. Maybe he’d just seen pictures of those places and imagined he’d been there with Anna.

  He said, “Anna may not be real. Once, I thought she was, but … Maybe she is a just another dark visitor. There are so many now, always close, always demanding I reveal the secret words of God.”

  “Dark visitors?” A haunted expression came to Stephen’s face. “Are you saying that demons accost you?”

  When the ancient building shifted, it let out a groan. Stephen jerked around as though he expected to see evil beings dancing in the doorway.

  From nowhere images appeared in Ben Adam’s mind, flashes of torture, electric shocks, and the pale, pale faces of men with scalpels wearing white masks.

  The little girl in front of the door said, You have to come back right now, James. They’re searching for you, and if they find you, they’ll lock you up again and take the words.

  Stephen said, “Brother, please try to sleep for a while. After you’ve eaten and rested, then you can return to your prayers in the Hypogeum.”

  Hypogeum. Latin for “underground structure.” He remembered, and it relieved him. At least part of his brain was intact. He still knew Latin.

  When he closed his eyes to sleep, the maze appeared, as it always did, spinning outward into infinity, sending out waves of blinding light that were filled with the voice of God …

  CHAPTER 6

  SEPTEMBER 22. KHARGA OASIS, NORTH OF ASWAN DAM, EGYPT.

  Shallow canyons cut the landscape, extending like rocky veins through the endless sand dunes. Martin finessed the throttle as he guided the motorcycle down the wadi—a dry stream channel—that wound along at the foot of the towering buff-colored cliff. As evening fell, the shadows cooled his body. The day had been hot as Hades, which made him long for the cool tree-lined streets of Virginia.

  From her seat on the back of the motorcycle, Anna called, “Take the left fork of the wadi. There’s a good place to camp about a quarter mile down that side canyon.”

  Martin turned his head to glance at her. “How do you know that? Have you been here before?”

  “Yes, a few years ago.”

  Traveling with her had proved fascinating. During the day, she was the iron woman, cold, calculating, every detail of the plan worked out. At night, in her sleep, she transformed into a twisting, whimpering wreck. Every time he asked her about the dreams, she gave him an icy stare and looked away. Clearly her private hell was … private.

  Twenty minutes later, they made camp in a bend in the drainage where an overhanging stone hid their small fire from above. Some long-gone flash flood had deposited a bench of poorly sorted sandy gravel against the back of the overhang: a perfect place for their bedrolls, barring the presence of scorpions, asps, and other desert pests.

  Martin plucked another of the splintered boards from the old shipping pallet they’d found a hundred yards down the side canyon and tossed it onto the flames. As the fire licked up, it illuminated their transportation: a decrepit Bultaco motorcycle. The cracked leather seat was covered with tape and the large square panniers showed dents and scratches where previous owners had dropped the bike on its side atop rocks. But the old relic was the perfect vehicle for humping across the desert.

  Anna had purchased it with cash. He’d wanted a newer model, but she refused to allow them any modern device. If it had a magnetic strip, or a computer chip, it was forbidden. She’d forced him to leave all of his credit cards, wristwatches, IDs, and phones in Virginia. Martin had no internet connections for the first time in his life, and it was like flying blind through a thick fog, especially with all the unholy chaos that had apparently been unleashed in France. At a small village in Egypt, they’d watched a TV report about the new plague. The EU was saying everything was under control, the quarantine was working, but the reporter claimed it was all lies. He said cases were springing up outside of the French quarantine zone, and that’s why Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain had all dispatched troops to their borders, blocking anyone from France from entering the rest of the Europe.

  Martin glanced at Anna where she sat across the fire. He’d discovered some things about her in the last few days, but not enough to get even a faint hold on who she was. She’d told him that she’d recently left the air force where she’d spent sixteen hours a day for years plugged in to the Surveillance Net. Her specialty was historical cryptography, or deciphering modern codes based on historical information.

  Firelight danced over Ann
a’s tanned face. She sat unnaturally still, staring at the flames. He called these her “gone” periods. He didn’t know where she was in her mind, but she wasn’t here with him.

  “You all right?” he asked. “Anna?”

  She didn’t hear him. Her eyes possessed an odd and piercing luminosity. She usually wore her shoulder-length auburn hair in a French braid, as she did tonight, but wisps had come loose and clung in sweat-damp curls to her forehead and cheeks. When she’d first appeared in his university office, he’d thought she was just another religious crackpot. Now … now, he didn’t know what to think. Her knowledge of the Marham-i-Isa and biblical history rivaled his own. And the fact that she’d seduced him, rather than the reverse, confused him. He wasn’t even sure Anna liked him. For her, sex just seemed to be a momentary relief from the extreme anxiety that possessed her. Anxiety she would not discuss. All he knew was that the stakes of this game were higher than he thought.

  Martin prodded the flames with a stick, and then watched the cascade of sparks rising into the star-strewn heavens. He’d asked about the scars that wormed across her chest, back, and legs, but she’d brushed off his question with a curt, “I don’t want to talk about it. Ever.”

  He didn’t know much about battlefield wounds, or any other kind of wounds, but they looked like knife scars to him. Who would have cut her up like that?

  Her quest for the Marham-i-Isa, she said, began four years ago on an archaeological excavation of the megalithic tombs in Malta. He’d never figured out what a military cryptographer had been doing excavating in Malta, but Martin understood her obsession. He’d spent eleven years searching for the rarest documents in the world, trying to find the Marham-i-Isa. He was proficient in ancient Greek, Hebrew, Egyptian, Latin, Aramaic, and Coptic, plus a smattering of modern languages. All of which they would need if they were going to find the legendary magical ointment created by Jesus.