Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  CHAPTER 41

  “In early fourteenth-century art, a chest or box of any sort was always depicted as a flat, one-dimensional square.” Making no attempt to hide his condescension, the bespectacled scholar glanced at Boyd Braxton. “Something along the sophomoric lines of what you might draw if you were trying to depict a medieval chest. Once perspective was introduced into the artist’s grab bag during the quantocento, all of that changed, of course. The quantocento, FYI, would be the Renaissance.”

  Arrogant little pissant, Stan silently fumed as he stared at the archaic verses projected onto the dining room wall.

  Had the lank-haired weasel been under his military command, he would have kicked his scrawny ass between his narrow shoulders. At the moment, however, he needed the scholar’s expertise. And cooperation. Although he suspected it would take a full measure and a half of self-control to keep his temper in check.

  “To Galen of Godmersham’s mind, a flat two-dimensional square would have been no different than the three-dimensional medieval chest your consortium is hoping to uncover. You guys following?”

  Stan thought of how the Ark of the Covenant would have been illustrated in a church or cathedral during the fourteenth century. The weasel was right. More than likely, it would have been depicted as a plain four-sided square.

  “Carry on,” he ordered, not about to reply to the other man’s question. Nor did any of his men reply. He’d told them point-blank that he’d ream each and every one of them with a piece of steel rebar if anyone let the words Ark of the Covenant slip past his lips.

  “Now as far as deciphering this bear, I think the phrase in the first quatrain about ‘Salomon’s cite’ refers to Galen being in Jerusalem on crusade. And in case you guys haven’t figured it out yet, the first quatrain is also the first side of our metaphoric square.”

  Again, Stan remained silent. In truth, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the first quatrain, assuming it referred to the pharaoh Shishak and not to Galen of Godmersham. That part of the story he was well acquainted with, because it was written in the Old Testament, 1 Kings 14:25, that Shishak “came up against Jerusalem” and that he then “took away the treasures of the house of the Lord.”

  What he was interested in were the cryptic messages contained within the next three quatrains. Hidden somewhere in those archaic verses, Galen of Godmersham revealed where he hid the Ark, the sacred chest that enabled God to dwell among men. And from which God would lead his holy army against the infidels in the last days.

  Feeling his excitement rise, Stan glanced at the watch strapped to his left wrist.

  Four days, nine hours, and twenty-six minutes until the start of Eid al-Adha, the Muslim religious festival.

  Which meant he had four days, nine hours, and twenty-six minutes to find the Ark of the Covenant.

  CHAPTER 42

  “Ah, yes. A square. A spot-on observation,” Caedmon enthused, smiling. “A quatrain is, after all, a poem with four lines.”

  “And Galen composed four quatrains,” Edie added, the number four having been the giveaway.

  “Not to mention that the Ark of the Covenant was usually depicted in medieval art as a four-sided square.” Still smiling, Caedmon winked at her. “You must excel at sudoku. Now, to what end this metaphoric square?”

  Pleased that Caedmon wanted her input, she gave it her best shot. “I think Galen was trying to compose a chain of custody for the Ark of the Covenant. And he begins the chain of custody right here in the first quatrain with the pharaoh Shishak taking the Ark from Solomon’s Temple. From what Sir Kenneth told us earlier today, we know that the pharaoh left an appeasement offering, that is, the Ark, on the Plain of Esdraelon.”

  “Where it was happened upon some twenty-two centuries later by a roving band of Hospitaller knights led by Galen of Godmersham.” He pointed to the second quatrain. “It would appear that the knights fought one another to the death over the treasure, and Galen was the lone man left standing on the field after the melee.”

  Lips pursed, Edie stared at the last line of the quatrain in question. “What does this mean, ‘And with his show of valor, he kept the holy covenant’?”

  “It probably means that Galen of Godmersham became the self-appointed guardian of the Ark.”

  “So, we’re definitely on the right track, huh?”

  “I believe so.”

  In all honesty, Edie didn’t know how she felt about that. Although she was excited that they were working their way through the awkward medieval verses, she was at the same time uneasy about the whole thing. A little needling voice inside her head intoned the words, Leave it be. Over and over.

  “And it’s clear from the third quatrain that Galen took the Ark to England, specifically to the place of his birth, Godmersham,” Caedmon continued, oblivious to her unease. “Correlating precisely with the information listed in the Feet of Fines property records. Now, this I find rather interesting,” he said, pointing to the third quatrain. “‘With open eyes he now saw the black plague that he wrought.’”

  “It could be that Galen believed the Ark was responsible for the plague that hit England in 1348.”

  “He had ample reason to think so; the pustules that erupted on face and skin during the plague were uncannily similar to the lesions and boils that befell the Philistines. God’s punishment for the theft of the Ark.”

  Caedmon’s last remark made Edie wonder at the punishment for finding the Ark of the Covenant. Normally, she wasn’t one to believe in curses or hexes, but . . .

  . . . the evidence was damning. Literally. The Old Testament stories and Galen’s quatrains both came stamped with the word DANGER. In big, bold, threatening type. Skull and crossbones included.

  “Perhaps Galen hid the darned thing in the hopes that it would bring an end to the plague. Too bad he didn’t have the Stones of Fire to protect himself.”

  Too bad they didn’t have the Stones of Fire, Edie silently added, her unease now laced with fear. The type of fear that made one double-check all the door latches and sleep with a night-light.

  “The last line of the third quatrain was probably composed while Galen was in his death throes,” Caedmon blithely continued, unintentionally splashing gasoline onto the fire.

  Knowing that the only way to combat fear was to take decisive action, Edie grabbed a sheet of blank paper.

  “Okay, let’s take our square analogy”—pencil in hand, she carefully drew a square—“and fill in the Ark’s chain of custody as detailed by Galen in the quatrains.”

  “That’s excellent.” Clearly accustomed to being in a library, Caedmon managed to keep his enthusiasm to a hushed whisper.

  “You know, you were absolutely right. Galen did use his four quatrains as a poetic cryptogram, with the Ark’s current whereabouts encoded into the lines of the fourth quatrain.”

  She stared at the enigmatic fourth quatrain.

  A trusted goose. A man with a fully devout heart. And the veil between two worlds.

  “This would be a whole heck of a lot easier if Galen had simply drawn an ‘X Marks the Spot’ treasure map,” she muttered, wondering if they’d finally hit a roadblock.

  “Had he done that, the Ark would have been unearthed long centuries ago.”

  “While we’re on the topic of finding the Ark, this might be a good time to mention that I’m starting to worry about Colonel MacFarlane having the Stones of Fire in his possession. You said it yourself: Not only was the breastplate a protective shield, but it was also used as a divination tool, enabling the wearer to communicate with God. Not unlike a two-way radio. If MacFarlane finds the Ark of the Covenant, he’d not only have the best intelligence device known to mankind, i.e. the Stones of Fire, but he’d have a very powerful weapon of mass destruction. You can’t deny that it makes for a deadly duo.”

  For several long seconds, Caedmon held her gaze. “Then we’ll do all in our power to ensure that doesn’t happen.” Although the words were quietly spoken, he had about him an
air of fierce determination. For one brief, blurry second, she envisioned him decked out in chain mail, fighting to the death on the Plain of Esdraelon.

  Returning his attention to the “custody box,” Caedmon tapped his finger against the giant question mark on the fourth side of the square. “This is where we begin to tread murky water.”

  “Actually, this is where we need to call it quits,” she matter-of-factly announced, unable to keep the jet lag at bay one second longer.

  Sensing a run on her energy bank, her partner good-naturedly patted her on the back. “Come now. Time to brain-storm. Group dynamics and all that.”

  Needing to break up the party, she dolefully shook her head. “I need to refuel. How about we grab some pub grub? If I remember correctly, they’re serving seafood salad and lentil soup at the Isis Room.”

  “Er, right. An excellent suggestion.”

  Not for one second was Edie fooled; she could see the disappointment in Caedmon’s blue eyes. He might be able to pull an all-nighter, but there was no way she could tackle the fourth quatrain without some much-needed food. Followed by some much-needed sleep.

  While Caedmon returned the leather-bound volumes and cotton gloves to the stern-faced librarian, Edie stuffed the sharpened pencils and notepaper into her tote bag.

  A few minutes later, with Caedmon’s protective arm slung around her shoulders, they made their way along a crowded city sidewalk. Harried locals, heads ducked against a cold, wet wind, scurried alongside them. Casting a quick sideways glance down a deserted alleyway, Edie had a sudden, uneasy feeling, afraid that something malevolent, even deadly, lurked in the shadows.

  CHAPTER 43

  “. . . at which time Galen of Godmersham succumbed to the Black Death, the great plague of 1348.”

  Pointer in hand, Marshall Mendolson underlined the last line of the third quatrain, having had no choice but to begin deciphering the verses. Guns at the ready, these guys were a tough crowd, the older dude with the buzz cut the scariest of them all. He wanted the goods, no two ways about it.

  Marshall doubted the head dude even knew his name. Earlier he’d overheard one of his steroid-enhanced bodyguards refer to him as “the li’l Harvard prick.”

  “And the fourth quatrain, what of it?” his benefactor pressed, making no attempt to hide his impatience.

  Marshall struck a thoughtful pose, doing a fair imitation of one of his favorite Harvard professors. “Hmm . . . good question.” And one he had no intention of truthfully answering.

  Did the Neanderthals really think they could outwit, outsmart, outplay a Harvard graduate?

  It took only a quick, cursory reading of Galen’s poetic verses for him to figure out that the arca in the third quatrain was an oblique reference to the Ark of the Covenant. Not the medieval chest the head dude had hired him to find. These guys wanted him to hunt down the Ark of the Covenant so they could cash in on it, his cut being a paltry seventy thousand dollars. After he paid off his student loans, there wouldn’t be enough left for a Happy Meal at McDonald’s.

  Yeah, well, think again.

  Jesus. The freaking Ark of the Covenant.

  According to the Bible, the Ark could raze fortified cities, part seas, and kick some serious ass.

  And if you believed that, he had some mountain property in Florida to sell you.

  Although you didn’t have to be a Bible thumper to know that the Ark of the Covenant was a treasure of immeasurable worth. As in more money than he could ever count.

  Hello, Tahiti and a life of indolent leisure surrounded by bare-breasted island beauties.

  Given that his mother had once sued the Fairfax County school board over the phrase one nation under God in the Pledge of Allegiance—the groundswell of religious fervor nearly swallowing Adele Mendolson whole—his finding the Ark of the Covenant would be friggin’ ironic.

  This one’s for you, Mother.

  “The ‘goos’ reference in the fourth quatrain is pretty straightforward,” he answered after a long drawn-out pause, figuring some straight talk was in order, every good lie cloaked in the truth.

  “You’re talking about the goose that laid the golden egg, right?” This from the brawny bruiser named Boyd, the man straddling an expensive Sheraton chair like a lap dancer straddling a paying crotch.

  “Very good, Sir Rambo. You go to the head of the class.” A measured half beat later, he mockingly exclaimed, “Not!” At that moment he wanted nothing more than to smash the muscled behemoth’s face into the wood-planked floor. As had been done to him by countless bullies in years gone by.

  Knowing he could take the put-down only so far, he switched gears, once more the erudite Harvard grad. “In the medieval lexicon, the goose represented vigilance. And given the fact that Galen composed his quatrains just prior to his death, it specifically means vigilance in death.”

  Liking the sound of that, Marshall smiled, having just figured out how he could outmaneuver his benefactor.

  “Line two of the last quatrain is simply a ‘woe is me’ commentary on the plague,” he continued, barely able to suppress an excited grin. “That takes us to line three, which is an offhand reference to Saint—”

  “I want to know where Galen hid his chest,” the older dude hissed, his eyes narrowing as he stared him down.

  “Well, now, that is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” Or a thousand times that amount.

  It was all he could do not to break into song. Like the bearded Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. Except he really would be a rich man. No “if” about it.

  Stepping over to his laptop, Marshall clicked several keys, projecting the next slide—a page from a nearly seven-hundred-year-old document—onto the wall. “From the Feet of Fines record, I discovered that Galen donated a hefty number of golden objects to”—he snatched his handwritten notes from the table—“St. Lawrence the Martyr Church in Godmersham. That being the ‘holy blissful martir’ of the fourth quatrain. Like most medieval men, Galen no doubt believed that he could buy his way into heaven.” Or bribe his way into heaven, depending on your point of view. “Put it all together, my guess is that Galen, quite literally, took the arca to his grave.”

  The older dude cogitated on that for a few seconds. Then, obviously an anal sort who liked to verify the facts, he asked, “Are you saying that the gold chest is buried in Galen of Godmersham’s tomb at St. Lawrence the Martyr Church?”

  “Yup. That’s as good a hypothesis as any.” Seeing the flash of annoyance on his benefactor’s face, he hastily added, “It was the custom of the time to wrap a corpse in linen, that being the ‘veyl bitwixen worlds tweye’—aka the veil between two worlds.”

  Marshall inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Although crafted on the fly, the lie had the ring of truth about it. Actually, when the Ark had been housed in Solomon’s Temple, inside the Holy of Holies, a veil had been hung in front of it to keep it hidden, the “veyl” in Galen’s last quatrain referring to the Ark, not a medieval death shroud.

  Although the quatrains provided scant clues, he figured the Ark was really hidden inside the church under a statue of the martyred St. Lawrence. Or maybe behind a plaque or wall carving. Which is why he intended to steer the old dude and his three big bad bears away from the church building, focusing, instead, on the adjacent cemetery. Then, once his benefactor had given up the search, he would return on the sly to St. Lawrence the Martyr Church and lay claim to the prize.

  A drum roll please . . .

  “Galen of Godmersham’s tomb . . . you’re completely certain of this?”

  “Certain enough,” he retorted, not liking the way he was being raked over the coals.

  A man clearly accustomed to giving orders, the older dude brusquely gestured to the paper-laden table. “Pack it up. We leave in ten minutes.”

  CHAPTER 44

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m not a big fan of dark and dreary weather,” Edie grumbled. For the last few minutes she’d been standing guard at their ho
tel window, closely monitoring the courtyard below, relieved they weren’t in a ground-floor room.

  Relieved because her sixth sense told her that they were being watched.

  Although given that she had zilch psychic ability, she couldn’t rule out the possibility that her “intuition” was nothing more than an irrational fear.

  Busying himself with placing pencils and paper on the small circular table that was tucked into the oriel window on the other side of the room, Caedmon glanced over at her. “Small wonder we English are such a gloomy lot.”

  “The Mahler doesn’t help.” Turning her head away from the window, Edie pointedly glanced at the small radio on the bedside table. The incessant sound of rain striking cobblestones competed with the ponderous strains of the Sixth Symphony in A Minor.

  “Ah, but it doesn’t hurt.” Caedmon had earlier informed her that the drippy classical music helped him think. Something about musical notes and higher math.

  Preferring rhythm and blues—Macy Gray was her favorite singer—Edie let it slide. There were worse faults than having questionable taste in music.

  With a quick tug, she pulled the damask drapes across the window. That done, she glanced around the small hotel room. As had repeatedly happened since they checked in, her gaze landed on the king-sized bed decked out in a red-striped coverlet. Evidently a hotel room with two doubles was an unheard-of commodity in England; the front desk clerk had stared at her as though she were bonkers when she made the request.

  She averted her gaze.

  If she overlooked the bed—and it was darned difficult—the room had a warm, inviting feel to it. Ivory-colored walls were punctuated with dark wood beams and lots of pleated floral fabric. In a nod to the season, a ribbon-strewn garland hung above the entryway.

  Again, she glanced at the bed.

  “Yes, I know,” Caedmon said, seeing the direction of her gaze. “Rather imposing, isn’t it?”