by Matt Eaton
Hinsley appears affronted. “What on Earth could you mean?”
“He personally ordered his army to halt their advance. British intelligence intercepted the message. He chose to let most of the British Army escape, even though wiping them out would have assured immediate surrender.”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
“Why indeed? A gesture of goodwill? I guess he assumed Britain’s position was still hopeless, that surrender would come as surely as it had in Belgium, Holland and France.”
“You don’t mean to suggest the man lost his nerve?”
Donovan shakes his head. “He respects the British Empire. And Germany alone could never hope to rule the entire world. I doubt Hitler allows himself to openly contemplate the limits of German expansionism. But the seed of doubt is surely eating away at the back of his mind. I think it’s what slowed his advance. That said, his army, as of now, is vastly superior in both ability and weaponry. Certainly the British commanders know this to be the case.”
“A most perplexing revelation,” the Cardinal concludes.
“But there is another factor. It’s widely believed that in recent weeks Hitler has turned his eyes to the east. He seeks to invade Russia, to cut off all hope of Stalin forming an alliance with Churchill. It’s a mistake. One we very much hope he will make.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong,” Donovan insists. “Hitler isn’t the tactical genius so many people believe. He seeks to conquer with overwhelming force. He’s been trying to bomb London to rubble, to destroy the English spirit. But London endures. And now, instead of marching into the city unopposed as happened in Paris, the German army must expect to face a bitter and determined people already conditioned to hardship and loss. He’s made the job much tougher for his own soldiers. Furthermore, he now faces a British Prime Minister implacably opposed to the German advance. Neville Chamberlain never had the stomach for war. Churchill almost seems to welcome it.”
“And in that I will back Mr Churchill with my dying breath,” says Hinsley.
“There’s one more critical point – and I must trust you to keep this to yourself.”
“Think of this as the confessional, my boy.”
Donovan stifles a smile. He’s 57 years old. As a battalion commander in the Great War, more than 20 years earlier, he won the Medal of Honor. He is personal intelligence advisor to the United States President. No-one had called him a ‘boy’ in a long time. “One of the reasons President Roosevelt is so keen to support Britain is that you’re winning the air war. Ironically, it’s due to the Blitz. Since the Luftwaffe stopped aiming at British fighter bases and started bombing London, allied planes have been shooting down their German counterparts at a rate of two to one. For this reason alone, England will not be invaded.”
The Cardinal nods slowly, suggesting Donovan has just risen in his estimation. “Thank you for that.” He stares into space for a moment, apparently trying to make up his mind about something. “Forgive me. I have neither time nor inclination to deal with fools. And what I am about to tell you is a matter of the utmost import. It now befalls me to insist that what I reveal to you remains our secret, until you can speak to Mr Roosevelt face-to-face.”
Here it comes. “You have my word, Cardinal.”
“Are you a man of faith, Colonel Donovan?”
“Irish Catholic.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
Hinsley stands and leads Donovan out of the library to a small wire-doored lift. There is just enough room for the two of them inside the lift. Hinsley closes the door sharply, pushes a button and the lift begins its descent with a lurch so sudden that it might have brought Donovan to his knees if there had been room to fall over.
Though Donovan towers over the old man in the confined space, the Cardinal throws out his palm to prop him up and shows himself to be surprisingly strong.
“Has it ever occurred to you, Colonel, that our notions of the Creator might be way off the mark?”
An unexpected question from a man who might one day be Pope.
“No, I can’t say it has.”
***
The lift comes to a halt. Hinsley opens the door onto a dimly lit ante room with two doors facing one another on opposite walls. He steps toward the door on the left, pulling a large key from his pocket. He opens the door to reveal nothing but darkness.
“It’s fair to say what you’re about to see in this room has brought me to a crisis of faith.”
Hinsley steps into the darkness. Donovan, not a man easily scared, at this moment finds himself experiencing a certain reluctance to follow. Hinsley flicks a switch and a small lamp at the back of the room transforms the pitch black into a feeble twilight revealing a small, marble-lined chapel. Atop the small altar table, a blanket covers what appears to be a coffin. Hinsley steps forward and gently removes the blanket. Underneath it is an ornate Egyptian sarcophagus. On its lid, a giant winged helmet gleams in fine gold leaf. Down its sides, lines of hieroglyphics seem to offer a detailed account of the occupant. It is remarkably well preserved for something Donovan assumes to be thousands of years old.
Something else strikes him. “It’s huge.” Though he is no scholar of antiquities, he is quite certain Egyptian coffins are not usually this big.
Hinsley says, “That’s because it was built for someone who is more than 11 feet tall.”
“What? How could that be possible?”
Hinsley smiles, appreciating his guest’s incredulity. “He’s a Goliath, of sorts. You might be aware the tallest man in recent recorded history was Robert Wadlow – an American like yourself. He was 8 feet and 11 inches tall.”
“He died just a few months back,” says Donovan.
“Yes, that’s right. He died a young man — his body was dysfunctional. Human beings aren’t supposed to grow that large.” Hinsley places his hand on the sarcophagus. “But the fellow who was in here towers over Robert Wadlow.”
Why is he speaking in the present tense?
“What’s more,” says Hinsley, “I arranged for X-ray photographs of his body. And from what we can tell, he is in almost perfect physical condition.”
“You’re saying you removed the body from inside?”
“The sarcophagus is empty, that’s right. Its occupant removed himself some years back.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The person inside this... coffin, for want of a better name, emerged alive and healthy from his entombment.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, neither do we. But it seems that via some strange science this box is capable of preserving life. For a very long time. Hundreds of years. Thousands.”
Some strange science?
“Cardinal— what am I doing here?”
“By our best estimates this sarcophagus is at least three thousand years old. As old as the man who stepped out of it. Living and breathing.”
“And you expect me to take this on faith?”
“I’ll take you to meet the man himself. Not today, mind. We got him out of London. It’s too dangerous. We have him well hidden.”
Of course. The crucial evidence, one step removed. Most convenient. “How do you hide an 11-foot man?”
“England has many places to hide. The aristocracy have made it an art form.”
Donovan stares into the old man’s eyes but sees conviction when he might have expected madness.
“If I call your assistant down here, will he back you up?” Donovan asks. “Or will he tell me his boss has lost his marbles?”
Hinsley laughs. “If I’m mad, you’ll know it soon enough, Colonel.”
Donovan says nothing, allowing the silence to weigh heavily in the hope that Hinsley’s insanity might finally betray him. But the old man holds his gaze and eventually it is the American who looks away.
“Believe me, Colonel, I have questioned my own sanity many times, these past weeks. I have sought answer in prayer and I have sought the cou
nsel of men whose judgment I value as highly as my own. But I am telling you the God’s honest truth.”
“Why is this the concern of the US Government?”
“This box,” says Hinsley, his hand running reverently along the painted sarcophagus, “has the power to preserve life. More than that, it can heal. It will imbue upon anyone who lies inside it great mental and physical strength. Can’t you see why such a thing might be best kept out of Nazi hands?”
Donovan is forced to admit Hinsley’s conviction is compelling. And ultimately easy to test.
“Let’s say for argument’s sake I take you at your word. How did it come to be in your possession?”
“I am a close personal friend of Sir William Flinders Petrie, the Egyptologist. He found it in the Sinai in 1904. Until recently, he kept it in his private collection. But he had no idea about its power or the state of its occupant until a year ago, when the lid of the box spontaneously opened of its own accord.”
Donovan’s eyes widen. “Who else knows about this?”
“Nobody. No museum has set eyes upon it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s his dirty little secret. He found it while searching a mountain on the Plain of Paran known as Serabit el Khadim. On top of this mountain he found the ruin of an old temple dating back to 2600BC. Have you heard of Mount Serabit?
“The name’s familiar.”
“It is believed by some to be Mount Sinai, the place where Moses spoke to God after leading the Israelites out of Egypt.”
“Where Moses was given the Ten Commandments.”
Hinsley nods. “As you might imagine, Petrie’s discovery of an Egyptian tomb on this location would have been viewed with some displeasure in 1904. Such a find contradicts the biblical portrayal of the Exodus. Which would have contravened the regulations of the Egypt Exploration Fund — founded for the purpose of further illustrating the writings of the Old Testament. Reliant as he was upon the fund to continue his work, Petrie kept the discovery of the sarcophagus to himself.”
“And none of his workers leaked the story in all that time?”
“Most did as they were told and kept quiet. A few tried to speak out, but Petrie dismissed all such suggestions as native superstition. People believed him because they wanted to believe him.”
“Then why bring it to the attention of the church after so many years?”
“He had witnessed a miracle and could no longer keep it to himself. He came to me because we are friends and because he had a giant in his house and didn’t know what to do about it. When I told him I’d take care of everything, he was more than happy to see the back of both the sarcophagus and its living occupant.”
“And you’ve been keeping it a secret from the world since then?”
“The world is not ready for this revelation.”
“Is that Rome’s official position?”
Hinsley stares at Donovan for the longest time before finally letting loose a long sigh. “The Vatican knows nothing about this.”
“Why not? Why put yourself in that position?”
“Because I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t! Fear is a terrible thing, especially in times of war. There are those who would choose to see the existence of such a being as a devil, a demon. Men of the cloth have been excommunicated for far less.”
“I don’t think I understand...”
“This creature isn’t human,” says Hinsley. “I’m not sure how one is supposed to explain that to the Pope in any sort of believable or acceptable manner. More to the point, there is the question of security. I know for a fact the man in charge of Vatican financial affairs, Bernardino Nogaro, is in league with the Nazis. He is untroubled by scruple in his money-making endeavours, and the Pope distances himself from the man’s operations while allowing him to operate unimpeded.”
“Nogaro. I know the name,” says Donovan.
Hinsley says, “He heads up the Special Administration of the Holy See. The only man in the Vatican with unfettered access to the Pontiff. Nogaro has made millions for the Church. And I know for a fact he’s invested church money heavily in the Italian and German military machines.”
“Then what do you require from us, Cardinal?”
“It’s not safe to keep the sarcophagus here any longer. But at the same time, I’m afraid now that if I try to move it the news will get out. Someone inside these walls will leak news of its existence. If Nogaro learns of it, he will pass the information on to the Fascists. It could be enough to trigger Hitler’s invasion.”
“You want me to take your problem back to America with me?”
“Nowhere in England is safe. The sarcophagus cannot fall into German hands. But it needs to be removed in secret. If Mr Churchill learns of its existence he will never permit the loss of such an object from England’s shores. I know this is no small thing to ask Colonel Donovan, but can you do it?”
“It won’t be easy,” he replies. “And what of the creature who was hidden within? Shouldn’t we move him too?”
“I have entrusted him to the care of Father Paulson. He will do what needs to be done if I don’t survive the war.”
“He won’t put up much of a defence against mortars and machine guns.”
“God is our protector, Colonel.”
“Tell that to the Bishop of Coventry.”
Hinsley smiles. “Ah, but you see he’s Church of England.”
Donovan almost feels like he is observing two other people conducting this strange conversation. He sighs and scratches his head, more than a little perplexed.
“Listen, if your giant truly exists, he cannot remain here. The President would never permit me to do that. Does he talk? Can you communicate with him?”
“Most assuredly. Although he is not always easy to understand.”
“Can you make him understand we mean him no harm?”
“I believe that may be possible.”
“Then I will not leave England without him.”
Hinsley closes his eyes and tilts his head back as if in prayer. Finally, he says, “Father Paulson will need to accompany you.”
Donovan sighs. “I knew you were going to say that.”
