The Fire Seekers

by Richard Farr

  Then the frame shifts a little and I can see Mom. Too far away for the best resolution, but what happens next is clear enough. Looking up, pointing at something, shouting down to Rosko. Then the crazy, sudden, rushing climb.

  She stops, uses a small vertical crack as a grip for her left hand, and starts tearing at the rock with her right, managing to dislodge a chunk the size of a football. It should simply fall: it must weigh twenty, thirty pounds. Yet she wields it easily, pushes it over her head, and you can see that she’s straining upward, as if trying to pass it on to an invisible partner above her. She stays like that, her body and arm at full extension, for twenty seconds. The only movement is a sort of twitching in her upraised arm, like someone trying to push a heavy pot onto a high shelf.

  Part of me already knows what I’m seeing; part of me won’t accept it, or accept the implications. I try to shut the thought down, because at the same time I’m determined not to miss any detail.

  I can see the explosion—but explosion is the wrong word. It’s a visible pressure wave, like heat shimmer on a Texas highway, emanating directly from her body. Perfectly spherical—an expanding bubble. Then the lens vibrates, goes still again. By the time it stops moving, the wave has vanished and the rockfall has begun.

  It’s clear, from this new angle: the knuckle of rock, which has reached out to her in my mind’s eye ten thousand times, comes within three feet of her, rotates to within a foot perhaps at the last moment, and never hits her.

  She doesn’t go limp all at once. For a couple of seconds after she drops the rock in her hand, it’s as if the right side of her body is still functioning; she still has a toehold with her right foot, is still gripping with her right hand, and her body swings outward, away from the rock face. Then her head pivots down, and for just a moment she’s looking in my direction, her face fully visible.

  Back then, in Patagonia, the look on her face would have puzzled me.

  Not now.

  I feel as if I’m about to be physically sick. Nobody says a word, but Morag’s hand tightens on my shoulder. The silence in the room seems to crackle. Just as I contemplate sprinting for the bathroom, Rosko puts his hand on my arm and says:

  “There’s something else.”

  He brings up another gallery of thumbnails, clicks on one. There she is in the yellow climbing suit, just after the sudden rushing climb, moments before the fall. Both feet and one hand firmly planted, pointing to a place above and farther to her right. The next image is a tight, fuzzy close-up of her arm and hand. And the next—

  Kit gasps. “What this?”

  Beyond Mom, standing not on the summit of the South Tower but in midair, is the outline of a figure. It looks like a child’s scribble of a bat, done with a stick of charcoal. In the next image, it’s silvery, more refined and definite—fuzzy still, but with a human head and arms—and seems to have come closer. In the next, it’s different again, more abstract again: a tube made from fire. In the last shot, the light from it almost burns out the rest of the image: just a white flash, and the sky behind has turned the color of charred flesh.

  “Go back to the second one.”

  It’s not obvious. Not until you look closely. But the smoky, silvery outline, floating above her—

  “Engel,” Rosko mutters to himself. “Das sieht aus wie ein Engel.”

  “Angel?”

  “Engel.” He repeats it dreamily, as if he hasn’t heard me. “Yes, I remember now. Engel. I saw it, Daniel, you were right. And even before Iona fell I thought, just for a moment I thought, ‘Now I will die, and it’s OK.’ ”

  He shudders, then snaps out of it and zooms in closer to the corner of the image, adjusts the contrast. When we see what it reveals, I feel as if every one of us is thinking the same thing. But either no one can speak, or they know that it has to be me who speaks:

  “Not an angel, Rosko. Look at the face. It’s her.”

  There she is, etched in the smoke: Iona Maclean. And yet it’s not her, not exactly. It’s more a sort of unearthly, perfected, more-than-human or not-quite-human idealization of her.

  I spend the next several minutes hunched over the Eislers’ downstairs toilet, throwing up everything I’ve eaten in about a month. Morag crouches beside me, a hand on my back. When I’m done, she hands me a glass of water, lets me gulp, then gives me her deepest, most concentrated stare.

  “I’m sorry. OK? I’m with you now. I’m with you totally. What are we going to do?”

  “Contact Dad.”

  She nods and hands me my phone, which I must have dropped. I walk back into the dining room, punch the speed dial, then put it on speakerphone. There’s a pause, a click, but no ring at all, just an immediate transfer to the familiar friendly greeting: “You have failed to reach William Calder. If this is important, please leave a message. If it’s not, please don’t.”

  “It’s important, Dad,” I say to the phone even before the beep. Hang up, call again, same result. And a third time. It’s only then that I notice the “Missed Call” icon.

  “Wait. Check it out—two missed calls from a number in Rome. He’s been trying to reach me after all.” I look up brightly, seeing in my friends’ faces a reflection of the relief I feel.

  When I return the call, it’s answered right away. But the voice is not Dad’s—or not unless Dad has turned into a mad English aristocrat.

  “Hello? Hello? Daniel?”

  “Yes, but—Professor Partridge?”

  “Yes, who else would it be? Anyway, thank you for ringing back. Just thought I should get in touch to see if everything is all right.”

  “Everything’s fine. But—”

  “Good, good. Worrying unnecessarily then. Afraid I’ve been a bag of nerves recently. I’m being followed, you see. Ever since I found the Geographika and contacted your father about it.”

  Given what he’s saying, there’s something weirdly cheerful, almost bubbly, in his delivery. I’m still wondering why he’s been trying to contact me, what he’s talking about, and why he’s talking so oddly, but stupidly I just lead him on:

  “Followed?”

  “Undoubtedly. The irony, I ask you. For centuries they’ve been trying to destroy knowledge, and now I’ve got hold of the one book they need.”

  I think of the SUV outside the house. I think of the attack on the way to Rosko’s. “I don’t understand you, Professor. Who is ‘they’?”

  “The Seraphim, of course! The Seraphim were the highest order of angels, you know. It comes from saráf, which is Hebrew for ‘burn.’ The word’s been used for centuries by people whose idea was that we needed to burn away our corrupt knowledge. Including our corrupt languages. They associated fire with God, as so many cultures have done, and they thought that burning away corrupt knowledge was a way of getting back to God. What my next book’s all about. They sometimes called themselves Fire Seekers.”

  There’s a slight, almost inaudible hiccup on the last word. A diet of red wine and cheese: I’m talking to a man who’s pickled.

  “Professor—”

  “It occurred to me twenty years ago, when I was talking to my cat one morning. ‘Eratosthenes,’ I said—that was the name of the cat—‘what if Atlantis and Babel are actually the same story?’ When I shared the idea with actual people, they just dismissed me as a senile old coot. But then I made the mistake of including it in a course and admitting to my students that I didn’t think it was really a myth. Disturbing young people into actually thinking for themselves—must be prevented at all costs! That’s why the Athenians executed Socrates, d’you know? But now I have the evidence. Now I’ve tracked down the Geographika at last, and Cicero’s letter about it, and it’s all there, safe in my bank deposit box. I’ve got the key hidden—”

  “Professor, please—”

  “Mark my words, Daniel. Nearly all crazy theories are false. That’s the easy part. The hard part is that there are no interesting theories except the crazy ones that turn out to be true.”

  “
Professor Partridge, please listen. I need you to focus. Can you pass the phone to my dad?”

  “Daniel, don’t be silly. He’s not here. That’s the whole point.”

  I resist the temptation to smash the phone into the tabletop. “He’s supposed to be with you by now. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, yes. But you see, he never showed up. That’s why I rang.”

  An icy wave of fear washes over me; like a drowning man, I grab for the nearest explanation even though it looks useless: “He is pretty hopeless about communicating. His flight went through London—maybe the connection was delayed? Have you tried calling him on his cell?”

  “About fifteen times, I should think. I promised to pick him up at the airport as soon as he gave me the flight number. Nothing. Funny that Americans call it a cell. A small locked room from which you can’t escape! We Brits call it a mobile—a colorful toy you suspend over a drooling infant’s crib. But I digress again, forgive me. Bottle and a half of a really excellent old Barolo, must try to cut back a little.”

  I try not to think about Partridge doing airport pickup on six times the legal blood alcohol. “What do you think’s going on, then?”

  “With the Mysteries, and the Seraphim?”

  “No. With Dad.”

  “Don’t have a clue, my boy. But he is internationally famous after all. Or notorious anyway. Perhaps this Quinn chappie had him kidnapped when he worked out the significance of Strongyle and the third home.”

  Stron-GUY-li. That’s what it sounds like. Rings a bell, but I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m about to ask when he hiccups again, or belches—the connection’s too bad to tell—then there’s a loud bang as he drops the phone. After more banging I hear him talking to himself—a muffled “Blast,” then “Bloody hell,” then “Clumsy old fool you are, Derek, really must get a grip, old boy”—then he’s back on the line. “Daniel, I’ve got to go. Some other things on my desk here that I need to put into safekeeping.”

  I think he’s about to say more when the call ends. I try to get him back on the line, but there’s no connection.

  Everyone’s looking at me, or everyone except Kit, who’s still dabbing minutely at Morag’s face with the corner of a washcloth, like she’s restoring a painting. The funny thing is, they’re focused on me, expecting me to make a decision. And that seems natural. Something has changed: I’m in control.

  “We need to get over there. Now. My dad’s missing.”

  “Get over where?” Rosko asks.

  “To Rome.”

  “Are you crazy? You mean me too? Fly to Rome, just like that? What am I going to say to my parents? They’ll kill me.”

  Morag gently pushes Kit’s hand aside. “It’ll be OK. Leave them a note that you’re with us. We’ll call them when we get there and they’ll have plenty of time to kill you when we get back.”

  Rosko’s struggling with this when Kit has a flash of inspiration. “Wait,” she says. “Maybe your father changed his mind and went straight to Crete. Morag said he maybe is visiting his diving assistant there?”

  It’s possible. Don’t know why I’ve not thought to contact Pandora already. Crete seems so distant. When I text her, it amazes me that the phone rings almost immediately; when I pick up, I’m transported as if by magic to the exact spot where the background noise tells me she’s standing—at the old pay phone behind the bar in her parents’ restaurant in Rethymnon.

  Glasses are clattering in the big steel sink. There’s a loud rumble of dinner conversation. Loudest of all, the big bassoon voice of her cheerfully foul-mouthed father.

  “Hello, Daniel, good to hear from you. Everything OK? No, that’s right, he was supposed to be seeing Partridge and then coming from Rome tomorrow. But he sent me a text saying he’ll be longer than that.”

  “He what?”

  “Said that he was planning to stay in Rome a few days longer.”

  “I’m sorry, Pandora. One more time, slowly.”

  “Something to do with the Geographika. He will be here maybe Thursday.”

  “No. Repeat what you said before that. I thought you said he was already in Rome. And sent you a text.”

  “Yes. A few hours ago. It said something like, ‘Change of plan. Staying with Partridge a couple of extra days. Crete probably Thursday, will let you know when I have a new flight.’ ”

  When I put the phone down, Morag is the first to speak. “Sounds like he’s already in Rome and just hasn’t contacted Partridge yet. It’s odd, but not all that odd. You know what he’s like.”

  I shake my head. “He wanted to see Partridge ASAP. He hates last-minute changes of plan. If he had made changes, he would have told Partridge. And he would have left Pandora a message.”

  “Pandora just told you he did leave her a message.”

  I shake my head. “A voice message.”

  “So, big deal. He sent her a text instead.”

  “No he didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he hates the whole concept. He never texts.”

  Life’s a lot easier if you’re not scared out of your wits. Failing that, life’s a lot easier if, despite being scared out of your wits, you have a trust fund and a titanium American Express card.

  The card is black. It’s called the Centurion Card, officially, but everyone who has one, or wants to have one, calls it the titanium card, because the card itself is made of titanium.

  How sick is that?

  You get a titanium card by proving ahead of time that you can cover any monthly bill it’s possible for the human mind to imagine. Armed with one, you have all manner of help on the other end of your speed dial, right now.

  I’m in Manhattan. I need to buy a Picasso.

  Certainly, Mr. Calder. No problem at all.

  I’m in Novosibirsk. I need to consult a reputable expert on the history of Japanese motorcycles.

  Certainly, Mr. Calder. No problem at all.

  I’m on top of a sand dune in the Mojave Desert. I need fresh sushi for ten, an electron microscope, a symphony orchestra, and a personal interview with the prime minister of Iceland.

  Certainly, Mr. Calder. No problem at all.

  Punch one button, and well-oiled machinery for satisfying your every whim is instantly in motion. The power of serious money!

  So: “I need three first-class tickets on the next flight from Seattle to Rome.”

  They sound almost disappointed, as if it’s too easy. “Certainly, Mr. Calder. No problem at all. One moment please. Ah yes, your quickest way is on a Lufthansa flight with a change in Frankfurt. But I’m afraid that flight leaves Seattle in only ninety minutes—”

  “Ninety minutes is fine.”

  “Will you need a limousine to pick you up?”

  Aaron shakes his head at me, waving the key of his rust-bucket nineties-era VW Rabbit.

  “Thanks, that won’t be necessary. Just the tickets.”

  There’s a faint wisp of static on the line. It’s the sound of thirty thousand dollars evaporating.

  PART III:

  HOME OF THE GODS

  CHAPTER 16

  ETERNAL CITY

  Distant views of Rome. Then the airport at Fiumicino. Then the stippled metal sea beyond. Again and again. For an hour we do slow circuits, and everyone’s in a state of nervous tension from the moment the pilot casually explains the delay as technical problems—pilot-speak for “Catastrophic landing gear malfunction: prepare to die.” Actually, there’s nothing wrong with our bucket of Boeing bolts; we even survive a scary, spine-shortening landing, performed sideways into a strong crosswind. When we do get to the terminal, there’s a sense of relief, at least until we experience the chaos inside. Crowds, shoulder to shoulder. Long lines everywhere. No official explanation. Apparently the “technical problems” have something to do with everyone shouting bomba, stazione termini, terroristi.

  Rosko and Morag have no trouble finding out more—disaster makes people talk—but it’s most
ly rumor. Rosko yells a translation to me over the background noise: “Big bomb in an apartment building, they’re saying. Twenty people dead, near the train station.”

  A television is showing pictures of a collapsed building, but you can’t see much because the camera is behind a line of tape a couple of blocks from the scene. In the distance: flashing lights, guys trying to look important in fluorescent vests, a white shape on a stretcher.

  “Via Cavour,” Morag says, coming back from a knot of people around a policeman. “Isn’t that Partridge’s neighborhood?”

  We muscle our way outside so that I can call him, but it’s still tough to hear over the traffic noise.

  “Your arrival is poorly timed, Daniel. Yes. What? What? No, it’s not a bomb, don’t be silly. It’s all part of—”

  The call gets dropped. I try him again.

  “Professor, they closed the train down, so we’re stuck at the airport. They’re saying it’s a terrorist attack.”

  “My dear boy, what else are they going to say? That evil flesh-eating demons have been unleashed from the pit of Hades? I don’t think so. Terrorism is the only remotely plausible explanation, you see. And that frightens people less than admitting that there is no explanation.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow. You’re saying it wasn’t terrorists?”

  “Complete nonsense. I heard the explosion from my office, and walked by only minutes after it happened. Doddery old fool like me, leaning on my cane and pretending to be deaf, people tell me everything. Even the police. Even a couple of teenagers who saw it happen. But who believes teenagers, eh?”