Old Earth

by Gary Grossman

  Kritz disagreed. “Debatable, but, I’d say we should go beyond the usual suspects.”

  “So who?” Quinn wondered.

  “Well, the trouble with secret societies, really secret ones, is that they are secret. I did a master’s thesis on them and after I ran through a litany of organizations, my faculty advisor came back with the stupidest comment in the history of the world.”

  “I’ll bite,” Quinn said. “What?”

  “ ‘Admirable research, but I haven’t heard of half of these.’ What an ass!” she added. “But instead of calling him out I politely stated, ‘That’s why they’re secret societies.’ ”

  Quinn laughed. He knew the type all too well.

  “Where do we go from here?” Katrina asked, returning to the subject at hand.

  “Don’t know. In the meantime, what’s your next step?”

  “Well, we’ve got a couple more people to track down. One is a French explorer named Bovard,” McCauley explained.

  “I’ve heard of him. He did some research with National Geographic. The other?”

  “A Vatican scientist.”

  “Oh?”

  “Why oh?”

  “It ups the stakes. Who recommended you look there?”

  “The guy we met in California. The one whose house was blown up.”

  Kritz nodded. “And he pointed you to Rome?”

  “Yes. Is that meaningful?”

  “Not sure. But there’s something about Rome and the Church that takes me back to that sketch again. Damn.”

  “So what’s in the books?” McCauley asked.

  “A lot of crap and maybe some gold, but let’s read.” Kritz slid a book to each of them.

  “Since you just mentioned the Church, let’s start with this one.” She opened the brown leather cover and leafed through to the title page and copyright. “The author was an American minister, Peter Rosen. It’s pretty rare. Here. Enjoy The Catholic Church and Secret Societies.”

  “But you said… ,” Katrina started to say.

  “Not the usual suspects,” Kritz interrupted. “It’s for background.”

  “Okay, let’s have at it,” McCauley stated.

  “The reverend opens quoting a note written by Pope Leo XIII to a cardinal. ‘Christ is the Teacher and The Example of all sanctity and to His standard must all those conform who wish for eternal life.’ Standard stuff. However, the book takes an interesting look at how secret societies began to flourish in the US on university campuses, through men’s groups, and some religious organizations that could find something to hang their hats on and get their membership cards stamped.

  “But Reverend Rosen also gives us the common denominators we may be looking for. Here.” Kritz began to read from Chapter 1.

  By a secret society was formerly meant a society which was known to exist, but whose members and places of meetings were not publicly known. Today we understand it to be a society with secrets, having a ritual demanding an oath of allegiance and secrecy, prescribing ceremonies of a religious character, such as the use of the Bible, either by extracts therefrom, or by its being placed on an altar within the lodge room.

  Kritz stopped to make an observation. “The key takeaway from the passage is that a secret society is a society with secrets; keeping something secret that they hold dear and making certain anyone else who learns about it will not use the secret. Follow?”

  Quinn and Katrina nodded.

  “Further in the chapter, ‘Most of all ranks in public and private life belong to secret societies. The character of many of these people is such that it is sufficient proof in itself that the final aims and object of these societies are not understood by them.’”

  “What does that mean?” Katrina asked. “Is the church…?”

  “Not the church. The society. It means they’re vulnerable. Secret societies may exist under the radar, but they have a public face somewhere and since they’re run by people, they’ll ultimately make human mistakes. Or at least, you’d hope so.”

  Fifty-five

  June 21, 1633

  Rome

  Galileo fully recognized it was not just the Church he faced. Father Maculano was charged with a goal greater than defending the faith. He was protecting the institution.

  “You believe that science justifies your vaulted intellectual pursuits; that your ideas are as limitless as the skies. They are not. We live with laws of the state and our firmly held Canon Laws. When it comes to standing up to you, Galileo Galilei, they are one and the same. You are a threat; a threat that cannot be permitted an audience or a place in history.”

  “I’m merely a thinker with no political power.”

  The priest grasped the point. “A thinker? Thinking is the root of political power—proposed by Plato, re-defined by Aristotle, and re-interpreted by heretics and outcasts ever since. Thinking leads to the organization of apostates who espouse the secular rather than the holy. We can’t afford thinkers, Galileo. We cultivate followers and believers. And so, by your own admission you are a thinker?”

  “I am.”

  “Then your guilt is solidified.”

  “It isn’t the Holy Inquisition that judges me or seeks to purge the name of Galileo Galilei from history. You represent something else.”

  “The Inquisition suffices for our purposes. And our decision will serve all purposes.”

  Galileo sat again and rested his head in his hand.

  “Perhaps your head hurts from all your thinking. It should. Your thoughts do the work for me.”

  “Thoughts, observations, intellectual pursuits. I have no arrows in a quiver; no knives in a sheath.”

  “Words that undermine faith are equally dangerous weapons. You are well-armed with those,” Maculano resumed. “So is research that threatens how things ought to be.”

  Galileo considered his next words carefully. He spoke slowly and with conviction.

  “I did not understand what I had come across. My interest was in my experiments. Though I somewhat described it to my two friends, I did so as a fantastic story. Bedtime tales and fodder to pass the time away.”

  “But what you discovered was real. As real for me as it was for you. It set the course for your greatest work. It pointed you to the stars and the heavens. But did you see God through your lens or his great deeds? No, only something that would challenge him.”

  Galileo, weakened by argument, years and pain, lowered his head.

  “Alas, dear Galileo, the cave is sealed and so is your fate. You see, I am a man who understands what needs to be done. And others are in accord. What was there represents chaos. I will not permit chaos to undermine order.”

  Fifty-six

  Voyages office

  The one thing Gruber never hinted at was a hierarchy above even him. Now, with people flexing their muscles at seemingly every level, including the secretarial, Kavanaugh questioned the structure he inherited.

  Gruber, you left this place totally dysfunctional with outdated tools. All your boring lectures and you couldn’t tell me if anything is on automatic or not. Who else is out there? That’s got to change. Colin Kavanaugh was determined to lead the organization into the future.

  With that thought, he dove into the latest reports from the field. Something new intrigued him: the phone history of the Yale paleontologist’s graduate teaching assistant. There were calls to him from phone numbers that hadn’t shown up before. That’s another thing, he said to himself, we have to do better trolling for metadata.

  He decided to dial a number on the hacked call log to see who would answer. He had a strong suspicion already.

  • • •

  Kritz’s apartment

  The same time

  “Mistakes?” McCauley asked.

  Kritz was about to respond, but she was interrupted by McCauley’s phone ringing.

  Quinn was surprised. Katrina had the same reaction. A call on that phone, particularly at this late hour?

  The phone continued to ring.r />
  “Who?”

  “Probably Pete,” he said. But the screen read “No caller ID. He shook his head. “No, not Pete.”

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Katrina asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Could be a wrong number?” Renee offered. “Then again…”

  The ringing stopped. He was happy he hadn’t recorded a message.

  “Tell us more about secret societies,” he said.

  • • •

  Voyages office

  Minutes later

  Colin Kavanaugh really didn’t expect anyone to answer, especially if his theory was right. He had another idea. He dialed DeMeo, who had been tracked to Italy.

  On the third ring he heard a tired, “Hello.”

  Kavanaugh hadn’t really considered what to say. He would have had the same problem if someone had answered before. So he fell back onto a natural default. He hung up, but not before he made a decision that would define his leadership over Gruber’s.

  Fifty-seven

  London

  The next day

  “‘Morning. Pour yourself some coffee,” Kritz said to Quinn, who was the first to join her for breakfast. “I racked my brain last night over that damned sketch. I’m not certain, but I seem to think I saw it on a library shelf in a Russian studies section. At least that’s my vague recollection. Anyway, it’s a place to start.”

  “Where?”

  “Oxford. Years ago.“

  McCauley knew from his own work that in an instant, a memory could take him back to a dig he hadn’t visited in years. Calling it to mind, he’d see where specific rocks laid and the color of the dirt. Rich details. Maybe Renee was beginning to have that same kind of recollection.

  Katrina joined the conversation. While Kritz caught her up, McCauley called Pete DeMeo.

  “Where are you, buddy?” McCauley asked when his teaching assistant answered.

  “Getting in touch with my Catholic roots. Exploring Rome. Are you still driving around in my car?”

  “Well, not exactly. It’s parked.”

  “Where?”

  “Montreal Airport.”

  “You’re in Canada?” DeMeo asked.

  McCauley took a deep breath. “Ah, no. London, in fact. Things have changed even since the last time I called.”

  “I guess.”

  “And where are you?”

  “In Firenze. It’s a beautiful day. I’m having a cappuccino outside watching life stroll by. Gorgeous life.” He smiled at a young brunette carrying bags from a shoe store in one hand and clothes in another. “Deciding who my future wife will be.”

  “Up for any research?”

  “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “For me,” McCauley said.

  “Not really.” He caught another woman’s eye.

  “But could you be?”

  “Well, maybe if it doesn’t interfere. What’s up?”

  McCauley told him about the Vatican scientist. “Dr. Alpert and I can make it to Rome, but it would be helpful if you could do some leg work.”

  DeMeo laughed to himself. He thought he was doing just that now.

  “Can you check out the project where he works?”

  He gave DeMeo the only information he had on Father Eccleston. DeMeo had the same initial reaction McCauley and Alpert had had.

  “A priest?”

  “Yup. Works with a thing named STOQ.”

  “What should I say if I find him?”

  “Not much. Just that an acquaintance of his recommended we meet about a discovery we’ve made.”

  “Urgent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  McCauley finally told his teaching assistant what had happened.

  “Christ!” DeMeo was no longer focused on the eye candy walking by. “You’re in way over your head. Don’t you think you should get some real help?”

  “We’re hoping Eccleston will be that.”

  “I mean people with badges who carry guns. That kind of help.”

  “Not sure whom to trust right now, Pete. Please?”

  “Okay, I reach this priest. Then what? You wave his cross in front of the next bad guys to come your way? For God’s sake, boss, go back home and lock all your doors.”

  Pete DeMeo got Quinn McCauley to do something the paleontologist should have done earlier. Think about what he’d gotten himself into.

  “I wish I could, but I can’t. I’m excited about things again. The way I haven’t felt in years. I don’t know where it’s going take me. But, maybe this is the discovery I’ve been looking to make all my life.”

  He stopped. Another thought rushed forward. It wasn’t only what he’d gotten himself into. Others were deeply involved.

  “Oh my God,” McCauley proclaimed.

  “What?”

  “I’m putting you at risk now along with Katrina, Marli Bellamy, Greene, the students…”

  “Don’t worry about me,” DeMeo interrupted. “I’ll get you your Vatican priest. After that, have your talk and call it a day.”

  Quinn McCauley knew his assistant was right, but he couldn’t stop now. He could, however, go it alone.

  “Thanks, Pete. See what you can find out, but no entanglements yourself. And look over your shoulder. Be…” He was about to say careful when Renee Kritz called from the other room.

  “I think I remember where I saw the sketch!”

  Fifty-eight

  Oxford University

  That afternoon

  Historically, each of the Oxford Colleges had its own archives and libraries. They reached as far back as the twelfth century. In recent years, the shelves, stacks and volumes have been brought together into one home, the Bodleian Library. Now, the Bodley or even the more abbreviated Bod serves as the principal research library of the University of Oxford. It contains more than eleven million entries. The only library in Great Britain that eclipses the Bod is the British Library. Until the British Museum was founded in 1753, the Bodleian was, for all intents and purposes, the national library of England. It has been the repository of histories and mysteries, scientific journals and science fiction, biographies of the famous and the infamous, today’s newspapers and yesterday’s fairy tales. The Bod is where Renee Kritz took Quinn McCauley and Katrina Alpert.

  For the better part of the first hour, Kritz went shelf-to-shelf in the Russian history and anthropology section, looking for anything that might jog her memory.

  “Not here,” she said.

  “What about this aisle?” Katrina asked not once, but five times as they walked through the Bod’s collection.

  “Not here,” she kept reporting. “Or here…or here.” was the constant, discouraging response.

  McCauley began his own search. After another hour, Renee and Katrina caught up to him. “This isn’t working,” Kritz admitted. “I could have sworn it was in a book in this section of the library. I thought maybe the size of the book or the color of the binding might jump out, but so far…”

  “It’s okay,” Katrina said. “Take your time.”

  “Now I’m not even sure if we’re in the right part of the Bod or the right library.”

  “All right, let’s look in general anthropology.”

  “Or archeology,” Renee added as an afterthought.

  They renewed the search. At the two-and-a-half hour mark they took another break, this time for tea and sandwiches in the commissary. The Oxford scholar was clearly frustrated.

  “I’m sorry. I thought it would be easier. You know how when you take notes you remember where something specific is on a page even weeks or months later?”

  “Try years,” McCauley answered.

  “The good thing is I can literally see where it was on the shelf. Third of the way up, right side. The row is another thing. Might have black binding, gray lettering. I can’t really recall.”

  McCauley nodded. Just like digging for dinosaur bones. “Maybe you’re not taking into conside
ration how many new books have been added since you saw it last,” he noted. “It’s probably not in the same place. You sure you don’t remember the author?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then we simply keep looking.”

  Two hours later, Renee threw up her hands. “I’m sorry. I give up.”

  “You can’t,” Katrina implored.

  “My knees ache from bending. I’ve got a headache as big as Big Ben. It’s useless.”

  “I’ll give it another hour,” McCauley said. “The two of you take a break.”

  McCauley decided to act on Kritz’s first impression again. He returned to the Russian anthropology section. Aisle after aisle opened up to him in the immense space. The lighting was never right for close up examination at different levels and his knees were also feeling the stress. Nonetheless, he kept looking for a book he didn’t know by appearance, name, or location.

  After forty-five minutes, McCauley stood in front of a shelf he’d passed quickly earlier in the day. By now everything looked the same. He was tired and frustrated and about to give up himself when…

  He focused on a thick tattered black book with Cyrillic block lettering in gray. He removed it from the shelf. On the leather cover, a worn etching of a haggard old man. McCauley carefully paged through what appeared to be a chronicle with sketches of the same man, as weathered as a Siberian winter, with a beard as long as time.

  McCauley sat on the floor, catching the ambient light from the window. He gathered the book was the account of a recluse who lived above the Anuy River…in a cave.

  He couldn’t read Russian, but impressions and thoughts jumped out that suggested the work was written and sketched by someone in the church.

  McCauley stopped on page 273. His eyes widened. He felt like his heart skipped a beat. And then he did something he’d never done before. Dr. Quinn McCauley stole a library book.

  • • •

  McCauley found the two women outside, sitting on a bench.

  “Have you ever been in a bookstore, not knowing what you wanted to read, and suddenly it seems like a book picks you out rather than the other way around.”