Old Earth

by Gary Grossman

  “Well, yes,” Katrina said.

  “Then care to take a guess what happened inside?”

  “You found it?”

  “No, Dr. Kritz.”

  Her smile faded.

  “It found me,” McCauley said. “By accident, like books do.”

  “Let’s go get it,” Kritz said. She stood ready to trudge into the Bod.

  “No need,” McCauley said. He knocked on the left breast of his jacket. It made a thud.

  “You didn’t?” Katrina exclaimed.

  “I did. Trust me, we don’t want any of our names on the loan out.”

  Understanding, Katrina said, “Okay, let’s see.”

  “Not here.” McCauley motioned for them to walk back to the parking lot. “Someplace quiet where we can all look at it.”

  Back at Kritz’s home, McCauley opened the book to page 273.

  “That’s it!” Kritz declared.

  He laid the photograph from the disposal camera right under the sketch.

  “My God, it’s so close to what we—” Katrina began.

  “Shot,” Quinn interrupted. “Yes.”

  Two representations of virtually the same thing discovered a half a world and centuries apart. The photograph looked like it was taken of the sketch; the sketch a representation of the photo: A wall of rock framing utter blackness.

  McCauley gathered his thoughts. “We can sure rule out NASA, the NSA, a black ops site, or anything contemporary.”

  “Who then?” Katrina asked.

  “Based solely on the author and what I remember about the work, it’s the memoir of an old Roman Catholic priest in Tsarist Russia,” Kritz offered. “He was like Alexis DeTocqueville, traveling and writing about his observations; relaying his experiences. We should get someone to do translations, though.”

  “No,” McCauley said. “No one else.”

  “What about Google translates?” she replied.

  “It’ll be hard without a Cyrillic keyboard with all the different characters.”

  “I think I can load that on your computer,” Alpert volunteered.

  “Okay. Worth a try. But focus on the chapter with the sketch,” he responded. “What else?”

  “Well, I’m more intrigued that there’s a church connection,” Kritz noted.

  “But if it’s the same, how can this exist now and in Dionisij’s day?”

  “One thing at a time,” McCauley proposed. “Start with who might keep secrets such as this?”

  They struggled with the answer.

  “Not who,” Katrina finally said. “It’s bigger than who. It takes influence and power and money. A lot of money. An institution that’s been around for a long time.”

  “A monarchy?” Renee proposed based on her studies.

  “Back to the church?” Kritz added. “Or a business.” She paused considering her own idea. “What businesses have been around for hundreds of years?”

  Kritz proposed a few. “Railroads, oil, mining.”

  “Publishing?” McCauley added. “Whatever it is, there’s a sophisticated operation behind it.”

  “Rules out publishing,” Kritz grumbled.

  Fifty-nine

  The Vatican

  The next day

  DeMeo had driven his motorcycle to Rome. He spent the morning trying to track down Father Jareth Eccleston. The best he could get, which wasn’t much, was that the priest was out of town; returning in a few days. So in lieu of waiting, DeMeo booked himself a Vatican tour.

  “Good thing we passed up the waiting line for the fast track tickets.”

  DeMeo turned to see a slender blonde, beautiful beyond all belief.

  “I’d say,” DeMeo responded. She wore a knee length black skirt, a dark blue blouse and a simple pearl necklace. He noticed her when she joined the tour late. It was impossible not to.

  “The wait for the regular tour was going to be a couple of hours,” she said. “So I’m glad I found this one. Did I miss much?”

  The woman had a soft Italian accent, sexy, yet with an easy, natural quality. DeMeo was partial to blondes, always had been. To add to the allure, she had deep blue eyes and inviting lips.

  “Just prelims from the guide.”

  DeMeo thought for a moment then asked one of the things on his mind.

  “Do I really look so American you knew to speak English?”

  “It’s an English language tour, silly man.”

  DeMeo laughed a little too loudly.

  “Excuse me?” said the tour guide, a very serious sixty-three-year-old former religious history teacher.

  “I’m sorry,” DeMeo offered.

  “It was me,” the young woman interrupted. “Mea culpa.”

  “Are you with us?”

  “Yes, a little late,” she responded.

  The guide gave her an insincere smile and continued. “As I was saying, the Vatican has the most celebrated and priceless art collection in all Europe. Of course, when we come to the Sistine Chapel at the end of our tour, you’ll recognize Michelangelo’s expression of the grand design in his brilliant work. But as we walk through the Candelabra Gallery, the Gallery of the Tapestries, and throughout the Vatican, I’ll point out the great talents including Raphael, Botticelli, and Bernini; all beloved by the popes.

  “We’ll stop at key locations for pictures and questions. But stay together. If you wander off, you might not be able to catch up and you’ll miss important explanations. We’ll pace ourselves with ample time for rest throughout the next three hours.”

  “Three hours?” the blonde said under her breath. She saddled up to Pete. “You may have to carry me.”

  DeMeo smiled at the thought and wondered if she was just being friendly or coming on to him. It felt like the latter.

  They strolled from Vatican Square through the Fontana della Pigna Courtyard, named for the oversized pinecone in the middle found in the Roman Baths of Agrippa, then onto the Gallery of Maps. The gallery was actually a 120-meter tunnel with displays of the spiritual and geographical maps that defined Italy through the ages.

  DeMeo asked a probing work question when they entered the Vatican Library.

  “I understand the Vatican conducts a great many scientific studies in astronomy and earth sciences. Do they house all the research here?”

  The tour guide wasn’t ready to take questions, but it was a good one.

  “There are many places where research is conducted and stored. We have an astronomical center at the Pope’s summer home outside of Rome and in the United States. Earth sciences are conducted around the globe. Much of the accumulated research is archived here, managed by a dedicated library staff and experts in their fields. However, you bring up a very interesting topic. While many view the Church as dogmatic, Vatican scientists are enlightened investigators seeking the truth, wherever it takes them. We are long past the age of the Inquisition. Our research and works that span the globe are among the millions of volumes in the Vatican library. I hope that answers your question.”

  “Yes,” DeMeo said.

  As the twelve-person tour approached the Gallery of Tapestries, the woman who joined the tour late dared a whisper to DeMeo. “So, you’re probably wondering what I’m doing on this English language tour?”

  “Am I?” DeMeo replied.

  “Of course you are,” she said as seductively as allowed in the Vatican. “I’m working on my masters in comparative religion with a minor in English.”

  “Ah. Multo buona.”

  “Very good,” she replied.

  The tour guide shot them a look again.

  “How about we grab a coffee later and stay on Madame Mussolini’s good side for now?” she proposed.

  “Absolutely,” DeMeo said. Abso-fucking-lutely, he thought.

  • • •

  Agustarello Restaurant

  That evening

  If things were to run their normal course, DeMeo would finish dinner and take Lucia Solera to bed. She was making such overtures apparent.<
br />
  Solera playfully fed him pasta, rubbed his leg with her foot, and touched his thigh. He felt a stirring, but held back. The blonde picked up on his reluctance. She poured DeMeo a third glass of the house Chianti and cooed, “I would have thought we had no language barriers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh come, silly man. Can’t you read the universal language for ‘I find you attractive?’ We’re having a romantic dinner in Rome, we’ve shared rigatoni con la pajata from the same fork and spoon, and I want to make love with you.”

  “Ah, yes, I was able to translate. It’s just that…” He was trying to remain focused.

  “What? Have I come on too fast?” She straightened up. “Oh, you’re in a relationship.”

  “Well, no.”

  Lucia smiled seductively, nibbled his ear and whispered, “Well then, we’re in the most romantic city in the world and I’ve already undressed you with my eyes, so we’re more than halfway there.”

  DeMeo wished he’d never taken McCauley’s phone call and thought about the dangers he encountered. His boss aroused concern. Lucia Solera was arousing something else entirely, and right now she was becoming the more persuasive.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  She slumped back in her chair frustrated. Her pouting only lasted a moment. Then she smiled. “Okay. You sleep on it.” Solera patted his crotch. “We’ll discuss this again tomorrow.”

  DeMeo’s eyes widened. “You don’t even have my number.”

  “Oh yes I do.” She leaned forward and kissed him passionately. He couldn’t resist.

  When they separated he had to laugh. “Not that number. My phone number.”

  Solera took out a bright red lipstick from her purse, seductively twisted it open and handed it to DeMeo. “Oh,” she said almost as an afterthought. “You need something to write on.” With that, she hiked up her dress with her right hand.

  She got his phone number. He got the message which thoroughly trumped McCauley’s advice.

  “Sure you want to stop there tonight?”

  Sixty

  London

  Renee Kritz spent the day cleaning up the translations at her office while Quinn and Katrina finally rested from their travels. That evening, the Oxford professor put a stack of papers on her dining room table and said, “Give these a look.”

  “Anything promising?” Katrina asked.

  “Well, there’s Russian history and anthropological goodies for me. You’ll have to decide on the rest.”

  This brought McCauley to the floor so he could read the printouts more easily.

  “I’ve translated some of the priest’s account which is interesting in itself and pulled more recent information on the cave based on what was in the book. It’s called Denisova Cave, named for a hermit who lived there in the last half of the nineteenth century. Dionisij in Russian; anglicized as Denis. He was also referred to as Saint Denis.”

  “Saint?” Alpert asked. Her mind went to the obvious place.

  “Not really. Not a Church saint. Probably more for the way he lived. But it came up in the priest’s memoirs,” Kritz explained. “Here’s the skinny from other sources. The Denisova Cave is in the Bashelaksky Range of the Altai Mountains. That’s Siberia, along the border of the Altai Republic, 150 km south of Barnaul.”

  McCauley stopped. “No clue where that is. Got a map?”

  “I’ll get one in a sec. But look at this. Something I pulled from the Internet.” She continued to read and paraphrase, “The cave has sparked significant interest and local lore. Known to area villagers as Aju-Tasch or Bear Rock—you’ll especially love this—it’s produced bone fragments of the Denisova hominine; the ‘X-woman’ dating back to -40,000 Before Present (BP). She wasn’t precisely Homo sapiens. Perhaps a subspecies or another extinct hominid species.”

  “Amazing,” Katrina commented.

  “There’s more. From a paleoanthropological standpoint, the portions of the cave that have been excavated have produced twenty different layers of remains dating back some 300,000 years. Findings include now extinct animals, fifty bird species, large mammals and reptiles. Lots to chew on, or at least there was for X-woman and her clan. And apparently the Neanderthals who followed developed the implements to work with, in particular, Mousterian and Levallois flint tools and weapons. This represented a real step forward in shaping and scraping rocks into projectile points. Also, the cold has helped keep ancient remains in stasis.”

  “How cold?” Katrina asked.

  “On average zero degrees Celsius— right at the freezing level.”

  While Quinn and Katrina looked through the papers, Kritz went to her bookshelf and pulled an oversized National Geographic book of maps.

  “Here’s where it is,” she said carting the book back. “The southern portion of the West Siberian Plain. Definitely a trek. You’re not planning on going, are you? It’s not the best of times to be knocking on Russia’s door.”

  “Can’t say yet,” McCauley replied. “But I’m really curious about the priest’s account. What else do you have?”

  Kritz gave him a sheet that read in English, Memoirs from the Altai Mountains: A Holy Mission by Father Mykhailo Emilianov.

  McCauley dove into the rest of the translation. Fr. Emilianov was a Roman Catholic who paid Dionisij visits every spring for about ten years. He described the hermit, how he provided him with whatever supplies he could carry in his sacks, their relationship and conversations, and an unusual cave Dionisij discovered.

  Amazingly, some of the detail even included the dimensions of the entrance, distances between areas, and most interestingly, a description of…nothingness. Finally, in Emilianov’s own hand, was a sketch that was virtually identical to their discovery in Montana.

  McCauley sat back in awe. Katrina was equally overwhelmed. “I don’t understand,” she looked at Quinn bewildered. “How…?”

  The word old came back to him, nothing more. He quickly went through Renee’s material and held up a picture. “This is the entrance to the Denisova Cave?”

  “Yes, from a Russian website.”

  The photograph showed a family walking up to the entrance along a dirt path lined with tall grass. Fauna draped over the rocks. Based on the estimated height of the people, he calculated the opening to the cave to be about fifteen feet wide and ten feet high.

  McCauley looked up at the ceiling as if the answers would be there.

  He re-read part of the priest’s account and then found another article on the cave system.

  “Here, here, here…and here,” he said putting the descriptions, photographs and sketches side-by-side.

  Katrina and Renee peered over his shoulder. Katrina immediately saw McCauley’s point.

  “The dimensions and details of the entrance … they’re different. It used to be bigger.”

  Katrina leaned back.

  “It was more than twice the size in Denis’ day. Here’s the priest’s description.” He showed them. It was remarkably different.

  “What’s it mean?” Kritz asked.

  “Likely a different way in and it probably leads to interior areas other than the ones described by the priest. Sometime between the priest’s writing and who knows when, it changed. Or, it was changed,” McCauley assumed.

  “Changed the way an airplane crash changes things?” Katrina proposed.

  “Considering recent history, it makes me very curious about the fate of the priest and the hermit.”

  “Where’s the best place to look that up?” Kritz offered knowing full well.

  McCauley smiled. “The Vatican.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And we’re in luck then. I got a text earlier from my teaching assistant.

  “Good news, bad news?” Katrina asked.

  “It’s all depends on your perspective. He opened the app and read the text aloud.

  Boss. I fell in lust. Will keep you posted.

  Heard yr guy is out of town. Returning soon.


  Left him yr #. Here’s his.

  The phone number followed.

  “Can’t blame him,” Katrina playfully said. “It happens.” She smiled warmly at McCauley.

  “Suppose so.” McCauley said not picking up on any signals. There was a lot that worried him right now.

  Sixty-one

  Italy

  The next morning

  Lucia had gotten her way with Pete DeMeo the night before. Today, he talked her into joining him for a road trip. First, he explained, he had some work to do.

  With a little online research, he was able to track down Father Jareth Eccleston. He was a featured speaker at a scientific conference in Prague titled Epistemological Challenges to Understanding the Cosmos – From Galileo to Hawking. The conference home page promised Pure Eccleston.

  Next, based on what he discovered on the conference website, DeMeo made four calls and left four messages: at the Hilton Prague front desk, the concierge, the main convention office, and Eccleston’s STOQ office in Vatican City. Each time he left a message to call. Not too much, but enough to seed curiosity. DeMeo also got the priest’s email address from the woman at the convention and sent a more enticing tickler about a new, potentially controversial discovery. It said nothing and something at the same time.

  An hour later, Pete DeMeo was on the phone with the dynamic Vatican priest. He explained in general terms what McCauley would cover in specific. It was sufficient to engage Eccleston, who said he’d be back in Rome in two days and would be open to a meeting.

  DeMeo was into his goodbye just as he felt Lucia Solera’s breath on his neck and her arms wrapping around him. He wondered whether she’d been listening the entire time.

  Sixty-two

  London

  Katrina was fixed on locating the French explorer. McCauley assigned himself two calls: one to Father Eccleston, whose number he had thanks to Pete DeMeo. When the priest didn’t answer, he left a message and dialed the second. It was eight hours earlier in California; not quite 2 A.M. He figured Robert Greene would be awake.