The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

  “Cliff dwellers?” Paul said.

  “Yes. Like many other ancient civilizations, they were a resourceful and adaptable people who suddenly disappeared without a trace. It could have been crop failure or drought, disease, conflict.” He nodded to Paul. “Truth is, no one really knows why some of these civilizations vanish. There is no evidence of decline, something you would find with crop failure or drought. One day they’re there, then poof.”

  “You’d think with all our modern technology, those mysteries would have been solved,” Cotten said.

  “Yes, one would think,” Edelman said. “Once in a while there is a small scattering of stragglers, but for the most part, they are gone without a trace. Think about Atlantis, for instance. Plato wrote about its existence, but if it did exist, what happened to it?”

  Edelman rolled his head and massaged his neck while leaving the chamois draped over the object. “Some of the other artifacts we have found here could indicate this site predates the Inca and Chavín—maybe by thousands of years,” Edelman said. “A few of the artifacts point to a totally different culture—one as yet unknown. Now this. This unbelievable object compounds our indecision about the inhabitants of this site. When Richard and Mariah get back, we will reconstruct our line of thinking.”

  “Have you spoken to them?” Cotten asked before taking a sip of Cerveza Cristal. The Peruvian beer didn’t quite hit the spot. She wished instead for her beloved Absolut and regretted she hadn’t grabbed a couple of miniatures on the flight from Fort Lauderdale to Lima. Even though she preferred it straight out of the freezer, she would have been satisfied to sip it chilled only by nightfall’s cool mountain air.

  “Indeed,” Edelman said. “I rang them up on the satellite phone, and as soon as they finish the grant proposal, they will be on the first jet back to Lima. Richard’s knickers are in a bit of a twist that he was not here when we found it. You know he goes to work to go on holiday. His work is his pleasure.”

  Richard Hapsburg was a Yale anthropologist, and his wife, Mariah, was an art dealer and professional grant writer. While examining famous explorer Hiram Bingham’s 1911 expedition notes in the Yale archives, Richard discovered references to a second site, one that Bingham considered unimportant and didn’t publish enough information on to allow others to follow up. Using the latest in thermal imaging, Hapsburg and his Yale group identified the mystery site’s most likely location. After weeks of chopping through the thick wall of vegetation, Hapsburg and Edelman, along with their team of diggers, finally laid eyes on the lost city.

  “Here is what causes me to question so much about this place,” Edelman said. With a sweep of his arm, he lifted the cloth and scooted back in his chair. “Feast your eyes.”

  Cotten peered at the object on the table, and her jaw dropped open in awe.

  It was a crystal object—transparent, shimmering, almost liquid. It appeared to be about six inches wide, nine inches tall, and an inch or so thick.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  The crystal caught the camera flood and threw the light back in streams like iridescent gossamer floss.

  “Move over to this angle, Paul,” she said without taking her eyes from the artifact. Intricate markings covered the surface. At the top were etchings of sorts—glyphs or symbols—and on the bottom half was a series of dots and lines. “Can I touch it?” she asked.

  Edelman nodded, then continued. “Anthropological evidence shows us that in the past, as well as today, quartz crystals play an important role in shamanic ceremonies in Peru. But this . . . this is like nothing I could have imagined. Maybe it explains their fascination with crystals. Do you know much about crystals, Ms. Stone?”

  “Not really. Just the high school basics.” She slid her finger across the polished surface. “It’s exquisite.” Cotten pulled her Elph camera from her pocket and snapped several close-ups.

  “Yes, it is,” Edelman said, edging out of the way so Paul could get a better angle. “It weighs a little over four kilos—about nine pounds. I believe it was carved from a single quartz crystal. Under magnification, I determined it was carved against the natural axis of the crystal. Anyone who works with crystals, particularly crystal sculptors, are intensely aware of this axis—the molecular symmetry of a crystal. If carved in the opposite direction, against the grain, the crystal will shatter. Even the most modern technology for carving crystal—high-tech lasers and the like—still does not always meet the challenge.”

  “But wasn’t this created hundreds of years ago?” Cotten said.

  “Looking at the markings, my best speculation is more like thousands,” Edelman said.

  Edelman drummed his fingers on his chin. He stared at the tablet. “I spoke with Richard Hapsburg earlier and inquired about what kind of tool or technique could have been used to create this tablet. He got back to me perhaps half an hour ago. Said that from the preliminary conversation he had with his colleagues, the initial theory is that the crystal and the glyphs had to be hewn with diamonds, and the finer detail created with a solution of sand and water. Of course, this was all based on my verbal description, since I have no way of uploading images from here.” He paused a moment, taking another swig of his single malt. “And the real conundrum would be that if he is right, it would have taken an accomplished craftsman more than a lifetime—even a hundred years or more—to complete this kind of work.” He motioned to the crystal tablet with an expression of bewilderment. “Amazingly, I cannot find even a tiny scratch as evidence of what type of tool was used.”

  “Then what you’re saying is this crystal tablet just shouldn’t exist,” Cotten said.

  “Correct. Hapsburg is rounding up some trusted associates to come down here,” Edelman said. “We need a bevy of experts to look at this thing.”

  “Has he spoken to the press yet?” Cotten asked.

  “No. We will need better verification before we make any announcement.” He glanced at her knowingly. “Do not be concerned, Ms. Stone. You will have your exclusive.”

  Cotten wondered if maybe this was going to be the story that would salvage her career. She needed any break she could get. “Get some stills, too,” she said to Paul.

  He placed the camcorder aside and started using a Kodak digital camera. When he had all he needed, he nodded to Cotten, who handed him and Nick each a Cerveza Cristal.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Nick said as they clinked the beer bottles together.

  Cotten turned to Edelman only to find him in deep concentration. He had pulled his chair back to the table and stared down at the tablet, shaking his head.

  Cotten moved beside him. “What?” she said. “Something else?”

  He knocked back another mouthful of his Scotch, followed by a second, draining the glass. “If I am understanding these glyphs—”

  “You mean you know what they say?”

  “Roughly,” he said, using his finger to mark off the perimeter of the top half of the tablet. “And I am basing my interpretation on the fact that the glyphs bear some similarity to early Zapotec and Maya inscriptions. All the early writing of Mesoamerica used complex, square-shaped pictures.”

  “Mesoamerica? We’re in South America,” Cotten said.

  “Yes, we are, but the newest thinking is that all these ancient peoples moved around much more than what was once believed. Was the crystal created here, or was it brought to this place from somewhere else? That is a question I cannot yet answer.”

  “So you don’t think the Inca or Chavín created it?” Cotten asked.

  “They had no written language like this,” Edelman said.

  “But some group older than the Chavín did?” Cotten said. “I thought you said they had no written language.”

  “Quite a riddle, is it not?” Edelman said.

  Paul tipped his beer to his lips, swallowed, then said, “Yo
u mean to tell me the folks who built Machu Picchu and this complex of palaces and observatories had no written language?”

  Edelman put on a tolerant smile. “It is naive for us to think that writing means putting down words by way of pen and ink, the way we do it. The Egyptians used stone and papyrus, the Sumerians and Babylonians wrote on clay. And the Inca used a different method and medium entirely. They are famous for textiles, so it makes perfectly good sense. They used khipu—knots on ropes and strings. It used to be believed that khipu was only a way of accounting, but recent analysis indicates it could be a three-dimensional written language in a seven-bit binary code. Very complicated. Remember, our modern-day computers are also based on binary codes.”

  “The Inca used the same technology as today’s computers?” Paul asked.

  Edelman nodded. “When we write e-mail messages, for instance, they exist inside the computer in the form of eight-digit sequences—a binary code made up of only ones and zeros. The coded message gets sent to another computer, which translates or decodes it back into the script typed by the sender. The Inca invented such a system at least five hundred years before Bill Gates launched Microsoft.”

  “Maybe we aren’t as smart as we think,” Nick said.

  “No, we certainly are not,” Edelman said. “Arrogant is more the case. The Spanish recorded capturing one Inca trying to conceal a khipu, which he told them was a record of everything about his homeland, both good and evil. And so, in their pious wisdom, instead of keeping it to study and learn from, the conquistadors burned it as an idolatrous object and punished the poor native for having it. What was done to these cultures in the New World in the name of God is an atrocity we tend to ignore. They were obliterated.”

  Edelman again leaned in close and studied the markings on the crystal while writing in a notebook, all the while shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was transcribing.

  Paul elbowed Cotten. “What’s up?”

  Cotten shrugged. “So what do you think it says?” she asked.

  Edelman didn’t answer right away, but kept writing. Paul raised his eyebrows at Cotten as they stood by patiently.

  Finally, Edelman looked up. “If someone thousands of years ago took on such an incredibly difficult task creating this remarkable object, he must have had something profound to say. You agree?”

  Cotten cocked her head as she noticed the mountain mist growing thicker around them. “I suppose so.”

  Edelman continued. “As I said, I have only a rough translation based on similar glyphs I have studied, but the most remarkable thing that helps me understand these markings is that I am familiar with the message. I have heard it before, and so have you. The crystal itself is an incredible enigma on its own. But you see, it is not simply the message inscribed on the crystal that is so amazing. It is the fact that the writer had prior knowledge of this particular event at all.”

  “What event?” Paul asked.

  “Noah’s Ark and the Great Flood.”

  Venatori

  “Mr. Wyatt, I want to thank you for coming on such short notice,” said Archbishop Felipe Montiagro, the Vatican apostolic nuncio to the United States.

  “I was intrigued by your call, Your Excellency,” Thomas Wyatt said. He shook hands with the archbishop, a tall man dressed in a black suit with a simple Roman collar—no visible indication of his diplomatic or Roman curia position.

  Wyatt had thought a lot about why he would get a request from such a high-ranking diplomat to come to the Vatican embassy for a job offer with what he assumed was the Swiss Guard. Since the loss of the Virgin Atlantic plane a year ago, he’d found himself considering a thousand times if he should leave his job. For weeks after the shootdown, he would lie awake at night debating what else he could have done to convince the pilot to reconsider suicide. He had experienced a few other failures in the past, but mostly dealing with a single suspect or terrorist. Nothing approached the loss of the 280 innocents on Flight 45.

  Montiagro motioned for Wyatt to sit as he went around to the other side of his desk. “It’s not often we have such special needs and can find a man of your stature and experience.”

  The two men sat in a modern but modestly decorated office on the second floor of the Vatican State embassy on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington. The spacious room was wood paneled and windowless, and on the wall behind Montiagro was a large portrait of the pope.

  “Just what are your special needs?” Wyatt asked. “I thought that to be a member of the Swiss Guard, you had to be Roman Catholic and hold Swiss citizenship.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Wyatt. And if I were really recruiting you for the Guard, you would of course not qualify. There are other levels of Vatican security,” he said.

  Wyatt gave him a curious look, wondering where Montiagro was going. With degrees in criminal psychology and international law, Wyatt had spent the last seven years as a senior analyst expert on human behavior for the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland. He had received the call from Montiagro just before leaving his office for the day. Maybe this was the opportunity to finally move on with his life and get out of the shadow of the Virgin Atlantic disaster. He wondered if perhaps a position with Vatican security might be just the change he needed.

  “So if you’re not offering me a job with the Guard, then what?” Wyatt said.

  “Are you familiar with the Venatori?” Montiagro said.

  “Of course, Your Excellency. Along with the FBI and the CIA, the NSA exchanges data with the intelligence arm of the Vatican on a regular basis.”

  “Very good,” Montiagro said. “The Venatori is the information-gathering agency of the Holy See and is responsible for briefing the pope on international affairs. The agency processes the data you send each day. As you know, we also have a daily report that is forwarded to the NSA and other Western agencies as well.”

  Wyatt nodded, realizing that little was known about the Venatori other than that it was one of the oldest spy organizations in the world.

  “We feel we need to bring on a special field analyst to work out of this office. Unlike the Swiss Guard, a Venatori agent does not have to be a Catholic. In some instances, we have agents in other countries who are not even Christian. You see, Mr. Wyatt, the Holy See is governed by the laws of man and God. We sometimes get caught up in our own agendas and forget that there are things that can and must be explained by logic and facts. We value a person like you to keep our feet firmly on the ground as we analyze data and information.”

  The proposition was certainly curious, Wyatt thought. What made them seek him out? “As much as I respect your position and the place the Holy See occupies in the international community, I’m not sure what needs you have that would require someone like me.”

  Montiagro laced his fingers and rested his hands on the desktop. “We have watched your involvement with hostage negotiations and suicidal fanatics over the past several years. We have monitored your work in a dozen or so national and international situations in which you took part in negotiating with terrorists. Saving lives is important to the Vatican.”

  “Well, I appreciate your confidence, but I’m not always successful. I’ve had my share of losses.”

  “We understand,” Montiagro said. “And we know you took the loss of the Virgin Atlantic flight personally.”

  Wyatt’s chest tightened. He hoped Montiagro didn’t keep on with the same point.

  “What we are impressed with is that the United States government has enough faith in Thomas Wyatt to call upon him in the most critical situations.”

  If he was going to leave his job for another, Wyatt needed a better understanding of what that job was. “I am still unclear what assets I bring to your table. You’re not at war. You have no standing army, no physical threats other than the usual religious fanatics we all deal with daily.”

  “Maybe,” said Monti
agro. “Maybe not.” The archbishop placed his palms flat on his desk. “Unfortunately, you’re incorrect on all the issues you raise concerning war, armies, and physical threats to the Holy See. For instance, from the standpoint of war, we—”

  Wyatt’s cell phone chirped. He held up his hand to the archbishop as he pulled it from the belt clip and read the caller ID. “I deeply apologize, Your Excellency, but I must take this call. It’s from the agency.”

  “I understand,” Montiagro said.

  Wyatt stood and walked away from the desk before pressing the talk button. He listened intently for a moment before turning back to the archbishop. “Excellency, do you have a TV available? There is breaking news that I think we both should watch.”

  “Of course,” Montiagro said. He rose and opened a large cabinet, revealing a wide-screen TV. After pushing the power button on the remote, the image and sound of the Satellite News Network sprang to life.

  The first image was of a massive fireball streaking across the night sky. Although there was no point of reference, Wyatt assumed something large had caught fire and burned in flight.

  The announcer said, “This is video shot from off the east coast of Africa as the International Space Station tumbles out of control and burns up in the atmosphere. The spectacular sight in the night sky could be seen for thousands of miles. The terrible tragedy started with the report from the Russian Space Agency that the three-man crew—a United States Navy captain, a colonel in the Russian Air Force, and a Russian cosmonaut—all committed suicide just after causing the station to leave orbit. A short time later, it crashed into the Indian Ocean.”

  Archbishop Montiagro seemed frozen, his gaze transfixed on the images as Wyatt came to stand by his side.

  “This is unbelievable,” Wyatt said.

  Montiagro turned to Wyatt. “Actually, no.” He placed his hand on Wyatt’s arm. “This, Mr. Wyatt, is why we called you.”