The Tombs of Eden

by Rick Jones

  “Then I apologize, if that’s the case. But the Vatican must be cautious with its funding. With that being said, it does not mean that the Vatican does not maintain an interest in your father’s matters. It does.”

  “And what exactly is it that you do for the Vatican?”

  He hesitated. This wasn’t going as smoothly as he thought. “I’m in the employ of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano.”

  She nodded, folding her arms defensively across her bosom. “The SIV,” she commented.

  “You know what we do?”

  “I know that the SIV was created about one hundred fifty years ago to gather information against those who they declared as insubordinates if they were against the policies of the Vatican.” She tilted her head, as if sizing him up with reasonable suspicion. “So tell me,” she added. “Has my father set off a nerve with the Vatican? Why shoot him down only to come knocking on my door after the fact?”

  Savage showed her the flash of hardened features, which startled her. “You’re absolutely right, Ms. Moore, about the SIV. My job is to gather information. Now your father is a very famous individual with a lot of success under his belt—”

  “So much success that the Vatican didn’t even want to support him?” she interjected.

  He continued on. “Nevertheless, we followed your father’s advancements and gathered information from Turkish resources, as well as resources in New York.”

  “You mean from the AIAA?”

  “We intercepted a lot of information from them, yes.”

  “Legally?”

  “Ms. Moore, from the information I received based on statements provided by Mr. Montario, I have reason to believe that your father was very successful in his search; therefore, should you need any financial assistance from the Vatican, they would be in full support of future endeavors.”

  Now it was her turn with the fake smile. “I don’t need your money,” she said.

  “The Church—”

  “The Vatican,” she corrected.

  He wanted to roll his eyes. “We are not looking to interfere with your father’s discovery should Eden exist,” he said calmly. “The Vatican is willing to exalt your father any way it can. We’re talking press releases that will earn your department at AIAA numerous grants, beginning with the Vatican.” Her face softened. And Savage couldn’t help notice the beauty of her features. “We will guarantee grants for future expeditions in the name of your father,” he pressed.

  She was swept up; the offer a fantastic one. “Guaranteed?” she asked lightly.

  “On one condition,” he said.

  Her face hardened a bit. “And what would that be?”

  “That you take me along.”

  “Take you along?”

  “Take me along,” he said.

  “No disrespect intended, Mr. Savage, but you have no experience, I’m sure. And I’m not inclined to have anyone on my team compromise the location.”

  “Obviously you know where it is, then?”

  “I have a good idea.”

  “I see.” Savage smiled at her with that fake smile that was still enchanting, then turned away, shielding her from the small silver case. “So, Ms. Moore,” he began, undoing the clasps, “do we have an agreement? That the AIAA be given positive publicity for your father’s cause?”

  “And what if Eden is not what the Bible depicts it to be? Will they still guarantee my grants?”

  Savage lifted the top. The Glock sat in its molding, alongside the suppressor and two clips of ammo. The third clip was already seated inside the weapon. “The grants are guaranteed, Ms. Moore. I can assure you. We’ll even sign it into documentation before we leave, if you like.”

  “I would like,” she said.

  He pulled the Glock out and began to fasten the suppressor. “Very good, then,” he said. “Just let me get a pen and pad here, and then we can move on, yes?”

  “That would be fine,” she answered.

  “Just a moment,” he said, fixing the suppressor. “I’m almost through.” He hefted the gun in his hand, and placed his finger on the trigger. And then he began to make his move.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Alyssa—oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.” Noah stepped inside the tent. The man with his back to them did not turn to greet him. “I can come back later.”

  “No, that’s all right, Noah. I want you to meet someone,” she said.

  Savage moved quickly to undo the suppressor, a few quick twists, and returned the items back their grooves.

  “John Savage, I’d like you to meet Noah. He was my father’s right-hand man.”

  Savage turned, smiling. “Noah Wainscot—yes, of course, I know all about you,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Although Noah was taken aback after seeing the man’s Roman Catholic collar, he didn’t show it as he offered his hand. “And it’s nice to meet you too, Father Savage.”

  “I’m not a priest,” he said. “I’m an emissary from the Church.” He gave a quick glance to Alyssa and immediately corrected himself. “From the Vatican,” he stated.

  “Was I interrupting something?” asked Noah.

  “Just finalizing a deal,” she answered. “It appears that Mr. Savage will be joining us on our mission. And in compensation, the Vatican has agreed to subsidize future assignments.”

  Noah looked at Savage with the same degree of suspicion. And Alyssa picked up on it.

  “It’s all right, Noah,” she said, reaching out and touching his arm. “Nothing is going to be taken away from my father. They’re in agreement that he gets the glory of all discoveries.”

  “And fittingly, if I may add,” said Savage.

  Noah kept his eyes on Savage while speaking to Alyssa. “The team’s here,” he said flatly. “And they’re quite eager to meet you.”

  “A team?” asked Savage.

  “Yes,” said Noah.

  She lifted her hand toward the tent’s opening. “Please, Mr. Savage, after you.”

  He grabbed his case and took the lead, followed by Alyssa and Noah.

  Standing under the blaze of the fading sunlight were four soldiers with duffle bags, and a man wearing top-of-the-line clothing and expensive sunglasses. Savage immediately saw they were ex-military, pegging them as Special Forces. The difficulty of his job just ratcheted up several notches.

  Alyssa saw them differently, as brutal-looking apes with the exception of the lean man in expensive wear. Even with sunglasses, she recognized him immediately. “Noah,” she said, beckoning him with her finger, “can I see you in the tent for a moment?”

  He nodded.

  When they were inside she placed her hands on her hips. The body language telling Noah that she was not happy.

  “Are you kidding me?” she asked heatedly. “Do you know who that man is?”

  He held his hands out imploringly. “I’m sorry; Alyssa, but I had no choice.”

  “No choice? Are you kidding me? That’s Obsidian Hall.”

  “I know. But like I said, I had no choice.”

  “And why would you have no choice?”

  “Because,” said Obsidian Hall, stepping inside the tent uninvited, “I’m the main reason why your father was here to begin with.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “What?”

  “Your father was here because of me. Isn’t that right, Noah?”

  Noah turned toward the floor, as if ashamed.

  “Now-now, Noah,” said Hall, patting the old man on the back. “No need to feel down. You did everything that you were required to do.” He turned to Alyssa. “You did well, Noah. You got me in.”

  “In? This isn’t a Boys’ Club,” she stated harshly.

  Obsidian Hall smirked, his arrogant smile striking a nerve within her. She turned to Noah, this time with a pained look on her face. “Noah, how could you?”

  He hesitated, trying to find the words. And then: “When the Vatican initially turned your father down for the endowment,
a grant was written to help subsidize the mission. But the government turned him down as well, and AIAA was floundering. The only grant, I’m afraid, came from Mr. Hall’s company.”

  “Did my father know about this?”

  “No.”

  “Does it matter?” said Hall. “The bottom line is this: Noah sold his soul to the devil to make things work for your father. And your father pulled through. All I’m asking is a small piece of the pie, that’s all.”

  “No,” she said adamantly.

  “You know who I am. I’m not looking for fame. I already have it. I’m looking for a wall adornment, you might say.”

  “You want treasure, is that it?”

  He raised his hand and held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Just a little token,” he said.

  “No.”

  He nodded. “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “Noah here, by doing what he did, is due to make payment. If he doesn’t, then something horrible may befall him. Isn’t that right, Noah?”

  He never looked Alyssa in the face, too ashamed, choking back the need to sob. When she saw Noah’s condition, she immediately embraced him.

  “I just wanted to help your father,” he said to her. “I wanted this so much for him.”

  “Your heart’s in the right place, Noah. It always has been. But your judgment on this one . . .” she let her words trail.

  “I know,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

  “Touching,” said Hall. “Very . . . touching.”

  She turned on him harshly. “Is that your way?” she asked him tersely. “That you would hurt an old man, just to fill a material need?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much. But no matter how you want to look at it, Ms. Moore, I see it like this: a contract is a contract—good, bad or indifferent. Noah knew what he was getting himself into. And so that you know, he’s been following through because he’s been in constant contact with me throughout your father’s entire affair. Isn’t that right, Noah?”

  The old man's response was to maintain their embrace, hoping she’d never let go.

  “It’s not all bad,” said Hall. “Your father got what he wanted. I gave that to him. All I ask is to be part of this. That’s all I want.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He paused for a deliberate moment. And then: “No . . . you don’t.”

  #

  John Savage was serving as a centerpiece, surrounded by men who undoubtedly had the capability of staggering violence as they stood appraising him with stares of indifference.

  Aussie, in particular, fixed on him while chewing gum the same way a cow slowly and methodically chews his cud. “Well,” he started,” I wonder why we got us here a preacher man. But so that you know, Padre, there’s no hope for me. In fact, there’s a special place in hell for people like us.” He tilted his head at the team in general, speaking for the team in general.

  “That’s nice,” said Savage. “But I’m not a priest.”

  “Collar you’re wearing says you are,” replied Butcher Boy.

  “I’m just an emissary from the Church.”

  Aussie cocked his head. “A what?”

  “I’m an ambassador, of sorts. A messenger.”

  “And what’s the message?” asked Red.

  Savage could sense them pressing in from all sides, the volley of questions giving them an indication as to who he was, what he wanted, what he was doing here. “My message is none of your concern,” he answered. “It’s only the concern of Ms. Moore, and that’s all.”

  Aussie took a step closer. Behind him were the pillars and amphitheater of Göbekli Tepe. “What’s of concern to Ms. Moore,” he said coolly, “is also of concern to us.”

  “I don’t think so,” he returned. When he tried to remove himself from the ring, Aussie and Butcher Boy moved in front of him like two sliding doors coming together, cutting him off.

  Aussie looked at him with a hard glare. “I don’t think I like you, Padre.” He then blew a bubble with his gum and impolitely popped it about a foot from the emissary’s face.

  Savage took a step back, tightening his hand on the case he was carrying, a formidable weapon. “Is there something I can do for you? Or do you always allow the idiocy of your nature to come forward as you meet people?”

  This brought a round of laughter from the commandos. Even Butcher Boy appreciated the banter as he fell back laughing and pointing a he-got-you finger at Aussie. But Aussie was clearly upset, his jaw clenching so that the muscles in the back moved like wires. He took a step forward.

  Savage didn’t retreat, but stood his ground, measuring Aussie with the keen eye of a Navy SEAL, ready to use whatever means necessary.

  “What’s your name, mate?”

  “Savage,” he said. “John Savage.”

  Butcher Boy’s eye winked, the name drawing recognition, the man’s face even more so, but recall eluded him like that thing that hangs just beyond the periphery of sight.

  “Well, Mr. Savage, so that you know, bloody yanks like you who pop off at the mouth don’t live too long.”

  Savage appeared unaffected. This man was highly volatile and dangerous to the core. But he was also emotional, which Savage thought to be a liability, since the man is more apt to react in blind rage rather than with precise and well-calculated decisions. Later he’d determine the aspects of the others, now that he was forced into the position to dispatch everyone in front of him. And place their bodies next to the corpse of Alyssa Moore.

  “I understand,” he said, which drew the boastful smile of victory from Aussie.

  “Make sure that you do, Padre. And we’ll get along just fine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Aussie winked at him with his downturned eye. “Atta boy, mate,” he said. “I’m startin’ to re-like you.”

  “Yes, sir.” It didn’t take Savage long to realize that stroking egos was a way to deescalate situations. His way was to submit to the alpha male a moment before snapping his neck. “If I’ve offended you in any way,” he said with insincere contriteness, “please accept my apologies. It’s unbecoming of an emissary of the Church to act the way that I have.”

  By his quick evaluation, he could probably take out two with an initial strike but not four, so he would have to draw them into complacency, build on their trust, and kill them with prompt efficiency while keeping in mind that this undertaking would be a difficult one, given their particular skill sets.

  “You just keep that mindset, you hear, Padre?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good enough.” Aussie stepped aside and allowed the Vatican emissary to walk by. As Savage moved toward the Göbekli Tepe dig site, he heard their chiding comments about “the priest who isn’t a priest.”

  Savage nodded internally. You got that right, he thought, and kept on walking.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Know your opponent and know him well.

  That had been John Savage’s mantra throughout his military career. And there was no reason why he should change it now. After giving Alyssa a signed contractual agreement regarding future funding in the form of grants that was as worthless as the paper it was written on, he sat inside a tent that had once belonged to Montario.

  He was sitting in the dark with his shirt off, the air inside hot and stifling. Through the canvas, he could see the afterglow of a campfire and hear the mercenaries talk of war stories and carry on like teenage boys rather than honorable men.

  In the shadows of his tent, he softly racked the slide of his firearm, testing it.

  He had already pegged Aussie as a volatile man who maintained a strong presence within the group. A man governed by bravado rather than principle. He would be the first to go.

  Staring straight into darkness with his body silhouetted against the glow of the fire, John Savage quietly racked the slide of his weapon once again, listening.

  The one called Butcher Boy held stoicism about him—a calculator, a thinker, and cou
pled with his special skills of combat, that made him the most dangerous in the group. Whereas the others shouted and carried on, he spoke softly—his words and captivating tone granting him the courtesy of his team’s silence to hear him through, a near measure of divine respect. Savage was sure they would follow him to the end.

  He racked the slide again, this time louder.

  The Irish boys, at least from what he could glean from their discussion, were brothers. Their names were Red and Carroll, with Carroll in a petulant state of whining and wanted to be called Magnum instead. This opened the floodgates for the others who chided him openly by refusing to call him Magnum, but Carroll. He was the weakest of the group, a marginal threat. A man Savage considered too weak to make it under his personal detail.

  He racked the slide again, this time with venom in his motion.

  After nearly four hours of banter, a sudden silence descended over the camp when a fifth man joined the group. Savage listened. “Come morning,” the man said, “I need you all to be rested. I want one awake, however, to see that no one leaves the encampment.”

  “And should someone try to leave?” Savage could tell it was Butcher Boy speaking.

  “Should anyone try to leave, with the exception of Ms. Moore, whom you are to bring back to me should she make an attempt to do so, then I expect you to act accordingly.”

  “And what’s accordingly to you?”

  “You shoot them,” he told them without a hint of concern. “The only person of critical importance to me right now is Ms. Moore. The others are mere field hands.”

  Savage bolted upright in his chair. Did he just hear what he thought he heard?

  This time Savage seated a clip, racked the weapon live, and sat quietly in the shadows.

  Tonight, he would not sleep.

  #

  Obsidian Hall’s band of mercenaries sat by the fire, referring to themselves as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a title of self-importance first mentioned by Aussie that was eagerly accepted by the others. The Vatican emissary hadn’t left his tent since early evening, and the same could be said of Alyssa Moore and Noah Wainscot, who distanced themselves as far as they could from the raucousness of Hall’s team