“Do these pants make me look fat?”
Professor James Acton’s eyebrows shot up, every alarm bell in the male system going off. “Huh?” was the best he could manage.
“These pants, the way they flare at the top. I think they make me look fat.”
Acton tried to hide his awareness of the mantrap set for him, instead scratching his chin and carefully regarding his wife, Archaeology Professor Laura Palmer, as she turned in front of him.
“Well?”
“I think they accentuate your figure. You look fantastic.”
“Accentuate? As in make something appear more prominent. Like my hips?”
Sir Mix-a-Lot’s Baby Got Back came to mind, but he bit his tongue. He stabbed an accusatory finger at her. “You’re trying to get me in trouble.”
She grinned and stepped out of the pants, throwing them at him as he lounged on the bed, reading some essays his students had turned in, too many a disappointment, something he had come to expect from first-years. They now came out of high school lacking the basics, and too many had no concept of attribution, instead taking entire passages from the work of others and inserting them in their own work as if it were theirs.
At least now there was software to catch much of it, though he had only flunked a few who turned in entire papers bought from students at other schools. The others, he showed how to create a bibliography, then forced them to rewrite the paper using one.
Ignorance shouldn’t kill your future, but outright copying? Every time.
“How about you put those papers aside, Professor, and make your wife feel like a woman.”
Acton grinned, tossing the printouts onto the floor and slipping out of his pants in one swift motion. “Ta-da!”
Laura threw her head back, laughing. “Is that your version of pulling a rabbit out of a hat?”
“It does tricks! Watch!”
The doorbell rang.
They both growled.
Acton reached over and grabbed his phone, the doorbell camera automatically sending him a live feed of who was there. His eyebrows shot up. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”
“Who is it?”
He tossed the phone toward the end of the bed as he rolled out of it, slipping his pants back on. “Is that what I think it is?”
“A priest on our doorstep? Yes.”
“No, I mean—”
The doorbell rang again, the elderly man looking about as if he had no idea he was on camera. Laura activated the speaker using the phone. “One moment, please.”
It startled the man, Laura grinning as she turned the phone around for Acton to see. “Poor guy, judging from where he’s from, he’s probably never seen anything like this smart home stuff.” He headed for the door, Laura stumbling back into her flared pants, both presentable by the time he opened the door.
“Yes?”
The priest stared at him for a moment, flustered, then spotted Laura. “Are you Professor Palmer? Professor Laura Palmer?”
She nodded and Acton ceded his position. “I am. And you are?”
“I am Father Amanuel. I come to you on an urgent matter. You were recommended to me by Professor Ullendorff, formerly of the British Museum.”
Laura’s face brightened in recognition. “Steven Ullendorff? I know him well. It’s been some time though since I’ve seen him.” She invited the old man inside. “Please, come in. You look exhausted.”
And he did. The man’s movements were slow, his skin pale, his eyes bloodshot with circles under them. Laura led him into the living room and guided him to their most comfortable chair. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water would be wonderful.”
Acton headed for the kitchen, open to the living room, and retrieved a glass, filling it with ice and filtered water from the fridge. He offered it to the man, who took a sip gratefully. He smiled.
“Ice cubes! Now there’s a rare treat.”
They both took seats opposite Father Amanuel, Laura taking the lead. “So, Father, what is it I can do for you?”
“Professor Ullendorff told me you are an expert in the preservation of ancient artifacts.”
“I am. What is it you need preserved?”
“I cannot say, but it is very important that it be protected. It is starting to deteriorate, and I’m not sure how much longer it has if we don’t take immediate action.”
“How old is it?”
Amanuel hesitated, as if the age might reveal what it was. “Thousands of years.”
Acton whistled. “What is it made of?”
“Gold and wood.”
Laura’s head bobbed. “Let me guess, the gold is fine, but the wood is starting to crack.”
“Exactly. I think the air is simply too dry.”
“You’ll need to control the environment it’s in for temperature and humidity, and air purity, of course. We could create a room that you could keep it in. That would preserve it, and allow people to see it, depending on the design.”
Amanuel shook his head. “No, that won’t do. We need to be able to move it.”
Laura’s eyes widened slightly. “Well, I’d advise against that. Any movement could damage it further should it not be done properly.”
Amanuel frowned. “I’m afraid that isn’t an option. We must be able to move it.”
“How often?”
“Four times a year, more should it become necessary.”
Acton regarded the man, Amanuel clearly nervous about something. “And why might it become necessary?”
Amanuel drew a long breath, turning to Acton. “I really can’t say. What I need is something that the object can be placed inside, that is portable. Something a dozen men, for example, could carry, when necessary. It can’t be much bigger than the object itself, otherwise it won’t fit out the door. Can you design something like this?”
Laura nodded. “Of course, it should be quite easy. When we install it, we can adjust everything based upon the condition of the object, and the environmental conditions of the area.”
Amanuel shook his head. “No, I just need you to design it, with instructions on how to build it. You can’t see the object.”
Laura frowned. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Father. If you want us to do this properly, then we have to do it in person. There’s no other way, otherwise you’re just wasting your time and money.”
It was clear this wasn’t what Amanuel wanted to hear, his shoulders sagging, his head drooping.
He’s so tired.
Acton leaned forward, delivering his words as calmly and soothingly as possible. “Father, if what you want to preserve is so important, you need the work done properly, agreed?”
The old man sighed, but nodded. “Yes.”
“And it’s clear the location and identity of the object must be kept secret.”
A more emphatic nod.
“Then you have nothing to worry about. We can sign any non-disclosure agreements you want, and you’ll have our word we won’t tell anyone.”
Laura agreed. “No one. No friends or colleagues. No priests.” She smiled and Amanuel brightened slightly.
“So, I have your word that you will tell no one?”
“Absolutely,” said Laura.
“And we’ll sign anything you want.”
Amanuel shook his head. “Paper is worthless. But a man’s word, or a woman’s, can be everything, if it is the right man or woman.” He regarded them both for a moment. “I feel God has sent me to the right people.” He smiled. “We have an agreement.”
Laura leaned forward, extending a hand, and Amanuel shook it, Acton doing the same.
“So, what makes this so valuable that it needs to be kept a secret?”
Amanuel frowned. “Where I am from, there are too many people who would steal or destroy what we hold so dear.” He took a sip of his water, swirling the contents and smiling slightly at the clinking of the ice cubes. “How long will it take for you to gather what you nee
d?”
Laura picked up her iPad from the table, quickly typing out some notes. “Well, because you want it to be portable, it actually makes the process much easier, since we’re not building or adapting a room. I’m assuming since it’s small enough to be carried, that we’re not talking something large like a boat.”
Amanuel shook his head and removed a piece of paper from his pocket. “No. These are the precise measurements from end to end, top to bottom, as well as its estimated weight.”
Laura entered the measurements. “Well, that’s definitely easily self-contained. Do you have a steady supply of electricity?”
Amanuel sighed. “Unfortunately, only at some locations it will be kept, and I would never call anything steady where I am from.”
“Then you’ll need a generator. Diesel?”
Amanuel nodded. “Yes, we have access to plenty of diesel.”
“What about solar?”
Amanuel shook his head. “Too conspicuous. People would wonder why a church had solar panels. A generator can be hidden, and excused.”
“And you said it was built from gold and wood.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the gold obviously isn’t a problem, as long as everything is on a stable platform to prevent any damage from torsion. The wood, if we can keep everything stable and the environment within the unit stable, shouldn’t be a problem either.” She waved the tablet. “I’ll put the specs together tonight, and give you a price in the morning. It will be steep, but not too crazy. We’ll do the work for free—”
Amanuel’s eyes widened. “For free?”
Laura smiled. “We have no need of money, Father. Where are you staying?”
“I’m returning immediately. I’ve been away for too long.”
“Then where can we send everything?”
Amanuel fished a piece of paper from his pocket, pushing it across the table toward Laura. “All my contact information is there. How long do you think it will take?”
Laura shrugged. “Not long at all. A day or two. This is pretty standard stuff. The trick is knowing how to put it all together, then what the correct settings are.” She grinned. “It’s all in the calibration.”
Acton picked up the piece of paper, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Casablanca?” He eyed the priest for a moment. “Don’t you mean Addis Ababa?”
Amanuel’s jaw dropped. “How-how do you know that?”
Acton smiled slightly. “We’re archaeologists and anthropologists. I can tell just by looking at you and listening to your accent what part of Africa you’re from. This will go a lot quicker if you just tell us the truth.”
Amanuel stared at him blankly for a moment, then sighed. “You’re correct, of course. The ultimate destination for your equipment is Ethiopia.”
Acton’s heart hammered as a smile spread. “And the object you need us to preserve is the Ark of the Covenant.”
Amanuel stared at Acton in horror, all strength failing him. He slumped in his chair and Acton leaped forward, supporting him by the shoulder.
“Breathe, Father, breathe. There’s nothing to be worried about.”
Amanuel sucked in a breath, then another, and soon recovered, Acton handing him his water. He took several sips, his strength returning, before he nodded at the younger man. “I-I’m okay now.” He stared at Acton. “What would make you say such a thing?”
Acton smiled gently, returning to his seat. “Well, you seem to forget you’re dealing with experts.”
Laura leaned closer to the priest. “The Bible gives the measurements of the Ark as two-and-a-half cubits by one-and-a-half by one-and-a-half. Add on the feet, the cover with cherubim, and the poles made of gold-clad acacia wood long enough for this very heavy object to be carried, and the measurements you gave are too close not to make one wonder when put into context.”
“And what, umm, context is that?”
“Where you’re from. Most archaeologists with an interest in Bible relics have heard the theory that the Ark was stolen by the son of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, or others with him, and taken to Ethiopia where it has been kept hidden until this day. The only thing is that most archaeologists also know that the story is a fraud, with dozens of churches in Ethiopia actually claiming to have the Ark, though none, conveniently, ever show it.”
Acton raised a finger. “Except for one report from an amateur archaeologist after the war.”
“Named…Ullendorff!” Laura’s jaw dropped. “Was he Steven’s father?”
Amanuel nodded. “He was.”
She stared at the elderly man for a moment. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not asking us to preserve a fake. You’re asking us to preserve the real thing.”
“I was told you can be trusted.”
“We can.”
“And you will never repeat anything you have heard, or will see?”
“We won’t.”
“And you’ll swear this before God?”
“We will.”
Amanuel rose. “Then bring what you need to preserve what I have described to Ethiopia as soon as you can. Contact me with your itinerary, and your price. The money will be wired to your account by my people, and you will be met and transported to my church when you arrive. There, all will be revealed.”
Acton rose, clearly excited. “You mean we’ll get to see the Ark?”
Amanuel smiled slightly. “I said nothing of the sort. And I must stress this point again. You must tell no one. Should anyone find out, should anyone know of our meeting, we could all die.”
Acton tensed. “Why?”
“There are those who would do anything to have what we possess, and they will stop at nothing to get it. If you value your lives, and those of your friends, you will tell no one anything. Understood?”
“Yes,” they both echoed, the excitement on their faces waning.
“Good. I must leave at once. I’ve been gone for too long for them not to have noticed.”
“Them?”
“Not your concern. Just remember what I said. Tell no one.”
10 |
Corpo della Gendarmeria Office Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City
Inspector General Mario Giasson of the Corps of Gendarmerie of Vatican City State wiped the sweat off his bald head with a handkerchief, cursing the failed air conditioning. It had been down for two days, each time it was declared fixed, the aging system dying minutes later.
It was time it was taken out back and shot, and everyone sent home.
Unfortunately, they were doing the work of God, and had to think of His needs, not their own. That was little comfort to those trapped in the heat, dozens of fans supplied by Facilities Management spread across the office, including one in his own, supplemented by several more he had brought from home.
His air conditioning worked fine, despite few of his neighbors owning a system.
It just wasn’t a European thing.
Somebody cheered and he looked out at the office beyond his glass walls to see his staff rushing toward any vent they could find, cool air apparently once again flowing.
Yeah, but for how long?
He said a quick prayer for the skills of the repairmen and the health of the HVAC system, then rose, stepping over to a vent and enjoying the chill that rushed over his body.
Thank you, God.
Then it stopped.
And he growled, giving an eye to the Lord above, then immediately apologized.
He’ll understand.
His phone rang and he grabbed the handset, returning to his seat, the momentary relief already forgotten. “Giasson.”
“Hey, Mario, Jim Acton here.”
Giasson smiled and leaned back in his chair, trying to recall the last time he had seen the American professor and his British wife, and whether bullets had been involved. “Jim, good to hear your voice. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve got a question for you that I was hoping you could help me out on.
”
“I’ll try.”
“What can you tell me about a Father Abune Amanuel, working out of Ethiopia?”
Giasson’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I just need to know if he’s legit.”
“Is he Roman Catholic?”
“I’m guessing Ethiopian Orthodox.”
Giasson frowned. “That makes it a little more difficult. Let me check.” He brought up the personnel directory, entering the search parameters. Though they had complete records on their own priests, other offshoots relied more on records searches and voluntarily supplied lists by the other faiths. A result appeared, and Giasson smiled. “It’s your lucky day, Jim. It’s confirmed. Father Abune Amanuel, graduated from the Theological College of the Holy Trinity in Addis Ababa almost forty years ago, and is assigned to the Church of Saint Mary of Zion, though that might not be current.” He leaned back in his chair. “What’s this about?”
“I can’t say, but if anyone calls asking about him or us, let me know. And make sure you tell them nothing.”
Giasson leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You’re making me nervous.”
Acton laughed. “Now why would you ever get nervous about me?”
Giasson grunted. “Because every time I’ve met you, I’ve been either shot or shot at.”
“Good times!”
Giasson chuckled. “I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe it.” He became serious. “Jim, I don’t know what you’ve got yourself involved in this time, but try not to get killed.”
“We’ll do our best. Talk to you soon, my friend.”
“Au revoir.”
The call ended and Giasson stared at the screen. This priest was obviously involved in whatever Acton was mixed up in. He opened his browser and searched the name, finding nothing of interest, and nothing referencing Father Amanuel correctly. He entered the name of the church and his jaw dropped.
Oh my God!
He clicked on the first link, quickly scanning the article, then backing out and reading the next.
It can’t be!
Yet could it?
He reached for the phone then stopped.
You gave your word!
He closed his eyes, trying to steady his hammering heart.
Keepers of the Lost Ark Page 4
