The entry ended there. Why Ibis had given them an incomplete set of notes was beyond Rick. But, for the moment, he set his frustration aside. He opened the first document in a separate window. Looking at these two entries, it was clear that they had been authored by the same person. And yet…
His headset crackled, making him jump. “Find anything new?”
Kai was awake, or at least had decided to open his eyes. They glinted darkly in the dim light as he peered over Rick’s shoulder at the laptop screen.
Rick shook his head. “No. I’m just trying to make sense of this…”
“What about it?”
Rick shifted his laptop so Kai could see it clearly. “The first entry I understand. Even if it’s worded a bit weirdly, it’s clearly introducing the disappearance of the Ark and leading up to all the reasons the author thinks it’s actually located in Ethiopia.”
“Which have been conveniently left out,” Kai said.
“Sure, but the story of the Ark travelling to Ethiopia has been around for ages, so that doesn’t really matter right now. What I can’t figure out is what this has to do with anything.”
Kai was silent for a few minutes as he read the second paragraph. Finally he said, “Sounds like the Templars were involved.” There was a note of enthusiasm to his voice, for the first time since they accepted this job.
“But they’re not,” Rick said firmly.
“How do you know? They were up to all sorts of shady stuff during the Crusades. It says right there, Given what we know about the Templar activities beneath the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. You know, I saw this one video about how they were able to exert power over the Vatican --”
Rick drew a sharp breath through his nose. “Ok, yes, the Knights Templar were active in Jerusalem during the First Crusade. But there’s nothing spooky about it, they were just there to protect pilgrims and capture the Holy Land. It had nothing to do with the Ark of the Covenant, or sacred geometry, or Wolfram’s Parzival, or whatever the hell else this is talking about.”
“Dunno,” Kai said. “Whoever wrote this seems to think they were pretty important. Who’s this Saint Bernard guy?”
“Saint Bernard of Clairvaux. He was a bit of a bigshot with the Church during the First Crusade. Championed Gothic architecture, like it says, and he presided over the Synod of Troyes, like it says, where the Templars got a stamp of approval from the Pope.”
“And he was the favorite nephew of one of the founding Templars,” Kai said, scanning the screen. “Tell me that doesn’t sound suspicious.”
“Yeah, maybe the Templars used him as an in with the Catholic Church. But, again, it’s got nothing to do with the Ark.” Kai didn’t look convinced. Rick sighed. “Ok, pretend it does. Pretend the Templars were digging for something in the ruins of Solomon’s Temple. Pretend, even, that they found the Ark down there, hidden for thousands of years. How does it end up in Ethiopia, then? Where does the story of Prince Menelik come from?”
“Maybe they didn’t actually find the Ark. Maybe they found some records or something, telling them where to go looking for it.”
Rick considered that for a moment. It was odd that the Ark simply vanished from Biblical text, without so much as a footnote about where it had gone to. Old Testament writers loved to lament about things; if the Ark had been stolen or destroyed, surely someone would have recorded it.
“Ok,” he admitted slowly. “That’s…not out of the question. But if the Templars knew where to find the Ark, why not just go get it?”
He reexamined the paragraph, trying to intuit the author’s hypothesis from this single fragment. The famous North Porch of Chartres Cathedral was constructed to Bernard’s exact specifications, including the statuary of King Solomon, Queen Makeda, and the transported Ark with inscription (See Exhibit 12).
Rick switched to the folder of documents, searching for “Exhibit 12.” He found it among the photos: a series of close-ups taken from the Gothic porch, which he assumed was from Chartres Cathedral. One depicted a regal-looking woman with a smaller figure crouched at her feet, another a crowned man with a bearded face, and a third a weathered miniature of a box on an ox-driven cart. An inscription beneath it had been highlighted so that the faint letters became clear.
Something clicked in his brain. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
He quickly scanned the paragraph again. Chartres Cathedral, in its earliest known iteration, was constructed sometime during the middle of the first millennium CE. But it wasn’t until the 12th century, following several subsequent fires, that the cathedral as we know it came to exist.
That it predates the dissemination of the Kebra Nagast to Europe suggests foreknowledge of the Menelik story from another source, perhaps found in Jerusalem.
“Huh.”
“What?” Kai asked, more insistently.
“Ok, look at this. These carvings, from Chartres? They show King Solomon and Queen Makeda -- that’s another name for the Queen of Sheba. And between them, this little boxy thing?”
“Something’s written beneath it,” Kai muttered. “Can’t make it out.”
“Hic amittur archa cederis,” Rick recited. “It’s Latin. Means, here is hidden the Ark of the Covenant.”
“So -- wait -- the Ark is hidden in this French cathedral?”
“No -- look at the direction the cart is traveling. Away from Solomon, towards the Queen. Towards Africa. It’s mirroring the Menelik story, of the Ark being taken from Jerusalem -- Solomon -- to the Kingdom of Axum -- Sheba.”
“But you said the Menelik story’s bullshit.”
“The details don’t line up with historical fact, but it could still be telling the truth about the Ark somehow going to Ethiopia.”
Kai grunted. “So whoever included these carvings in the design of the cathedral knew the story, or a version of it.”
“Yeah, but here’s the thing – the Menelik story is recorded in a book called the Kebra Nagast, which is a collection of Ethiopian oral traditions. They weren’t actually written down until the 13th century, and didn’t reach Europe until later. But this section of Chartres Cathedral was constructed in the 12th century, after a fire damaged the church. Before anyone in Europe had heard of Menelik. Which begs the question --”
“How did the architect get the story?” Kai finished. He studied the pictures for a moment longer, the cabin falling silent save for the drone of the engines. Finally he looked up at Rick expectantly. “Well? How’d they know?”
“The North Porch construction was directed by Saint Bernard of Clairvaux…”
“Who,” Kai said, a grin slowly spreading on his bearded face, “just happened to be closely related to one of the original nine Templars.”
“Ok, but --”
“Who,” Kai went on, a bit louder, “had just gotten back from digging around in Jerusalem.”
“Yes, but --”
“And then suddenly,” Kai continued, practically shouting, “they become the most powerful organization in Europe, next to the Catholic church.”
Rick frowned at him. “Are you done?”
“Hey, I’m just putting the pieces together. It seems pretty obvious to me. The Templars found out where the Ark was from some scroll beneath the old Temple, and they used that information to get in the Pope’s good graces. And old Saint Bernie just couldn’t resist showing off, so he hides the secret on the front door of his brand new church.”
Rick had to admit, begrudgingly, it was starting to make sense. The anachronistic nature of the North Porch carvings couldn’t be ignored, and neither could the Templars’ rapid rise to power. Both André de Montbard and his nephew Saint Bernard had been educated men, both in service to God and the Church – it made sense that, if the Templars found something important in Jerusalem, Montbard would have shared it with his nephew. Especially since Bernard was a high-ranking member of the Catholic Church. He was in a position to run a good word about the Templars up the chain of command.
&nb
sp; Looking over the fragmented notes once more, it seemed to be exactly what the author was suggesting. And if it were true, then it would be independent confirmation of the Menelik story -- or at least, that the Ark had actually found its way to Ethiopia somehow. But it still left one glaring question.
“The Templars find out where the Ark is hidden,” Rick muttered. “But they don’t go get it. Why?”
“Maybe they couldn’t,” Kai suggested. “The story of Menelik’s pretty important to Ethiopian culture, right? Can’t see them giving up the Ark without a fight.”
“But the Templars were Crusaders. Conquerors. A fight wouldn’t have stopped them from bringing home the ultimate prize.”
“Something else, then. A change of heart?”
Rick doubted it. Again, it didn’t fit with the Crusader mentality. But neither did he doubt that the Templars had failed to recover the Ark. Assuming they had actually gone looking for it in the first place.
“That must be why they fell out of favor with the Church. Not because of the bullshit heresy charges brought against them, but because they couldn’t -- or wouldn’t -- bring back the Ark. If they knew where it was, they must have been holding the secret over the Papacy for two centuries, using it to squeeze as much power and money out of Europe as they could.”
“I can see how that would piss off the Pope, yeah.”
“Maybe, in the end, they didn’t even want the Ark. The power it gave them as a symbol was enough.”
The same sort of power that Ibis was after?
Kai grunted, then stretched and yawned loudly through his headset. “Their loss, right?”
Rick glanced at him. “So, what, now you’re convinced that the job is legit? By this stuff?”
“Too late to get cold feet, isn’t it? I’ll admit, the Templar thing swayed me.” He settled back in his seat, arms folded and eyes closed. “But if a bunch of badass knights couldn’t get the Ark out of Ethiopia, I’m not sure how we’ll manage it.”
Rick stared at him for a moment, then rolled up his laptop and packed it away. Darkness blanketed the cabin once more, broken by the flashing of the aircraft’s exterior lights. He let his gaze drift out through the window nearest him, not really seeing the thick tendrils of cloud and mist being pulled along the VTOL’s hull. One hand went inside his jacket, almost like a tick, and felt the hard square of the photo he had folded and placed in his pocket.
He could see it, hovering in the darkness before him – an apparition of gold.
Two-and-a-half cubits, by one-and-a-half, by one-and-a-half…
It was difficult to judge the exact dimensions through a photograph, but near as Rick could tell, the Ark in the picture matched the exact specifications laid out in the book of Exodus. That didn’t preclude it from being a replica, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about those measurements. They ran through his head like a mantra, as if by repeating them he could make it more real.
Two-and-a-half cubits, by one-and-a-half, by one-and-a-half…
He’d come around on these notes – but it was, ultimately, unnecessary. If he was being honest with himself, everything they had just worked out hadn’t changed a thing for him. Rick was already convinced; had been convinced since he first saw that photo, the photo he now kept on him at all times. He wanted to believe, and on some level he knew that was dangerous.
On another level, he didn’t care at all.
Two-and-a-half cubits, by one-and-a-half, by one-and-a-half…
Twelve
Chicago
Illinois, The Third Coast
Jane Baum’s condition did not improve, despite the best ministrations of the medical team devoted to her, all of whom had the extra motivation of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to spur them on. The usual treatments failed, as did the unusual ones. If there was a simple solution, they had tried it, and time was running out. Jane had to be moved to the emergency ward and hooked up to life support just to remain a breathing vegetable.
Booker was in Detroit for none of it. As soon as he’d contacted Helen that night to let her know what had happened, he’d been summoned back to Chicago. Away from Jane was the last place he had wanted to be, but Booker knew by now the wisdom of not arguing with ASAC Helen Martinez. So he caught a red-eye lake hopper and spent most of it reading the updates from the hospital that spooled across his lenses. His heart sank lower with each one.
“There’s going to be an OPR inquest,” were the first words Helen spoke to him when they met at the Field Office, less than a half-hour after his return to the city. “Tomorrow.”
Booker, who had barely shook the rain from his jacket, looked at her cautiously. “For what?”
“To understand how the Bureau managed to critically overlook the medical requirements of a CHS and let her slip into a diabetic coma while in the field.” Her voice was even and flat, as if she had no opinion about the matter whatsoever.
“Helen,” Booker said, trying to match her restraint and failing a little. “She’s not diabetic.”
A single eyebrow arched. Booker had to resist the impulse to flinch. “That’s not what I’m hearing.”
“I checked her records, and I know you did too. She’s never had a history of insulin disorders or hypoglycemia.”
“Right,” Helen said, still as cool as a cucumber, “which is why the CPD and D.A. are being pulled into this mess as well. Somewhere, someone fucked up. Dropped that key bit of info. OPR is out for blood. We’ll be lucky if this doesn’t become a national spectacle.”
He sat heavily in his chair. Helen remained standing beside her desk, watching him with slightly-widened eyes. Booker struggled for a moment with the words he wanted to say, then simply blurted them: “It wasn’t an accident.”
A flicker of emotion -- anger, annoyance, something else -- finally passed over her face. “I know what your theory is, Booker. Or rather, I know what that asshole doctor put in your head. I’ll have his job before this is over if I can manage it --”
“It’s not just a theory.”
“Oh?” The second eyebrow rose to join the first. She now looked as if he were recounting an encounter with a ghost. “So you have proof, then?”
“No,” he said, very slowly. “But her partners were killed. Then she just happens to develop Type 1 diabetes, the evening after we try to lure out that same murderer? Come on, Helen --”
“Don’t Come on, Helen me,” she snapped. For a moment it looked like she might begin shouting after all, but then she drew a deep breath and, very deliberately, sat behind her desk. “I will admit, it is a coincidence of cosmic fucking proportions. I hate coincidences, even when they’re small. But that doesn’t change what this is. Chance. Bad luck.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said at once, stubbornly.
“And I don’t care what you believe.”
He threw up his hands. “Why isn’t she recovering, then? If it’s just bad luck, just your everyday diabetic coma, why isn’t she responding to treatment?”
Helen’s lips formed a thin line. “According to the medical professionals, Booker, she was already close to the threshold of no return when she was brought in. There’s a very narrow window in which someone can be brought back without severe or fatal brain damage.”
He stared at her, ears ringing with what she hadn’t said. You were too slow. If you had moved a bit faster, been more observant instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you could have saved her. But you didn’t.
“So…what?” he said softly. “That’s it?”
“I don’t know.” Helen’s expression softened slightly. “Listen. I get it, alright? You want there to be some conspiracy behind this, some bad guy to chase down, because then it might stop feeling like it’s your fault.” She shrugged. “I’m telling you right now, it’s not something you need to carry on your own, to make a vendetta out of. That’s not how it works. This is ACT. We don’t get conspiracies.”
Booker didn’t say anything. After a moment, he excused himself to go grab
a coffee from upstairs. Instead, he got out of the elevator on B1, stepped into the stairwell, and pulled out his e-cig. The cartridge was almost empty, so he only got a few good pulls from it. They didn’t help much, either; if anything, they enhanced the nausea that had been burrowing into the pit of his stomach.
He leaned against the wall, thumping his head back, e-cig dangling from his lip. It’s not something you need to carry -- and -- You could have saved her. One, Helen had said aloud; the other, she’d let hang in the air. The truth was, it could be both things. It could be his fault, but not his burden. He could have done better, but he didn’t need to flagellate himself over it. Shit happened. Bad luck. Coincidence of cosmic fucking proportions.
Booker knew this, intellectually. It didn’t help. It didn’t quiet the part of his brain that was insisting, But maybe? But what if?
A Covenant of Thieves Page 18
