“And this…diplomacy,” Estelle said, feeling her heart thud against the inside of her breast. “Did it ever take him to Africa? To Ethiopia?”
Something like a wince of pain crossed Nasim’s face. “Yes,” she said softly. “It did.”
“Which is where he got sick.”
“I know,” Nasim said. “And I have regretted allowing him to go ever since. Your father was insatiable when he set his mind to something -- surely you know that -- but still…I should have stood my ground.”
Estelle drew a shaky breath. “I see.”
Nasim surprised her by reaching across the table and taking her hand. Her own was soft and warm and oddly comforting, despite the fact that they had only just met, and that the woman had almost admitted responsibility for Martin Kingston’s death. But that was ridiculous, Estelle knew immediately. Nasim was right, there was no talking her father out of something once he’d decided on it. It seemed that really was why he’d lied to her about his latest trip. To avoid the same argument he’d undoubtedly had with Nasim. It made her feel oddly guilty.
Why didn’t you tell me about any of this? Had it simply been because he felt she wouldn’t understand? Wouldn’t care?
For the first time Estelle became aware of a gulf that had existed between her and her dad, a separation of their lives. It had always been there, despite their closeness, silent but impassable. It was only now, when it was too late, that she’d been afforded the proper perspective to see it.
Estelle took another, somewhat-steadier breath, and looked up to find Nasim watching her, concerned. It was less annoying on her face than it had been on the faces of her coworkers. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course.” Nasim gave her hand a squeeze, then released it, sitting back. “To be honest, my motivations are at least partially selfish. As you’re aware, Martin seems to have…well, lost the majority of his research prior to his death.”
“The hard drive,” Estelle said, hurrying to catch up. “Yes. Although…”
“Yes?” Nasim raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“Well…I’m not sure if he lost it, per se. His entire OS had been reformatted. It seems like he erased it on purpose.” Estelle frowned. “Why would he do that?”
It was a moment before Nasim responded. When she did, Estelle had the impression she was choosing her words very carefully. “Martin…became convinced, in the course of this last venture, that we had attracted the attention of…hostile parties.”
Estelle went very still. “Hostile?”
“Pharos deals with the transportation of valuable objects. Art, artifacts, documents. Things worth a lot of money to the black market. We’ve dealt with smugglers and tomb robbers before, usually with the help of whichever government we’re collaborating with at the time. It’s never become too dangerous -- only, this last job was…different.”
“Different how?”
Nasim cleared her throat, glancing to the side. Estelle suddenly became aware of how empty the restaurant and the park were around them. “Have you ever heard of the Ark of the Covenant?”
“The -- I’m sorry, what?”
Nasim smiled. “That’s the reaction I expected.”
“No, I’ve heard of it, from church, I just --” Estelle blinked. “Wait. You’re not telling me…my father…”
“I’m afraid I am,” Nasim said, her smile almost apologetic. “There is a church in the northern highlands of Ethiopia, in a small town called Axum, that has claimed to have the Ark in its possession for -- well, a long time, as I understand it.”
This has become a very bizarre day. Estelle found that she was smiling as well, out of sheer disbelief. “And my father -- what, wanted to go get it?”
“Well, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Ethiopia has been embroiled in civil unrest for several years now. Tigray, in particular, has seen some heavy fighting between Ethiopian military and a group of rebels. And it just so happens that Axum --”
“Is in Tigray,” Estelle guessed.
Nasim nodded. “Your father thought that if there was even a chance of the real Ark of the Covenant being in Axum, then recovering it should be a top priority of Pharos, before it accidentally gets blown up or whatever. The Ethiopian government had made no such efforts since the beginning of their conflict, so your father took it upon himself to broach the subject.”
“Of course he did,” Estelle said with a small laugh. She could only imagine the mania Martin Kingston must have been in, frothing at the mouth over such a valued Biblical object.
“Things were going smoothly,” Nasim continued. “We were nearing a contract with the government to aid in the extraction and relocation of the Ark to Addis Ababa. Then, about three weeks ago, your father became convinced that our activities had attracted the attention of hostile parties.”
“What does that mean?”
“Thieves. Smugglers. Maybe the Tigray rebels. I’m not certain, and neither was Martin, I don’t think. Either way, he was worried that his actions to confirm the existence of the Ark had inadvertently exposed it to theft. He thought we should either accelerate the timeline, or abandon the effort altogether.” Nasim sighed. “I’m afraid he may have settled on the latter. It would explain why he destroyed his research.”
Time for a change. It certainly lined up with Estelle’s last conversation with her father. If he had become disillusioned with an effort to recover the legendary Ark of the Covenant, she could see how it might have made him reconsider his entire life’s work.
But that doesn’t explain why his medical tag was deregistered, a small voice nagged. But…maybe that had just been an accident. A glitch, as Yves Poirier and Uncle Francis had suggested…
“It’s a lot to take in,” Estelle admitted.
“I understand.” Nasim took a breath. “But, hopefully not too much. The reason I’m telling you all this, apart from your right to know, is because I was hoping to bring you in on Pharos. To help finish what your father started.”
This, somehow, was the most surprising thing she’d heard all day. Up until now there had been a certain sense of detachment from it all “Oh. I – I mean, I’m honored by the offer, and I… But my current projects –”
“Can be put on hold. Or reassigned. Let me be clear -- this would be a step up for you. It would come with a considerable bump in your salary, plus access to certain benefits. You’d be working directly with me, on something I feel is quite important.”
Estelle couldn’t see how much of a step up it would really be. The project, as Nasim had described it, seemed rather small and niche. Then again, it also seemed to be closer to a hobby than a business venture. “To be honest, I’m not sure what I can bring to the table. I’m a data analyst --”
“There’s plenty of data to be analyzed,” Nasim said with a wry smile.
“But I’ve been in Futurology ever since I joined the company. That’s kind of the opposite of my father’s work. We’ve always been opposites, really. Him in the past, me looking towards the future.”
“A new perspective would certainly be welcome. And you’re not quite as different as you might suspect. Martin always told me he thought you’d be a valuable asset to Pharos.”
“He did?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.
“And,” Nasim continued, “if I’m being completely transparent, there is a more immediate benefit in bringing you on. You see, your father’s work relied as much on interpersonal relationships as it did on his research. The connections he formed with governments were crucial to achieving our goals, and sometimes those connections needed to be made under the radar. No matter who we convinced, there almost always remained some sort of opposition. He had a contact, in Ethiopia, who was the crux of our operation. Someone named Prester John. It sounds like an alias to me. This contact, at any rate, was very cautious. He allowed us to circumnavigate the zones of strongest resistance, find more sympathetic ears. But he never wanted to work with anyone but your father. And whe
n Martin died…”
“You lost that connection,” Estelle finished.
“Along with all of the ground we’d gained. Martin’s research is an enormous loss as well, but without Prester John, we’ll never be able to solidify our contract with the Ethiopian government and get close to the Ark.”
“Maybe…maybe you shouldn't?” Estelle suggested. “I mean, if my dad thought it was being placed in danger…”
“I agree with his assessment. And I empathize with his passion. But, in my opinion, not proceeding with the plan is the worst thing we can do. I am certain your father was able to confirm the Ark’s existence, with the help of Prester John. If we abandon the project, then it will be open season for any thief or vandal who catches wind.” Her mouth twisted as she said this, as if tasting something foul.
It made sense, more or less. Still, Estelle sensed there was something she wasn’t being told, though she couldn’t quite imagine what that would be. “So…what exactly do you want me to do?”
“Reconnect with Prester John. You are Martin Kingston’s daughter. If he will trust and speak to anybody, it will be you.”
“Go to Ethiopia,” Estelle said. She hoped she didn’t sound as nervous as the thought made her feel.
“Only to Addis Ababa,” Nasim assured her. “The capital. It’s quite safe, very far from any fighting. All you would need to do is meet with Prester John, convince him to work with us again, to see the project to its completion. You’d be away for a week, at the very most.”
Estelle nodded slowly, more to indicate her comprehension than her agreement. The excitement she had felt at learning the truth behind her father’s activities was giving way to trepidation. Go to Ethiopia. That was…well, it was a big departure from her usual schedule. Pretty much the exact opposite of what she felt she needed right now. Her life required more normalcy, not less. Even a week was a long time to be away. She’d need to figure out what to do with the next phase of the fusion research and the Chen portfolio. Plus, she’d need a sitter for Toulouse. And if it really was dangerous, as her father seemed to have thought…
“All I’m asking,” Nasim said, leaning forward slightly, eyes earnest, “is that you help me complete your father’s work. Whatever his feelings in the end, I know he would have wanted to see the Ark kept safe. And I know he would have chosen you as his successor, to see it through. Once this is done, you can return to your normal role in the Futurology Lab, if you wish. Just…consider this a personal favor.”
A favor for Nasim al-Faradi. Estelle never would have dreamed of such a request.
“Think about it,” Nasim said, sitting back. She checked her wristband with the air of someone concluding a meeting. “Sleep on it, if you need to. Whatever you decide is perfectly fine. I understand that you’re still coping with --”
Complete your father’s work. A way to cross the gulf. Late, too late. But better than never.
“I’ll do it.”
Part II
Blood and Gold
The Mizraim call it “Iteru.” It is their lifeblood, the great tributary that flows from the Land of Punt and feeds the wheel of empires. Without the Iteru, perhaps the pharaohs never would have crawled out of the desert to fashion their great cities. Perhaps my people never would have suffered such hardships, such slavery.
Yet now as I look upon it, a band of glistening blue sapir winding through the lushness of the jasper valley, I feel the same kinship with the Iteru that every Mizraim must know from birth. It is the land of our old enemy, true. But it was also the home of Moshe. I feel his spirit upon these waters, among this oasis. The road has been hard, and with Babel at our back it is the first refuge I have known since that terrible night.
Is it here? The Throne of Adonai? Jeremiah believed it to be, and so I must. The Levites are less certain; their hearts are young and impatient, and the journey has taken its toll. I find myself strangely enervated. Tired, yes. But not ready for sleep. Not when we are so close to the end.
Fourteen
Bole International Airport
Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
Estelle stepped onto the black tarmac, trading the cool interior of the LSB-3 ion-driven jet for a world full of heat and blazing light. Her glasses darkened immediately, bringing the flat expanse of the private charter runway into view. A black government-type car pulled up beside the jet. To her surprise, the front window rolled down to reveal a human driver.
“Miss Estelle Kingston?” the man called.
“Yes?”
“I am your ride.” He hopped out of the car and immediately began to load her duffel into the trunk. Estelle made to open one of the rear doors, but he hustled over and insisted on opening it for her. Feeling more than a little punch-drunk, Estelle ducked inside.
“Anything I can get for you, miss?” the driver asked as he slid behind the wheel. “Water? Tej? There are bottles in the cooler by your feet. Any music? Is the temperature to your liking?”
“No – yes. It’s fine, I mean. I’m fine, thank you.”
“As you say, miss!”
They pulled away from the glistening jet, crossing the tarmac at a speed belied by the smoothness of the ride. Estelle removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes, working her fingers back along her temples. It wasn’t just the sun or the heat; she’d been feeling punch-drunk ever since she’d left Paris six or so hours ago.
Nasim al-Faradi had offered her the evening to look over what documents Pharos retained from her father’s work, but Estelle had insisted that she could review them in the air. She had been anxious to leave immediately, mostly because she knew that the longer she had to sit around and contemplate the trip, the more likely she was to talk herself out of it entirely.
So, after quickly stuffing some clothes in a duffel and asking Isa to watch Toulouse while she went on leave, she’d caught a car to Charles de Gaulle. Nasim put Estelle on her own private jet that same evening. And now here she was, in a foreign land, being driven to meet with an unknown person and ask them if her father really had discovered the final resting place of the Ark of the Covenant.
It wasn’t something she ever expected to get used to.
In her father’s notes – the ones he’d uploaded to the Pharos shared servers before his death, at least – his Ethiopian contact went by the name “Prester John.” Attached to the name had been an email address: [email protected]. Nobody in Pharos had dared to use it since Martin Kingston’s death, lest they inadvertently sever their last tie to the Ark. The honor had been left to Estelle. She had begun typing up a tentative message midflight, introducing herself, before scrapping it altogether. Anybody could write an email; she needed something more personal. So she composed a short video message instead.
“My name is Estelle Kingston,” she said into the camera. “I believe you knew my father, Martin. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he passed away four days ago. I was hoping we could meet. I know you were working on something very important together. It was important to me as well.”
That last part had felt awkward, and more than a little like a lie. But Estelle couldn’t think of anything better. And, as it happened, she’d needn’t worry. Twenty minutes after sending it, she received a text reply. There would be a car waiting for her as soon as she landed.
Now, sitting in the back of that car, she still had no idea where she was going. Prester John had insisted on secrecy. It added to her dizzying sense of dislocation. She’d been in Paris only hours ago, and now she was off on what amounted to a secret mission. The longer she had to think about it, the less Estelle was certain of her own motivations. What was she doing here? What was she really hoping to achieve? It wasn’t as if, by finding the Ark, she’d gain some insight into why her father had felt the need to keep secrets from her. None of this would bring him back.
She knew all that. And yet she was here, feeling strongly that she had to be here.
After driving for some time, which Estelle spent most of with her eyes closed, the car
pulled off the busy downtown street onto a drive shaded by trees. To the right, set back in the thick vegetation, was a bungalow-type building with thatch rooftops and a gaudy red sign that identified it as the LUCY LOUNGE & RESTAURANT.
This is where Prester John wanted to meet?
But they drove past and continued on to a larger parking lot. There was another sign, much more modest:
WELCOME TO THE NATIONAL MUSEUM OF ETHIOPIA
“Here we are, miss,” the driver announced.
Estelle peered through the window. The parking lot was mostly empty; she could see only a handful of people milling about the museum grounds. It seemed a more fitting place than the LUCY LOUNGE & RESTAURANT, but she still hesitated. “Thank you. Is…where exactly am I supposed to go?”
The driver shrugged cheerfully. “No idea, miss. I only drive ’em. I expect you’ll be found. Don’t worry, I’ll wait.”
Great. She stepped outside and immediately began to sweat. God, it was hot everywhere these days, but at least Paris was never so humid. Even her tech jacket’s thermoregulating fabric only went so far. She retrieved her duffel, shrugged out of her jacket and stuffed it into the bag. There were crescents of sweat in her light yellow blouse, but she was too hot to feel embarrassed.
There was no one waiting to greet her. Estelle glanced back at the car, but the driver had turned up the tunes and was jamming out with both hands on the steering wheel. Sighing, she put her bag back in the car and ventured onto the grounds, following a broad walkway lined by palms and low, spiky plants. She passed a modern-looking building with a sign designating it as a research center. The museum itself was decidedly less shiny. It reminded her a bit of a fortress: solid, somewhat imposing walls of what looked like granite, with tall narrow windows that could have been murder holes. A mosaic mural above the entrance depicted an arrangement of artifacts and cultural iconography, with the centerpiece being a fragmented, humanoid skeleton. Lucy the famous hominid, she supposed; it would explain the restaurant.
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