“They took what?" Silas exclaimed, sitting across from Celeste in the corner at a small café down the road from the Western Wall. After meeting with Pryce, the two decided they needed to regroup and figure out a strategy to get to the bottom of what he was after. It was clear from their conversation that something else lay beneath the surface. They had planned on going back to the dig site to leverage their all-access pass for all it was worth.
Until Radcliffe called to update them on the events in Rome.
“What happened?” Celeste asked.
“You knew about us dispatching Gapinski and the new recruit, Naomi Torres, to Rome. Ever since the Shroud and Holy Sepulcher incidents earlier in the year, and then the dreadful business with the apostle relics this summer, we have been tracking Nous cells throughout the world, but particularly hotspots of religious significance to the Christian faith. A few days ago, we had gotten word that a high-ranking Nous operative had left Berlin for Rome.”
“How high?” she asked.
“One of the Thirteen. Marwan Farhad. ”
Celeste whistled.
“Why’s that so significant?” Silas asked.
“Apart from the Council of Five, the Thirteen is the group of highest-ranking associates of Nous that executes their missions. We know little about Farhad, other than he’s a Persian who fled persecution from the Iranian Mullahs as a Zoroastrian prophet.”
“Why was he in Rome?”
Radcliffe answered, “We hadn’t fully understood the reason when we dispatched Gapinski and Torres. Their mission in Rome was meant to be a simple tracking exercise. We thought maybe he was meeting another associate, or perhaps an important informant. Maybe we would get a few opportunities to eavesdrop in on a conversation or two. Instead, they followed Farhad to a church. Before Zoe could explain where he was heading off to, we lost communication with them, and a team of Nousati stormed the church and took one of the Passion relics. The scourging pillar.”
“All the markings of Nous, for sure,” Celeste said.
Silas closed his eyes, pained by the revelation. He remembered well the black-and-white speckled marble when he visited the Chapel of Saint Zeno during his pilgrimage, imagining his Savior being torn apart like a slab of beef in a slaughtering house.
Before a crucifixion, guards would often flog their victims with a device called a flagrum, a wooden handle of several strips of leather with pieces of sharpened metal and hooks attached. Soldiers would whip their victims with the device, destroying their backs, ripping out chunks of their scalp and the side of their face—all while they were securely restrained against a stone or marble post.
Like the one contained in the reliquary at the Church of Saint Praxedis.
As tradition has it, Jesus was attached to that marble post, then flogged for hours. He was so physically incapable of carrying his cross beam to the site of his crucifixion after the experience that one of the guards pulled someone out of the crowd to force him to carry it for him.
Silas gritted his teeth. “So basically you're telling us that Gapinski lost one of the most important memory-markers of the Christian faith.”
Celeste threw him a look, then said, “What are we doing about this, Radcliffe? Nous can’t get away with this.”
“We’re already on it, Celeste. I have Zoe reviewing CCTV footage and images from nation-state and commercial satellite coverage of the area to locate the van. And Gapinski and Torres are already mobilizing. But…”
Radcliffe faded, going silent.
Celeste glanced at Silas, sharing a look of concern. “Radcliffe? You there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
Silas said, “Then what aren’t you telling us?”
“There’s been an explosion of chatter on all fronts. And then there have been unconfirmed reports coming out of Africa of attacks on some of the Orthodox churches there.”
“Africa?” Silas said, twisting his face in confusion.
“Probably unrelated, as the region has been a hotbed of anti-Christian activity of late by Islamic extremists. It’s all happening rather quickly. We’ll let you know more, but I have to say that the timing of this is highly suspicious. What with Pryce’s unveiling in the coming day.”
Silas nodded at Celeste. He had to agree.
“Speaking of which, have you made progress on the Western Wall front?”
Celeste said, “We made contact with Pryce. He’s…colorful.”
Silas smiled. "That's generous. He was sure surprised to see me, and I think we did our best to cover our intentions. We did score all-access passes from the man. So I'd say that's a win."
“I must say,” Celeste added, “that given the known Nous connection reported on by our embedded agent, God rest his soul. Or at least some sort of connection with Nous, I have to believe Pryce is going put together our connection with SEPIO and the Order. If he hasn’t done so already.”
“What’re your next steps, then?” Radcliffe asked. “I assume with the pass you’ve been given access to the unveiling tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said, “we definitely plan to be at the unveiling.”
“That’s not enough,” Silas interjected.
She turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“Given the activity at Saint Praxedis and the level of activity of Nous cells around the world, there is something bigger going on.”
“What are you thinking, Silas?” Radcliffe asked.
“Not sure entirely, but among some ancient-looking maps and schematics for the city and Temple I saw a book open on Pryce’s work table in the main tent when we were talking with him.
“A book? What kind? Did you get a read on it?”
"I only caught a glance and wasn't close enough to read. But I would say it's old. Maybe thirteenth or fourteenth century. I did see the typography, however, and it looked to be ancient Semitic."
“The ancient languages of the Middle East?”
“Exactly. I say we go back for a closer look. Maybe try and have a look around some of the workstations for some intel on Pryce's operation.”
Celeste nodded in agreement. “No use sitting around until tomorrow. Given what SEPIO is tracking and given what just transpired in Rome, it’s time we step up our engagement with the good professor’s little project.”
“What do you have in mind?” Silas asked.
“Why don't we rummage around the site for a while and see if there's anything we can hear or find? Surely these all-access passes are good for something.”
He smiled. “I like the way you think.”
“Me too,” Radcliffe said. “But be careful. No use blowing your cover before the big day tomorrow.”
“Agreed,” Celeste said. “We’re going dark with our communication until after the unveiling. This place has to be crawling with Nousati. And the fact our room at the hostel was almost broken into, I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Report back tomorrow, or the minute you've learned anything more. Godspeed, you two.”
Celeste ended the call, then leaned back in her chair. “You ready for some more field work?”
Silas stood. “Bring it.”
Silas and Celeste left the café as the sun was slipping beneath the outer wall of the Old City, casting buckets of oranges, yellows, and reds across the clear, blue sky. They made their way back to the Western Wall Plaza, wading through crowds of people seemingly from all corners of the earth. No doubt drawn to Pryce's spectacle. Who could blame them? Discovering and unearthing the Ark would go down as a significant, historical achievement. Silas was not a little irritated it wasn't his doing.
As they pushed through the crowd, he wondered how they would take the unveiling. Surely those gathering inside the city were interested in the Ark for different reasons, all with differing agendas and religious commitments. He worried the stage was being set for an epic showdown, and bringing the Ark to light would be the match that set the whole region ablaze.
The media were out in full force, reporting live from the array of cameras splayed around the plaza. Tourists and other interested onlookers were milling about trying to catch a glimpse of the action. Others were simply the religiously devoted, there to pray as spiritual seekers.
Silas said a prayer of his own as they walked past the smaller tent of Pryce’s staging grounds and toward the entrance to the larger one, crossing himself on instinct from his childhood Catholic faith.
They reached the entrance just as their good friend with the shiny, eight-ball head, Oliver Tulu, was coming out, head down and studying his clipboard, nearly running into the pair.
“Excuse me,” the man said in irritation, then startled and stopped. He hugged his clipboard to his chest, and said, “Pardon me, professor. I didn’t see you there. Miss,” he said, nodding toward Celeste. “I trust you had a good and fruitful conversation with Professor Pryce earlier.”
Silas said, “Oh yes. Very good. Very fruitful.”
“Good, good.” He stood in the entrance, his lanky figure towering over them and white teeth gleaming in a fixed, forced smile.
“In fact, we were just heading back to see him now.”
“Oh, I am sorry, but the professor has left for the day and will not be returning until tomorrow’s unveiling.”
“That is disappointing.”
He continued to stand in the doorway, immobile, immovable. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thanks. We’ll catch him at the ceremony tomorrow.”
The two left back where they came. Silas glanced back as they rounded the smaller tent. Tulu was still eyeing them as they turned the corner.
“Well, that went nowhere fast,” Celeste said.
“Come over here,” he said, stopping at the corner of the tent. “I have an idea.”
He walked along the thick canvas to the back where it met the old, sand-colored structures. There was enough of a gap between the building and the tent to fit through, so Silas stepped inside.
She glanced backward. Satisfied no one had seen them, she followed him through.
The temperature had to have been fifteen to twenty degrees warmer. Between the tightly enclosed space and the heat, Silas felt a panic attack setting in. Not having his little, blue pills, he focused on breathing as he moved through the gap, squeezing through the hot, cramped space of rock and canvas. He stopped suddenly, then stooped to the ground.
“Do you hear that?”
Celeste cocked her head to listen. “A generator?”
“Air conditioning unit. That might be our way inside. Come on.”
He pressed forward, carefully squeezing through the gap so as not to attract attention from the other side.
They came to the end of the longest side of the small tent and found the beginning of Pryce's larger one. In between was a narrow, twelve-foot canvas tent hallway adjoining the two tents.
And there it was, humming away. A large unit embedded in the side of the canvas wall of Pryce’s workspace, about half the size of a person.
Silas smiled in satisfaction and relief at coming out of the tight-squeeze space. He hustled over to inspect the air-conditioning unit, running his hands around the edges and to the bottom.
“There we go. What I suspected.”
Celeste crouched, inspecting what he found. There was a Velcro slit at the bottom holding the canvas together around the unit to create a seal.
“We used these same types of tents in Iraq as mobile command centers. And the god-awful heat required the same kinds of air-conditioning units, embedded into the tent with Velcro.”
“So we undo the Velcro and slip inside. Brilliant!”
Silas nodded. “That's the idea. Let's hope there's no one on the other side. Or else things are going to get real awkward real quick.”
He crouched down to his belly and slid underneath the large unit sticking out of the tent. It was two feet off the ground and supported by a platform, with a horizontal strip of Velcro holding the tent together. He carefully undid the flap and slid a finger down the seal a few inches. Pulling it back, he peered inside.
From this angle, he could see the legs of several tables and chairs. A few people were standing on the other side of the vast interior around a large work table with a few more seated. Other than that, it looked mostly empty. Unfortunately, there wasn't any barrier between them and the rest of the room. Once they committed to slipping inside, it was do or die.
Just then his phone gave a slight, but audible, ping.
He quickly closed the flap, then slid back.
“What was that?” she asked.
He pulled out his phone, then frowned. “Battery indicator. Less than twenty percent left.” He turned it off, then shoved it back in his pants.
No more room for error.
Then he got back on his stomach and slid back to the opening. He carefully peeled back the flap, checked the surroundings, then undid the rest of the Velcro seal. Celeste pulled back the two-foot flap as he slid inside. She quickly followed. When she did, the unit suddenly shut off.
Startled, Silas shuffled up off the ground, then pulled Celeste inside and up to her feet.
He felt exposed in the silence, as much as the wide-open space. To the side was a kitchenette with a large water cooler and a countertop with hot coffee. He quickly reached for the pot and a Styrofoam cup. Even though coffee was the last thing he wanted, he poured himself a cup, then handed one to Celeste.
He turned around and leaned against the countertop as she followed his lead, trying to act as if he had been there the whole time, dutifully preparing for the big day and needing a coffee break. The group around the large table across the way never looked over at them.
Suddenly, a man walked toward them, one of the young, Indiana Jones wannabes.
Have we been made?
He seemed to be picking up his pace. He was looking at Silas, then opened his phone. When the man came over, he nodded a greeting to Silas.
Silas smiled and nodded back, then took a swig of the thick, black brew. “Nectar of the gods,” he said raising his cup.
The man offered a weak smile, then poured his own cup. He was jabbering in another language into his mobile. Celeste said hello, then took a sip herself. He nodded to her as he continued talking, doctoring his coffee with cream and way too much sugar. Then he hustled over to the group huddled in the back corner.
Silas closed his eyes, then sighed audibly. “That was close. A few seconds more and we would have been busted.”
“Let’s have a look at the professor’s table,” Celeste said, “Then let’s get on our way.”
She strolled over toward the center of the space where Pryce had set up shop. Holding her coffee with one hand, she slung the all-access pass around her neck and prominently displayed it in case anyone had questions. Silas did the same.
They reached Pryce’s table, but there was nothing there. No maps, no schematics, no notebooks.
And no mysterious, ancient book with Semitic text.
“Are you kidding me?” Silas mumbled as he searched Pryce’s desk, then bookcases. A few members of the group in the corner glanced their way, but he played like he belonged there, slowing down his search.
Celeste sat in Pryce’s leather chair as Silas continued. He glanced over at the group in the corner as he worked. They were back to whatever it was they were so concerned with. He opened the middle drawer and rummaged through its contents. Mostly pens and paperclips and rubber bands. He brought out a small stack of papers, and something fell to the Persian rug.
Celeste got out of the chair and retrieved it. It was black and made of plastic, about the size of a credit card.
Or a keycard to a hotel room.
She smiled and quickly got up off the ground, then headed for the exit. He shoved the papers back into the drawer and followed after her back into the Western Wall Plaza.
Another score for SEPIO.