Silas swirled the caramel-colored liquid in the thick crystal tumbler with one hand, the ice no longer giving off the clinking sound after having melted. His mind was tripping over itself as it rushed forward to craft a believable story for why he was in the man's hotel room.
Not breaking eye contact with Pryce, he said, “I thought we needed to talk, face to face, before tomorrow.”
He couldn’t quite tell if Pryce was trying to suppress uncontrollable rage at Silas being in his room or was simply thoroughly shocked at finding someone in his room—much less enjoying his scotch.
The man slowly took off his jacket and slung it over the other overstuffed leather chair facing Grey. He took out his cufflinks one by one and set them on an end table, then walked over to the buffet underneath the window overlooking the city.
“What do you think we need to talk about?” he said flatly as he uncorked the bottle of Macallan. “And how the hell did you get into my room?”
Time to play this game carefully.
Silas took a long sip, then set down the heavy tumbler on a thick, marble coaster. "I sweet-talked one of the floor maids who had come in for the nighttime turndown service. Told her I was a long-lost friend who had come in town to surprise a guy who just made a monumental, history-changing discovery. Said the hotel front desk gave me his room number. Said he was told there might be someone upstairs for his turndown service and could let me in."
Pryce turned around and scoffed. “And she believed you?”
“Apparently.”
“That's frightenin'." He finished pouring himself his own tumbler of scotch, minus the ice, then sat in the chair opposite Silas.
“Let’s get down to it,” he said, his voice bowing low, his accent thickening. “What the hell do you want?”
The question seemed multilayered, beyond just “What the hell do you want right now?” But more of a general question of want that covered Silas’s entire reason for being in Jerusalem in the first place.
Does he know something about him and Celeste, more than he’s let on?
Silas took another long sip, then took an even longer breath. He exhaled, and said, “When I heard you on CNN a few days ago, I have to admit, I was jealous. There was even a part of me that wanted to punch you in the face.”
Pryce chuckled. So did Silas.
“Because you and I both know that your little project here is because of what I found back at Tell-es Sultan.”
The grin on Pryce’s face sunk. He narrowed his eyes and took a sip of his scotch, saying nothing.
Silas continued, "What you did, taking credit for my find, was wrong. But it also hurt. Because I had thought of you as a sort of a second uncle."
Pryce’s face brightened slightly. “You had? Why?”
He hesitated, then said, “I don't think I had mentioned it, but my father was military. So we moved around a lot and didn't see our family too often. Then he died at the Pentagon on 9/11.”
“My Lanta.” Pryce set down his tumbler and crossed his legs. He said softly, “No, I didn’t know.”
Silas grew silent, then took another mouthful of his drink. “We seemed to click, both in the classroom and at the dig. And we worked well together. So when you—When you, betrayed me…”
Pryce frowned, then took his own mouthful. “I’m not sure that's fair. It was my dig, and I had right-of-custody of whatever came of our excavating work. You knew that when you signed up to join me.”
Silas nodded. “I know. But I also wanted to tell you I'm fine now. And I'm thrilled with where it led, even if I didn't get any of the credit.”
His goal at that moment was to mollify the man, and Silas certainly was neither fine nor thrilled when he went into the conversation. But for some inexplicable reason, at that moment, the cloud of envious tension that he had been carrying with him all these years and that he had dragged with him to the Holy City had lifted. In his former life, he would have blamed it on the scotch, a temporary reprieve thanks to the alcohol. But he felt as if the Spirit of God himself had slapped him upside the head and taken away his offense.
What did it matter, anyway, that Pryce had taken credit for his discovery? The good Lord had blessed his life despite the professional slight. And all carrying around a chip on his shoulder against Pryce had done over the years was give him a backache. Besides, as Jesus himself said in John’s Gospel: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” He was the last person on God’s green earth who had the right to throw stones, that’s for sure. Not even at Pryce.
He breathed in deeply, took another sip of scotch, and offered a smile.
Pryce offered a weak smile back. “Well, thanks for that. But I do understand what you’re saying. And I’m sorry for what happened and how it happened—truly. But look at what it led to! It gave me the inspiration and academic gumption to go down this road.” He raised his glass. “So cheers to that.”
Silas raised his glass. “Cheers. And cheers to your work. It really is a remarkable achievement.”
They both drank. Then the two fell silent.
“Well, I should get out of your way.” Silas drained his glass, then stood. “You've got a big day tomorrow, and I should let you go. Sorry for barging into your room unannounced.”
Pryce stood and chuckled. “Thanks for stoppin’ by, Professor Grey. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
The two shook hands and Silas left, taking with him everything he needed to nail Pryce and uncover his true motives.
Silas looked back up to the third level as he raced down the white, marble stairs. He reached the lobby and searched for Celeste. Not seeing her, he rushed into the atrium, scanning benches at the perimeter and the tables where Pryce had been earlier.
Where is she?
“Silas!”
He startled, then turned around. Relief flooded his face.
“Why the bloody hell have you been dark? What happened? I’ve been worried sick!”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, leading her through the lobby and out the front door. The same doorman from earlier opened it for them. Silas nodded in thanks.
When they had reached the end of the block, he continued. “I had turned my phone off back at Pryce's tent after the low-battery alert sounded. Totally forgot to turn it back on.”
“Goodness, Silas. You gave me quite the fright.”
“I know. Bad move. Rookie move.” He extended his arm to hail a cab. “I didn’t see your texts until literally minutes before Pryce walked through his door.”
Celeste grabbed his arm. He glanced down. She smiled, then pulled back. “What happened? What did he say? Did you find anything?”
“Relax, I'm an old pro at this SEPIO breaking-and-entering business by now.” He grinned. She laughed. Then he reached into his pocket and held up his phone, his grin widening.
Her eyes widened, too. “You didn’t!”
A cab pulled up to the curb. “Oh, I did.” He opened the backseat door, and Celeste got in. He slid in beside her. “Found that large, mystery book I had been looking for, as well as a notebook filled with Pryce's research.”
“Where you go?” the cabbie barked in broken English.
“Old City. Chain Gate Hostel.”
The man grunted an acknowledgment and took off.
“What did it say?” she asked. “What was the book?”
“Not sure what that book is, but it sure is old. And the text is vaguely familiar, probably ancient Semitic. Didn’t get a chance to read the journal, but snapped as many pictures as I could.”
“Let’s have a look, then.”
He took out his phone and opened it to his photos. He scrolled to the beginning, to those taken of the mystery book.
The first image was of the cover, black and scarred with age. The next few were blurry, but another of the title page bore a curious seal and large, Semitic characters. No other markings or notations, and no use at all.
“Any idea what this might be?” he asked.
Celeste shook her head. “Keep scrolling. Maybe something will pop up.”
He did, encountering more blurry images from his rushed picture-taking, as well as some photos of the pages with beautiful marginal notes and more Semitic text. All indecipherable.
She said, “I haven’t a clue what I’m looking at. Do you?”
He shook his head in silence. He continued scrolling, but encountered more of the same. Until they got the images to Zoe, they were a dead end. “Hopefully Zoe and her team can make sense of these ancient chicken scratches.”
She gently punched his arm. “They aren’t chicken scratches. It’s obviously a holy book from an ancient culture. Be proper.”
Silas felt foolish and raised both hands slightly in surrender. “Sorry. Meant no disrespect. Let’s check out the journal entries.”
The first several were another batch of blurry images caught in the heat of the moment. But he did make a mental note to get a new phone because Apple wasn't living up to its picture-taking claims.
The next one was more promising. “I remember this one,” he said. “I thought it might be a hand-drawn map of some sort. Look.” He pointed to a squiggly line running down the center of the page, a river perhaps. There was a single dot a quarter of the way down, unfortunately unlabeled, and then the line split into two separate ones and then rejoined near the bottom. The whole thing was flanked on the right by pencil shading.
“Where do you suppose this indicates?” she asked.
Silas shook his head. “Could be anything. But that shaded part on the right seems significant, narrowing the possibilities. A body of water perhaps.”
Celeste sighed and shook her head, too. “Could be Egyptian, but could be Greek or Roman. Or even Indian. That shaded part could be the Sea of Galilee, or maybe the Dead Sea.”
“I don’t know…that would have to make the squiggly line a road of some sort. Which definitely could be the case. But then where? Jerusalem, maybe?”
The two sat in silence, trying to make out the map.
“Keep flipping through the pictures of the journal,” she said. “Maybe something else will be of use.”
Another few photos over, they landed on some promising intel. At the top were two words: Shishak and Chartres. Shishak was circled several times over, as if Pryce had wanted to highlight it and emphasize it. Silas’s heart beat faster at the revelation. He could taste the significance. He smiled at the find and possibility of gaining the upper hand on Pryce. Underneath were a number of notations he had made, but they were indecipherable from the image that was captured.
“What do you make of that word there?” Celeste asked pointing to the encircled Shishak.
“Not sure, but it’s obviously significant.”
“And what of the connection between a thirteenth-century French cathedral and the Ark?” She said, her face twisting in puzzlement at the mention of Chartres.
Silas said nothing.
“And look.” She pointed at the screen, where there were two other words with no further explanation. Or rather two other names.
Bernard of Clairvaux and Wolfram von Eschenbach.
Silas leaned back and looked at Celeste with a mixture of confusion and surprise.
Clairvaux he knew. He had studied the eleventh- and twelfth-century Cistercian monk and mystic in graduate school, though he hadn't paid much attention to him. The other name looked German, but he hadn't heard of him before. Certainly hadn't heard of either of their connection to the ancient Hebrew relic.
A dread began churning within his belly that things were not as they seemed. It was clear from the beginning that Pryce was up to something. And these names, of books and cathedrals and people, indicated something way beyond a simple archaeological discovery.
These images changed everything about what they were investigating.
Suddenly, the car stopped. Silas looked up smiling at their discovery. But it quickly faded, replaced with a scowl of confusion.
They were not at their hostel. They weren’t even in the Old City.
As he looked at Celeste, panic turned into recognition, the driver pivoted around sharply holding a gun.
“Get out, Mr. Grey.” He was training the weapon inches from Celeste’s head. “Slowly. And don’t do anything stupid.”
Major fail, Grey!
Silas slid his phone into his pocket, then opened the door and slowly exited the vehicle, jaw locked with narrow eyes trained on the gunman.
The man opened his door, eyes trained on Silas, gun trained on Celeste.
“Now your turn, Ms. Bourne. Get out.”
She looked at Silas, mouth slightly agape, chest rising and falling rapidly. He smiled slightly, then nodded. She opened the door and slid out, the gunman exiting in sync.
He waved the gun at Celeste, motioning her to join Silas. “Move over next to your partner. Both of you keep your hands where I can see them.”
Neither of them could have done anything anyway since they both left their weapons safely stowed in their room.
“Now hand it over. Set the phone on the roof of the car, then walk back to the curb underneath that street lamp.”
The man motioned toward Silas with his weapon. He didn’t move. He kept his eyes trained on the man, hands at his side. “Who are you? You working for Pryce?”
The man scoffed. “Pryce is just one man in an ocean of ambition.”
“So you’re Nous.”
The man's eyes flinched slightly, revealing a glimmer recognition. “Put the phone on the roof of the car, then walk backward. Or I blow both of your heads off.” He outstretched his weapon toward Celeste. “Beginning with this pretty little thing.”
Celeste clenched her teeth and narrowed her eyes. “Do it,” she whispered. “We saw what we needed. We’ll take it from there.”
He looked at her and sighed. Every fiber of his Ranger-trained being wanted to chuck it at the man and start a fight.
One he knew he’d lose.
Instead, he slowly stepped forward and reached over the passenger’s side, placing the black device on the roof. Then he and Celeste backed up to the curb, as the man demanded.
The gunman inched forward, his weapon arm stiffly trained on the pair. He climbed on the edge of the opened driver's side door, then reached for the phone. When he did, Silas thought he caught glimpse of an unmistakable tattoo peeking underneath the man's coat sleeve as his pale arm stretched forward over the roof under the lamplight. Two intersecting lines bent at the corners. The Phoenix symbol of Nous.
The man grabbed the phone. He grinned with satisfaction, then hopped down and quickly jumped inside the cab. He started the car and drove away.
Silas cursed loudly. Celeste echoed him.
Score one for Nous.