7 |
7 |London, England Present Day
Dawit Ganno watched as the taxi pulled over, Father Amanuel climbing out moments later before ascending a set of steps. A man answered the door, and the elderly priest entered, as if expected. He turned to his driver, a local man with Ethiopian ties, provided in advance by the Ethiopian Friendship Center.
An organization that knew nothing of the order, or their mission.
“What address is that?”
The driver pointed at the GPS. “It’s right there. Number”—he peered out the window, squinting against the dark and the heavy rain—“1502.”
“Can you get me the name of who lives there?”
His driver eyed him with suspicion. “Why? Are you some sort of copper?”
“Yes.”
The lie satisfied the young man, and he pulled out his phone, something far fancier than his own, and began tapping away at it. Moments later, he held it up. “Looks like some bloke named Ullendorff.”
Ganno’s heart hammered at the name, his eyes widening. It had never occurred to him that Father Amanuel might visit the one man who knew the secret that shouldn’t.
“Do you know the guy?”
Ganno ignored the question as his eyes narrowed. It didn’t make sense. Lieutenant Ullendorff had seen the relic in World War Two, and it was unlikely he was alive today.
He turned to the driver. “How old would you say the man was that answered the door?”
The driver shrugged. “I don’t know. Sixties?”
“That’s what I thought as well.”
“Is he who you’re looking for?”
“I’m not sure.” He nodded toward the phone. “Can you bring up an obituary on a Lieutenant Ullendorff?”
The driver’s eyebrows rose, but he complied, and moments later he was reading the highlights, the man having died in 2011, leaving a son behind. “That must be the son’s house.”
Ganno pursed his lips, unsure of what to do. Lieutenant Ullendorff knew their secret through chance. He had gone public with it, then recanted, thanks to efforts by the Keepers and Ganno’s ancestors. It was likely the son knew the story, though didn’t believe it.
Yet the question remained.
What possible business could Father Amanuel have with the son of the one man they had left alive over seventy years ago?
“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
Steven Ullendorff smiled, taking Father Amanuel’s coat and hanging it up. “It’s my pleasure, Father. It’s not every day one gets a phone call from a priest requesting an audience.”
Ullendorff led him into a humble sitting room, his wife, already introduced at the door, bringing in a tea service. Poured, he clasped the cup with both hands, its warmth welcome, the chill and damp of an English evening something he had never experienced. He took a sip and smiled his appreciation at Mrs. Ullendorff, then dashed her hopes of an entertaining interlude.
“May we speak alone, Mr. Ullendorff. I’m afraid this is a very private matter.”
Ullendorff’s eyes widened and he exchanged a glance with his wife. “A private matter? With you? No offense, Father, but, umm, you’re not exactly from these parts. What possible business could we have?”
“It’s regarding your father.”
His eyes widened further, a shaky nod escaping before he ushered his protesting wife up the stairs.
“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Ullendorff, but it was necessary.” Amanuel lowered his voice. “Did your father ever tell you about his time in Ethiopia?”
Ullendorff shook his head. “No, beyond that he was there during the war.” His eyes narrowed. “Why, did something happen while he was there?”
Relief swept over Amanuel at the news. The elder Ullendorff had kept his promise, though only after being reminded of the original broken oath made to a layman years ago. Amanuel hadn’t been involved, though whatever had been said was enough for the man to later recant, at great risk to his reputation, preserving the secret of a discovery that could have made him famous the world over.
Perhaps he was simply a good man.
He looked about the room, noting several texts displayed with prominence, dealing with what appeared to be archaeology, with the son’s name on the cover. “I see you followed in your father’s footsteps.”
“Yes, in part. Obviously, I chose archaeology as my profession, not the military, whereas my father had no choice at the time but to put his ambitions aside.”
Amanuel nodded slowly. “In war, much is demanded of us. But it is your archaeology expertise that I have a need for.”
Ullendorff chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I retired a few years ago, Father, but I’m happy to help in any way I can. What do you want to know?”
“We have something very old that needs to be preserved before it’s too late.”
Ullendorff laughed. “Let me guess, the Ark of the Covenant?”
Amanuel managed to keep a straight face, though his heart hammered with the implications of the man’s words.
“Don’t tell me you believe the lies that were written about my father.”
Amanuel calmed slightly. “Lies?”
“Yes, about how he was shown the Ark when he was in Ethiopia during the war?”
Amanuel knew the story well. Every Keeper did. It served as a warning to all who undertook the honor of protecting the greatest of all secrets. During the war, a Keeper had left his post, leaving a layman behind to guard the Ark. When a British military unit arrived on patrol, led by Lieutenant Ullendorff, he insisted on seeing inside the church carved into the ground, a church of such construction something the lieutenant had never seen before.
And the layman had allowed it, terrified of the armed men.
And the layman had confirmed it was the Ark of the Covenant that sat inside.
When the breach had been discovered, after the war, and after the lieutenant had already gone public, many things had been changed in their procedures so it could never happen again.
Fortunately, it had happened so long ago, before the Internet had existed, that the incident was forgotten, and was now merely a conspiracy theory they were happy to exploit.
Amanuel smiled at Ullendorff and chuckled. “No, not the Ark, however something equally precious to us. It is very old, and time and nature have taken their toll. We must preserve it, and were hoping you might know how.”
Ullendorff shook his head. “I’m not an expert in preservation, and besides, I’m retired.”
Amanuel frowned, leaning back in his chair. “Can you recommend someone? Someone who can be trusted to not only do the job well, but keep it a secret?”
Ullendorff’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Amanuel. “For a priest, you really are concerned with your secrets, aren’t you?”
Amanuel smiled, waving his hand. “I come from a dangerous part of the world, where many would destroy anything they considered blasphemous.”
Ullendorff grunted, his head bobbing. “I hear ya. Well, I worked out of the British Museum. The head of archaeology there was Professor Laura Palmer. She was excellent, with a good reputation, though she did have some whacky theories about those crystal skulls. I’d contact her. She would definitely have the expertise, and I knew her for years. She’s young—at least compared to me—but extremely honest. She’s probably exactly what you’re looking for.”
“Professor Laura Palmer, was it?” Ullendorff nodded and Amanuel wrote down the name. “Thank you for your time.” He rose and bowed slightly. “I must be going, I’ve taken enough of your evening.” He waved his notepad before tucking it into his robes. “Thank you for this.” He shuffled for the door, then Ullendorff helped him into his coat. “Thank you, my son.” He lowered his voice. “Tell no one of my visit. Should the wrong people know I was here, meeting with an archaeologist, they might think my church back home had something worth stealing.”
Ullendorff’s jaw squared. “Of course, Father, your secret is safe with me.”