Jake was not a religious man, but the enormity of what he was looking at affected him more than he had anticipated. He took two steps towards the chest – and the wonder evaporated. The chest was inscribed in Ge’ez, and the stylized angels were identical to those in the murals outside. The Ark was a medieval fraud. But when Jake heaved open the lid he saw gold. There were emerald-studded crucifixes, bejewelled goblets, a gold-handled scimitar and an umbrella of purple felt with gold brocade worked across it. The artefacts sat on a sea of coinage sourced from across the breadth of the Old World. Jake recognized a Tudor sovereign of Henry VII – these went for £25,000 at Sotheby’s. This was the treasure of the House of Selassie, dumped here with one senile monk standing guard. It boggled the mind. Jake scoured the hoard for Etruscan, vainly seeking a foreign character amid the Ge’ez inscribed upon the chest. He was too engrossed to hear the far-off peal of thunder.
Nor did he hear the door open.
The guardian was back inside the chapel; Jake registered him too late. The holy man flew at the journalist with astonishing speed, smiting him across the face with a prayer stick. Jake’s lips exploded. He heard a tooth splinter. In his panic he had become wedged in the doorway, and as he struggled the monk seized another prayer stick, taking aim again. The old man’s arthritis was forgotten – every muscle from his deltoid to his dorsi was working towards destruction. Jake took the second blow on his forehead with a crack that made the room shudder. But mercy had deserted the monk. He was filled only with righteous fury at this infidel who had dared gaze upon the Ark. The holy man reached for a brass crucifix, sending it zinging across the chapel like a Frisbee. The projectile struck Jake’s temple and a flap of skin fell open. Florence appeared in the antechamber and the monk flew at her like a bat, sinking his teeth into her throat.
“Get him off me!” she shrieked. “Please get him off me!”
But the monk’s rage had imparted him a wiry strength, and Florence was unable to claw him away. The holy man had clenched his jaw shut, tendons protruding from his neck. Jake used the hiatus in his assault to wriggle free of the door. He crossed the room in two strides and plucked the monk off Florence – the old man was light as a wishbone. The monk’s legs pedalled the air as Jake held him by the armpits and he clawed at the journalist’s face.
“Let’s get out of here,” he shouted.
“But what are we going to do with him?”
Jake’s answer was to bundle the old man through the wooden screen, slam the door shut and wedge it with a prayer stick. At once a beating arose from the holy of holies, accompanied by a litany of curses.
“Where the hell were you?” Jake roared, spitting out blood. His shirt was a mass of scarlet and it looked as if a Doberman had been at his face.
“I got distracted.”
“Distracted? By what?”
“I just got distracted, that’s all. Did you find anything?”
“Nothing at all.”
Florence’s face was a mask of frustration as they exited the chapel. Another crack of lightning illuminated the compound and the rain began to fall.