Lowlands stretched ahead, again parceled out into tracts of farmland and grazing fields. But at the foot of the hill rose their destination. It was a square tower, half in rubble, rising in the middle of a cemetery. It was all that was left of Saint Mary’s Abbey. A newer chapel and chapel house stood off to one side. From this height, Gray could also make out some crumbled foundation walls of the old abbey.
As they descended, Lyle pointed to a small house in the distance. “Plas Bach!” he called out, naming the place. “You can rent that place. It’s also home to our famous apple tree.”
Gray reached into a pocket of his coat and realized he still had the apple tossed to him by Father Rye. As he stared at the pink apple, it reminded him of the abbey’s residents. Both the apple tree and the monks were described in various circles as uncommonly healthy and of amazing longevity. Had the monks of Saint Mary’s known some secret? Was it the same secret they all sought now, the key to the Doomsday Book? And if so, how did they come by it?
With a final belch of exhaust, reeking of oil, the tractor ground to a halt at the foot of the hill beside the cemetery. Celtic crosses dotted the grounds, including an especially tall one in the shadows of the abbey’s broken tower.
The group climbed out of the trailer bed and dusted off stray bits of straw. The downpour had mostly stopped, which was a relief. But lightning flashed to the north. Thunder rumbled a low warning of more rain to come. They had better work quickly.
Gray stepped over to Lyle. “You said Father Giovanni spent most of his time here. Do you happen to know what he was doing? Is there anywhere he concentrated on looking?”
Lyle shrugged with his whole body. “He was all over the ruins here. Mostly measuring.”
“Measuring?”
A nod answered him. “He had tape measures, and what do you call it?” He pantomimed with his arms, holding them askew and eyeballing down them. “Little telescopes for figuring out how high things are and what not?”
“Surveying equipment,” Gray realized aloud. “Is there any place he spent lots of time measuring?”
“Aye. Our crosses and over by the old stone ruins.” “Ruins? You mean the abbey?”
Wallace stepped to Lyle’s other side. “I think the boy means the ruins of the ancients, don’t you, lad?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Can you show us?”
“Of course I can.” And he was off.
They followed as a group, crossing through the cemetery. Lyle pointed to each Celtic cross as he passed it. He ended at the tallest in the cemetery. It rose from a small hillock.
“This marks the grave of Lord Newborough,” Lyle said. “One of our most famous Bardsey nobles and a great benefactor to the Church.”
Gray craned up at it. Father Giovanni surely knew the significance of the Celtic crosses, how they were modifications of older Druid crosses, which likewise had been borrowed from the ancients who originally occupied the British Isles and carved that symbol on their standing stones. One symbol that linked all three cultures, flowing from the ancient past to the present.
Had the key followed the same path? From ancients, to Celts, to Christians?
Wallace stared across the cemetery. “Father Giovanni measured all the crosses?”
“He did indeed.”
“And you said he did the same to some stone ruins?”
“Over this way.” Lyle circled the rubble of the abbey bell tower and marched into a grassy field. He kicked his feet as if looking for something. “Father Giovanni searched all the ancient hut circles. Most are on this side of the island.”
Wallace marched beside Gray. “No wonder the monks set their abbey here. It was common for the early Church to build on sacred sites. Stamping their religion on top of another. Both as a way of getting rid of it, but also to help the newly converted smoothly transition into the new faith.”
“Here!” Lyle called out from a few yards to the right. “I think this is the one!”
Gray crossed over with Wallace. The boy stood in the middle of a crude ring of stone blocks half-buried in the turf. Gray walked its circumference.
Wallace scratched his chin. “Are you sure this is the right hut circle? The one our friend was interested in?” Lyle suddenly didn’t look so certain.
Gray stopped at one of the stones. He knelt down and parted the grasses. He stared down at the stone and knew they were at the right place.
On the crude boulder was carved a symbol.
A spiral.
Gray stared across the field. He double-checked with his compass. In a direct path east from here, where the sun would rise on the new day, stood Lord Newborough’s grave marker, a giant Celtic cross, whose roots traced back to the same artisans who had carved the ragged spiral on the boulder at Gray’s feet.
“This is it,” he mumbled.
“What’s that?” Wallace asked, not hearing him.
Gray continued to study the distant cross. He didn’t need any measuring tools, though he might not have figured it out so quickly if it hadn’t been for Lyle telling him about the painstaking survey the priest had done here.
“I know where Father Giovanni looked,” Gray said.
Rachel drew closer. “Where?”
“Between the spiral and the cross,” Gray said and pointed to Lord Newborough’s grave marker. “Like on the stones up at your excavation, Wallace. Crosses on one side, spirals on the other.”
“And like the leather satchel,” Rachel reminded him.
Gray nodded. “Though Marco never had that advantage. He had to figure all this out on his own. Going by only what he saw at the excavation site. It must have finally dawned on Marco. Possibly literally. Father Rye said that Marco became agitated last June, which meant he was here during the midsummer solstice. The longest day of the year. A sacred holiday for the pagans, especially those who worshiped the sun.”
He pointed to the cross and drew a line down to his toes. “I wager it would take calculations to prove it—something Marco likely did—that on the morning of the solstice, the sun’s first rays would strike that cross and cast a shadow pointed straight here.”
“And that led to Marco’s discovery?” Wallace pressed.
“Maybe. I can pace it out to be sure, but I don’t think I have to. Look what sits exactly midway between the cross and the spiral.”
Gray pointed at the pile of crumbling stones.
“Saint Mary’s tower,” Wallace said, then turned to him. “You think whatever Marco found was hidden beneath the tower?”
“You said it yourself. That the Church built its holy buildings atop older sacred sites. The island is riddled with caves. Caves that the Druids considered sacred. And stories continue to this day of some powerful magic, personified by Merlin, buried in a cave on the island. What if they got the cave wrong?”
Wallace’s voice grew hushed. “Not the Hermit’s Cave, but something hidden in secret under the abbey.”
Rachel asked a good question. “But how do you look under there?”
“That dead priest sure didn’t bulldoze his way in there,” Kowalski added.
They were both right. There were no signs of excavation around the tower ruins.
“There must be another way down there,” Gray said and turned to the best source for that information. “Lyle, are there any other tunnels or caves somewhere near here?”
“Aye. Lots of caves. But none too close.”
It would take them months to search them all. Gray stared over at Rachel. She stood with her arms crossed. They didn’t have months.
“But I can show you what I showed Father Giovanni!” Lyle suddenly said brightly. “It’s not a cave, but it’s just as good.”
“What?” Gray asked.
“Come see. My friends and I play down there all the time.” Lyle took off like a shot. They had to run to keep up with him.
“We’re not in that big of a hurry,” Kowalski grumbled.
“Speak for yourself,” Rachel
said.
Lyle led them back around the tower. This time he headed in the opposite direction from before. He came almost full circle, but then stopped not far from the tall Celtic cross. He pointed to a square hole in the ground, framed by stones.
“What is it?” Wallace asked.
Gray dropped to his knees and stared down. The sides were stacked bricks. Near the bottom, a black niche was cut into one wall. “Like I said,” Lyle answered, “it’s not a cave.” Gray grabbed his flashlight. “It’s a crypt.”
“Aye. Lord Newborough’s tomb. Course he’s not down there any longer. At least I don’t think he is.”
“We have to search it,” Gray said.
Kowalski shook his head and backed two steps away. “No, we don’t. Whenever you go in a hole, bad things happen.”
20
October 13, 12:41 A.M.
Svalbard, Norway
Monk sent a silent prayer of thanks to the engineers who invented heated handgrips for snowmobiles. The day’s temperature continued to drop as the polar storm rolled across the Arctic archipelago. Even bundled in a snowsuit, helmet, gloves, and layers of thermal undergarments, Monk grew to appreciate the advancements of modern snowmobile technology.
He and Creed rested their vehicles in a snowy valley below the entrance to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. Two hundred yards away, the angular concrete bunker stuck out of the side of Mount Plataberget. It was the only evidence of the vast underground depository.
That, and the patrolling Norwegian army.
Creed’s voice came over the radio in his helmet. “Got company coming.”
Monk twisted in his seat. Behind them, a two-man Sno-Cat came charging around an icy escarpment. Its tracks chewed across the terrain and cast up a rooster tail of ice and snow.
For the past hour, he and Creed had been playing a cautious game of cat and mouse with the outlying patrols. They tried their best to keep a wary distance without looking as if that was what they were doing. The rental company’s logo on the sides of their snowmobiles would only allow them so much latitude.
“What should we do?” Creed asked.
“Stay put.”
Their smaller machines could probably outmaneuver the bulkier Sno-Cat,
but to flee now would only draw the full attention of the Norwegian army upon them. Instead, Monk lifted an arm in greeting.
Might as well say hello to the neighbors.
For the past hour, Monk had been observing the soldiers, noting their behavior. They spent most of the time chatting with each other in huddled groups. He noted a few cigarettes glowing. Occasionally a bark of laughter would echo off the mountain and reach them. He recognized the general pattern: boredom. Out here in the hinterlands of the frozen north, the soldiers plainly placed their full confidence in the isolation and harsh terrain.
No reason to dispel that attitude.
“Just play it cool,” Monk said into the radio.
“If I was any cooler, I’d be shitting ice cubes.”
Monk glanced over at him. Was that Creed cracking a joke? Monk lifted his eyebrows. There might be hope for the kid yet.
The side door to the Sno-Cat popped open. Steam wafted out of the heated cab. The soldier didn’t even bother to pull up his parka’s hood. In fact, he left the coat unzipped. With his blond hair and apple cheeks, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog, the Norwegian version.
See the Norwegian in his natural habitat…
Monk took off his helmet, to look less intimidating. Creed did the same. The soldier waved an arm at them and spoke in Norwegian. Monk didn’t understand him, but the general gist was plain.
What are you doing here?
Creed answered in turn, stumbling a bit with the language. Monk heard the word American. The kid must be laying out their cover story. Monk supported him by pulling out a book from his parka’s pocket, a field guide to birds that he’d picked up at the rental agency. He also lifted the binoculars from around his neck.
Nobody here but us bird-watchers.
The soldier nodded and tried his hand at English. “Storm coming,” the Norwegian warned. He waved an arm back in the general direction of Longyearbyen. “Should go.”
Monk couldn’t exactly argue against that. “We’ll be heading back,” he promised. “Just stopping to rest.”
He rubbed his backside for effect—actually he was sore after trundling all over the glacier-broken landscape.
This earned a grin from the soldier. Over by the Sno-Cat, the other door popped open. The driver hopped out, yelled a warning, then jammed a whistle to his lips and drew his sidearm. As he blew a shrill shriek, he pointed his weapon at them.
What the hell?
Both Creed and the other soldier dropped flat to the snow. Monk hesitated. The soldier fired three times. Monk twisted at the same time and spotted a large lumbering form disappearing around a cluster of boulders off in the distance. The gunman’s shots sparked off the stone.
“Polar bear,” Creed said needlessly as the blasts echoed away.
He and the soldier regained their feet. Creed had gone pale, but the soldier only smiled and said something in Norwegian that made his companion with the pistol grin.
They seemed not overly concerned. Like scaring away a raccoon from a garbage can. Of course, in this case, Monk and Creed were the garbage cans. The polar bear must have been stalking them since they’d stopped.
The first soldier motioned toward town, warning them off.
Monk nodded.
The two soldiers climbed back into the Sno-Cat, sharing a joke, clearly at the Americans’ expense.
Creed returned to his snowmobile. “What do we do now?”
“We keep patrolling. But this time, why don’t I watch the seed vault, and you keep an eye out for anything looking to eat us.”
Creed nodded and put on his helmet.
Monk lifted his binoculars and focused across the valley. He hoped Painter wouldn’t be too much longer. If he and Creed continued to idle around here, suspicions would begin to arise. Especially with the storm about to hit.
Adjusting the focal length on his binoculars, he brought up a clear image of the bunker entrance. He watched the door open and the slim figure of a woman rush out. One of the guards tried to engage her. Who wouldn’t? Even from two hundred yards away, it was plain she put the sex back in sexy.
She snubbed the guard with a raised palm and hurried toward the parked vehicles. Apparently she’d had enough of the party—and could not get away fast enough.
12:49 P.M.
The interview quickly went bad.
Painter and Senator Gorman had followed the CEO of Viatus into the set of offices off the main vault tunnel. A staging area for the caterers had been set up in the central room with desks shoved to the walls and replaced by rolling food-tray cabinets, chafing dishes, and storage bins. Dessert was being prepared, which apparently involved a chocolate fountain. The place smelled like a Hershey’s factory with an underlying hint of Norwegian cod.
They hurried through the space to a back office. Inside, a pair of computers glowed at either end of a long table. Between them, organized into neat rows, were piles of aluminum packets. Along a neighboring wall were stacked a half-dozen black plastic storage bins. One was open on the floor, full of the silver envelopes.
“Seed shipments arrive daily,” Karlsen had explained, playing tour guide. “Unfortunately, now they’re backlogged due to the party. But tomorrow these boxes will be sorted, cataloged, registered by country, even …”
That’s when things went wrong.
Maybe it was the nonchalant manner of the CEO, or maybe it was clear to all that Karlsen’s rambling discourse hid a well of guilt. Either way, as soon as the office door was shut, the senator lunged out and grabbed a fistful of Karlsen’s shirt. He slammed him into the stacked bins.
Stunned by the sudden attack, Karlsen did not react for a breath. Then his face collapsed into a muddle of confusion.
/>
“Sebastian, what are you—?”
“You fucking killed my boy!” Gorman yelled at him. “Tried to assassinate me last night!”
“Are you insane?” Karlsen shoved both arms out and broke free. “Why would I try to kill you?”
Painter had to admit that the guy definitely sounded shocked. But he also noted that Karlsen failed to deny the murder of the senator’s son. Painter came between them. Red-faced, Gorman retreated a step. He turned his back, plainly trying to regain his composure.
Inwardly Painter kicked himself. He hadn’t noticed Gorman ramping up like that. He should have reined him in sooner. They weren’t going to get anything out of Karlsen by driving him into a defensive posture. The man would put up walls that they’d never get through.
Painter readjusted his strategy. With Karlsen shaken, and before the man locked down completely, Painter knew he had to strip away any attempt at pretense.
“We know about the mushroom farm, about the bees, about what was covered up in Africa.” Painter hit him with charges one after the other. While Karlsen might have been able to take one blow, the rapid series of punches gave him no chance to recover.
His facade momentarily crumbled, revealing his complicity, his knowledge. He was not a pawn or a blind figurehead. Karlsen knew damned well what was going on.
Still, the man tried to backpedal. The flash of guilt vanished behind a wall of denial. “I don’t know what you’re both talking about.”
No one was fooled.
Least of all a grieving father.
Senator Gorman flew at the man again. Painter didn’t try to stop him. He wanted Karlsen off balance, hit from all sides. Morally, psychologically, physically. Painter would use all the tools he had at hand.
Gorman barreled into Karlsen, ramming a shoulder into his chest and driving the man back into the wall. Lifted off his feet, Karlsen struck the wall hard. The breath gasped out of him. The senator had been a defensive lineman in his college years.
But Karlsen was no doddering old man. He raised his arms and slammed his elbows down hard on the senator’s back. Gorman was knocked to his knees.