"That would be great, Mr. Barrington. And I could do some writing on the plane."
Barrington clapped him on the shoulder and stood to go. "Excellent. I'll have my limo pick you up and take you to the airport on Friday afternoon." He made a show of looking at his watch. "Which is where I've got to go right now. Important meeting. Keep up the good work, Paul."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Barrington," Paul called after him. He sat back in a daze, imagining himself in Barrington's office in New York, learning important stuff about the business, being privy to confidential information, seeing multimillion-dollar decisions being made.
"Sorry, Shari," he muttered. "I'm going to have to take a rain check on that Bible study meeting this weekend. You see, I'm going to New York. Shane Barrington's personal--"
"Hey, Paul. Are you talking to yourself?"
Paul looked up, embarrassed. "Oh, hi, Shari. Er, no, I was just going over something in my mind."
She sat down next to him. "Wasn't that Shane Barrington I saw you with just now?"
Paul looked uneasy. He knew Shari was suspicious of Barrington. He knew she felt his interest in Paul since the
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explosion had something insincere about it, but she could never quite say what it was. He didn't want to have another one of their arguments about it. Especially now.
"Yes, it was," Paul said guardedly.
"What did he want? Did he come here just to see you?"
Paul had intended to steer the conversation in another direction, but Shari's tone was getting under his skin.
"Why shouldn't he? He takes an interest in my work, that's all."
"Why should the head of Barrington Communications be interested in your work? You're a student, Paul, not a world-famous professor."
Paul felt himself going red. "Oh, that's right. I don't have crazy ideas about proving that fairy stories in the Bible really happened. Not like world-famous Professor Murphy."
Shari felt her anger rising to match Paul's. "They're not fairy stories! How can you say that? I thought you were interested in biblical archaeology. I thought you liked Murphy's classes."
Paul realized the conversation was getting out of hand. "Okay, okay. Murphy's classes are very ... stimulating. I'm just not sure he's living in the real world, that's all."
Shari nodded, like she finally understood what this was about. "And Barrington is? Why? Because he has money? Because he's successful? Look how he makes his money, Paul. By peddling trash."
"You don't even watch TV," Paul countered. "Maybe if you took your nose out of your Bible once in a while, you'd get a different perspective on things."
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"You agreed to join me in a Bible study group this weekend, Paul. Are you telling me you're no longer interested?"
Paul took a deep breath. He couldn't look Shari in the eye.
"I was going to tell you. Something's come up. I can't go."
"Something to do with Shane Barrington?"
"Yes, if you must know. He's invited me to New York for the weekend. To show me around his business. It's a great opportunity, Shari. How could I say no?"
Shari looked at him. They had argued before. About the Bible and about evolution. Sometimes bitterly. But at least they had been honest with each other. And however bad the fights got, she felt, if they could still be honest with each other, then there was still hope for them.
But now Paul had told her a lie. She was certain of it.
And for the first time she felt him slipping away.
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TWENTY-FIVE
"MICHAEL, THIS IS HANK BAINES. I hate to impose on you like this, but I need to see you."
Murphy caught the undertone of anxiety in Baines's voice.
"I'm just walking out the door now. I'm on my way to the State Department of Archives and History. I could meet you there around eleven A.M. How does that sound?"
There was an audible sigh of relief on the other end of the line. "I'll see you there."
By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, Murphy was so engrossed in his research, he didn't notice Baines approaching.
"What's so interesting?" Baines asked.
Murphy looked up and motioned for Baines to sit down at the secluded table in the library section.
"The Lost Colony."
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"What's that?"
"In 1587, Sir Walter Raleigh sent a group of one hundred seventeen settlers to colonize Virginia. They landed on Roanoke Island on the way to Chesapeake Bay. There were ninety-one men, seventeen women, and nine children. The first English baby to be born on the continent was named Virginia Dare."
"I've heard of her," Baines said, nodding.
"The supply ships for the colonists weren't able to return from England until 1590 due to the Spanish War. When they did return, everyone in the colony had disappeared. No trace of anyone. The only thing they found was a tree with the letters CRO carved on it, and a second tree with the word CROATOAN carved on it. No one's ever figured out what it means or what happened to them."
"So you think you'll have a crack at it?" said Baines.
Murphy smiled. "Solving mysteries. That's what rings my bell. But you didn't come all the way over here to talk about that. What's on your mind, Hank?"
"Have you heard about Tiffany?"
Murphy sat up in his chair. "No. What happened?"
"She was in a head-on collision with a truck two days ago. The car rolled and the driver was killed. Her friend Lisa."
"What about Tiffany?"
"Just some scrapes and bruises. It seems like a miracle she wasn't more badly hurt. But she's pretty cut up about her friend."
Murphy could see Baines was close to tears.
"Tiffany almost ... That was a real wake-up call, I can tell you. I don't want to lose my daughter and I don't
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want to lose Jennifer. I don't know, but I get the feeling somebody's trying to tell me something. There's something I need to do. The trouble is, I don't know exactly what it is."
"Maybe you know more than you think," Murphy said.
Baines looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"You know how we were talking about listening? Hearing what other people in your family have got to say?"
Baines nodded. "Uh-huh."
"Maybe it's time to listen to that small voice within. You know, Hank, we all have this yearning, this emptiness inside that can only be filled by God. Pascal, the great French philosopher, taught that there was a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of every man that could only be satisfied by God Himself through having a relationship with Jesus Christ, his Son."
Hank looked down at the desk. "Boy, it's hard to talk about this. But I hear what you're saying. I've had a feeling the last few days that I need to ... make a commitment. I just don't know how to do it."
"Well, the important thing is you have to want to do it. Then it's like jumping off the high board. You just close your eyes and go for it!"
Baines laughed. "You make it sound easy, Michael. But here's the thing. I never had much religious teaching. There's so much I feel I need to know."
"Like what?"
Baines frowned in concentration as he tried to order his thoughts. "Okay, here's a for-instance. You talk
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about God, and Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. Three different things. What's going on there?"
Murphy smiled. "I know that sounds a little confusing. Let me try to explain. God is the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. They are three in one."
"Three in one?"
"It's sort of like three responsibilities. For example, you have a wife and daughter. As Hank Baines, you are a husband to your wife, a father to your daughter, and a professional in the FBI. You display different functions at the appropriate time."
"Okay, I'm following you."
"Let me give you another example from nature. Water, H 2 O, can exist as a liquid, as a solid, or as a vapor, but it's still H 2 O.
"
"All right, but I've heard a lot of talk about Jesus Christ as a man. How can he be a man and God at the same time?"
Murphy laughed. "A lot of people smarter than me have wrestled with that one over the last couple thousand years, but let me give it a try. How's your Shakespeare?"
"I read some stuff in college. But I don't remember a whole lot, to be honest."
Murphy laughed. "Me neither. But you remember who Macbeth is?"
"Sure. The Scottish guy. Had a doozy of a wife."
"See, you remember more than you think. Anyway, could the character Macbeth ever meet the author Shakespeare in person?"
Baines looked confused. "I would say no."
"Ah, but he could meet him," Murphy went on.
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"Shakespeare could write himself into the play, as a character named Shakespeare, and introduce himself to Macbeth."
"I guess."
"Well, that's what God did. He is the author of the universe. He wrote Himself into the play of life in the bodily form of Jesus Christ. God took on the form of a man. Jesus even said, 'I and the Father are one.'"
Baines was silent for a moment. Murphy let him think about what he'd just said.
Finally Baines said, "I guess the important question is, if I accept the fact that Jesus is God in a human body, is it going to make a change in my life?"
"You'd better believe it. Let's take this a step further. Do you know anyone who's perfect?"
Baines shook his head.
"God is perfect. And He wants mankind to spend eternity with Him in heaven. There is, however, a problem. We are not perfect. If we were to enter God's presence in our imperfect state we wouldn't be able to endure it. Why? Because God is Holy. Remember when you were a kid and you did something bad? You didn't want your parents to find out, right? Imagine your Creator forever being aware of every single bad thought or deed you committed during your lifetime. You wouldn't want to spend five minutes in His presence, let alone eternity. But if your sins had been paid for and erased by the acceptance of Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior prior to your entrance into heaven, there wouldn't be a problem, would there?"
"That makes sense," Baines agreed.
"God took on the form of the Son--Jesus--to die for
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our imperfection, our sins. He then covers us with the perfection of Christ, so that we can enter His presence. All a person has to do is to believe and accept this great substitution."
"It sounds too simple. Isn't there something else we have to do?"
Murphy held up his hands. "That's it. Anything else we would try to do would be imperfect."
"It seems like it should be harder than that."
"Don't take it from me. Let me quote you something from the Book of Romans, Chapter Ten, Verses Eight through Thirteen: The word is near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, that is the word of faith we are proclaiming; That if you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you confess and are saved. Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved."
When Murphy finished, Baines was deep in thought. Murphy had done all he could, had explained his faith to the best of his ability. Now it was up to Baines. He wasn't sure Baines was listening to him anymore, but he wanted to add one more thing.
"Remember, Hank, you can ask Christ into your life at any time. Any place. You don't have to be in church. It could be while you are driving your car. Walking to the store. Anywhere. You just have to say a prayer and ask Him in. He will be there to answer you, I guarantee it."
Murphy slowly gathered his books, laid a hand gently on Baines's shoulder, and walked away.
He said his own silent prayer as he went.
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TWENTY-SIX
WHEN ISIS REACHED the terminal, she stopped and looked at the arrivals monitor for American Airlines. On time. She found a vacant chair by the window of the arrivals hall and sat down to wait, hoping her heartbeat would steady to something like normal by the time he arrived. The last thing she wanted to do was let him know the effect he had on her.
Murphy spotted her, sitting demurely, hands in her lap, almost as if she was meditating. It looked as if her eyes were closed. He stopped, drawing out the moment. As soon as he greeted her, it would be all business. That was the way he'd decided it had to be. So this sight of her was an unexpected gift. Her flame-red hair looked wind-tossed, even here, a violent contrast to the porcelain serenity of her face, tapering to an elfin chin he suddenly had an urgent desire to touch with the tip of a finger.
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As if she'd divined his thought, her lids snapped open and her blazing green eyes found his across the hall. Then just as quickly she looked away. He raised a hand in greeting, took a deep breath, and made his way through the crowd.
By the time he was standing before her, she'd composed her features into her usual sphinxlike half-smile.
"Murphy," she said.
"Isis. You're looking ..." He stumbled for a moment. Dressed in combat pants and a tight-fitting green T-shirt, sneakers, no makeup, she looked like a supermodel trying to blend into the crowd. And failing. Big time.
She looked stunning.
"... well. You're looking well," he managed finally.
She jumped out of her seat and started marching toward the taxi stand. "I told you. I've been training."
Murphy trailed behind her. "Good," he said. "Great."
In the cab Murphy was relieved to be able to concentrate on checking that he had everything he needed in his briefcase, and Isis kept her eyes out the window until they arrived at their destination, nestled in the quiet community of McLean, Virginia. The original grounds had been purchased in 1719 by Thomas Lee. He had named the property Langley after his home in England.
After passing all the security stations, they were soon? walking on the collegelike campus grounds. The landscaped courtyard, the large grassy lawn, and the flowering
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plants and trees added to the impression of an Ivy League university.
It was only when they stopped in front of the Kryptos monument that they remembered that this was no idyllic seat of learning. Murphy remembered the first time he had stood before the S-shaped copper screen, which looked like a piece of paper coming out of a computer printer. On it, several enigmatic messages challenged the reader to decode them. He'd tried and failed before, and glancing sideways at Isis, he wondered if some mysteries were never to be fathomed.
Soon they entered the modern glass-enclosed headquarters and walked over to the receptionist.
"May I help you?"
"Michael Murphy and Isis McDonald. We have an appointment with Carlton Stovall."
Murphy and Isis were soon joined by a short, slightly overweight, and balding man with a bland smile. He invited them into his office.
Stovall waited until they were seated in front of his desk. "I mentioned to you over the phone that I didn't really think I could be of much help. I hope you haven't made this trip in vain."
"We'll see," Murphy said evenly. "As you know, I'm interested in copies of documents relating to Noah's Ark."
Stovall's laugh was shrill. "I'm sorry, Professor Murphy, all our files were damaged in the Flood!" He laughed again. "You'll have to forgive me. We get a lot of crazy requests--you know, people wanting to see the file on where Elvis is living, how the Secret Service murdered Marilyn Monroe, that sort of thing. But this! This really takes the
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cake. You're sure you don't want the file on Jonah and the whale?"
He took out a white handkerchief and began to dab at his forehead.
Murphy waited until he was sure Stovall had no more jokes. "Maybe you call it by another name. Let me see ... how about the Ararat Anomaly File? That ring any bells?"
Suddenly Stovall wasn't laughing anymore
. The blood drained out of his face. He began to stutter in reply, but Murphy cut him off.
"I know for a fact that on June seventeenth, 1949, a U.S. Air Force plane was making a routine flight over Mount Ararat. I know that photographs were taken and that an object was spotted at the 15,500-foot level. I've been told that this object was called the Ararat Anomaly within the CIA. I also know that in 1993, under the Freedom of Information Act, the Anomaly File was finally declassified after over forty years of secrecy. How am I doing?"
Again, Murphy didn't give Stovall time to reply.
"I am also aware that Porcher Taylor, a scholar at the Washington-based Center for Strategic and International Studies, made some interesting discoveries. He found out that a U-2 spy plane took pictures of the same anomaly in 1956. Taylor also discovered that the CIA snapped some shots with their high-resolution KH-9 military remote-sensing satellite in 1973. And not to be outdone, the KH-11 satellite photographed the same spot on Ararat in 1976, 1990, and 1992."
Murphy paused, but Stovall seemed to have nothing to say now.
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"If I am not mistaken," Murphy continued, "the IKONOS satellite even identified the secret coordinates of the Mount Ararat Anomaly at thirty-nine degrees, forty-two minutes, and ten seconds north longitude and forty-four degrees, sixteen minutes, and thirty seconds east latitude."
Stovall's eyes darted back and forth between Isis and Murphy. He looked like a trapped rodent trying to find a way out. Finally he said, "I don't have the authority to grant access to those files. I'll have to talk to my superior."
"That's just fine," Murphy beamed. "We have all afternoon, Mr. Stovall."
Stovall left the room, and Isis grinned at Murphy despite herself. "Wow, you really gave him both barrels. Was all of that true?"