longer exist—the forces of vulcanism, ice, and plate motion surely altering everything around him.
He glanced at his watch. 9:45 AM .
It felt and looked like 5:00 P.M. , especially since he was working on only a few hours’ sleep.
Then he saw it.
On a ridge half a mile away, before a black opening in the sheer rock face, he saw a campsite of three oversized tents. He studied the peak above and noted that it was indeed triangular—a crooked pyramid, but nonetheless a pyramid. He spotted no one near or around the tents.
“Let’s approach from the far side,” he said, gesturing toward a sparse clump of ash trees.
“You concerned about something?”
He detected apprehension in the question. “Are you okay with this?”
“I’m not an agent, but I did serve four years in the infantry.”
He laid a hand on the professor’s shoulder. “Not to worry. Just follow my lead.”
The camp was deserted.
A low methodic hum from one of the tents and two black cables snaking a path into the mountain signaled a generator. An assortment of footsteps were framed by scattered snow, all leading into the mountain. The entrance tunnel was surprisingly wide, which helped with his distaste for enclosed spaces. Lightbulbs tacked to the rock dissolved the darkness, revealing rough walls, sharp in places, the floor a mixture of sand and gravel.
“This chute is natural,” Goulding whispered. “From lava eons ago.”
They exited into a room about forty feet square with a high, vaulted ceiling. At the far end, illuminated by a stand of halogen lights, was what appeared to be an altar, a rectangular slab of blackened stone supported by two stone pillars, the structure elevated by a platform hewn from the rock. Goulding was drawn to the altar and began to focus on knotwork designs behind and above on the chamber walls.
“Celtic. The symbol of man’s eternal spiritual growth. But there. See it? Overlays of Christianity.”
Spaced behind the altar were carvings of a man, lion, calf, and eagle.
“Man symbolizes Matthew. The lion, Mark. The calf, Luke. And an eagle, John. The four evangelists. Pagan caves like this eventually became churches.”
A cross caught Malone’s attention, in a shadowy niche off to the right. A circle filled its center, the lower arm longer and wider than its two sides. The circle was quartered and ornamented, giving depth and definition to an otherwise flat face.
“It’s Celtic,” Goulding said.
His nerves were alert. Where were the men who’d staked out the camp? Then he noticed something. Across the chamber, on the rock floor. He stepped over and bent down. Dark splotches. Dried. Hard to tell.
“Is it blood?” Goulding asked.
“Could be.”
Two gauges marred the sandy floor, about a foot apart, leading in a straight line into another tunnel, as if something had been dragged, heels down.
He found his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta.
“Stay behind me,” he said to Goulding.
“Should I be worried now?”
“Good question.”
They entered the far tunnel. More bulbs lit the way. The passage wound a path with no offshoots until ending at another chamber, this one smaller than the first but nonetheless Celtic—the same knotwork designs dotted the stone face. On the far wall, a bulb illuminated writing.
E FFIGIEM C HRISTI QUI TRANSIS PRONUS HONORA — ANNO MCCCVI
“You who are hurrying past, honor the image of Christ— AD 1306,” Goulding said, reading the words.
The tracks in the sand moved through the chamber and out another of the three exit tunnels. The same one where the cables fed. They followed, the new passage narrower than the first two, its walls sharper and lighter in tone. Bulbs were sparse, about thirty feet apart. The air was colder, truly like a tomb, their condensed breath leading the way. They passed openings that led into the pitch dark. Man-made niches appeared periodically in the rock face. Latin inscriptions were chiseled into the stone of a few.
The dual
He glanced at his watch. 9:45 AM .
It felt and looked like 5:00 P.M. , especially since he was working on only a few hours’ sleep.
Then he saw it.
On a ridge half a mile away, before a black opening in the sheer rock face, he saw a campsite of three oversized tents. He studied the peak above and noted that it was indeed triangular—a crooked pyramid, but nonetheless a pyramid. He spotted no one near or around the tents.
“Let’s approach from the far side,” he said, gesturing toward a sparse clump of ash trees.
“You concerned about something?”
He detected apprehension in the question. “Are you okay with this?”
“I’m not an agent, but I did serve four years in the infantry.”
He laid a hand on the professor’s shoulder. “Not to worry. Just follow my lead.”
The camp was deserted.
A low methodic hum from one of the tents and two black cables snaking a path into the mountain signaled a generator. An assortment of footsteps were framed by scattered snow, all leading into the mountain. The entrance tunnel was surprisingly wide, which helped with his distaste for enclosed spaces. Lightbulbs tacked to the rock dissolved the darkness, revealing rough walls, sharp in places, the floor a mixture of sand and gravel.
“This chute is natural,” Goulding whispered. “From lava eons ago.”
They exited into a room about forty feet square with a high, vaulted ceiling. At the far end, illuminated by a stand of halogen lights, was what appeared to be an altar, a rectangular slab of blackened stone supported by two stone pillars, the structure elevated by a platform hewn from the rock. Goulding was drawn to the altar and began to focus on knotwork designs behind and above on the chamber walls.
“Celtic. The symbol of man’s eternal spiritual growth. But there. See it? Overlays of Christianity.”
Spaced behind the altar were carvings of a man, lion, calf, and eagle.
“Man symbolizes Matthew. The lion, Mark. The calf, Luke. And an eagle, John. The four evangelists. Pagan caves like this eventually became churches.”
A cross caught Malone’s attention, in a shadowy niche off to the right. A circle filled its center, the lower arm longer and wider than its two sides. The circle was quartered and ornamented, giving depth and definition to an otherwise flat face.
“It’s Celtic,” Goulding said.
His nerves were alert. Where were the men who’d staked out the camp? Then he noticed something. Across the chamber, on the rock floor. He stepped over and bent down. Dark splotches. Dried. Hard to tell.
“Is it blood?” Goulding asked.
“Could be.”
Two gauges marred the sandy floor, about a foot apart, leading in a straight line into another tunnel, as if something had been dragged, heels down.
He found his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta.
“Stay behind me,” he said to Goulding.
“Should I be worried now?”
“Good question.”
They entered the far tunnel. More bulbs lit the way. The passage wound a path with no offshoots until ending at another chamber, this one smaller than the first but nonetheless Celtic—the same knotwork designs dotted the stone face. On the far wall, a bulb illuminated writing.
E FFIGIEM C HRISTI QUI TRANSIS PRONUS HONORA — ANNO MCCCVI
“You who are hurrying past, honor the image of Christ— AD 1306,” Goulding said, reading the words.
The tracks in the sand moved through the chamber and out another of the three exit tunnels. The same one where the cables fed. They followed, the new passage narrower than the first two, its walls sharper and lighter in tone. Bulbs were sparse, about thirty feet apart. The air was colder, truly like a tomb, their condensed breath leading the way. They passed openings that led into the pitch dark. Man-made niches appeared periodically in the rock face. Latin inscriptions were chiseled into the stone of a few.
The dual
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