James Rollins - Excavation

“Thank you, but I didn’t think the matter would require disturbing Your Eminence.”

“Actually, I am quite intrigued. Before entering the seminary, I did a master’s thesis in European history. A chance to participate in such a study is more of an honor than a bother. So, please, tell me how we can be of assistance.”

Henry smiled inwardly at his luck in finding a history buff among these men of the cloth. He cleared his throat. “With Your Eminence’s help and access to Church archives, I had hoped to piece together the man’s past, maybe shed light on what happened to him.”

“Most certainly. My offices are fully at your disposal, for if the mummy is truly a friar of the Dominican order, then he deserves to be sanctified and interred as befits a priest. If descendants of this man still survive, I would think it fitting that the remains be returned to the family’s parish for proper burial.”

“I quite agree. I’ve tried to glean as much information as I can on my own, but from here, I’ll need to access your records. So far, I’ve been able to determine the fellow’s surname – de Almagro. He was most likely a friar in the Spanish chapter of the Dominicans dating back to the 1500s. I also have a copy of the man’s family coat of arms that I’d like to fax you.”

“Hmm… the 1500s… for records that old, we might have to search individual abbeys’ records. It might take some time.”

“I assumed so, but I thought to get started before I headed back to Peru.”

“Yes, and that does give me an idea where to start. I’ll forward your records to the Vatican, of course, but there is also a very old Dominican enclave in Cuzco, Peru, headed by an Abbot Ruiz, I believe. If this priest was sent on a mission to Peru, the local abbey there might have some record.”

Henry sat up straighter in his chair, excitement fueling his tired body. Of course! He should have thought of that himself. “Excellent. Thank you, Archbishop Kearney. I suspect your help will prove invaluable in solving this mystery.”

“I hope so. I’ll have my secretary give you our fax number. I’ll be awaiting your transmission.”

“I’ll forward it immediately.” Henry barely paid attention while he was passed back to the receptionist and given the fax number. His mind spun on the possibilities. If Friar de Almagro had been in Peru long, surely there might even be some of the man’s letters and reports at the abbey in Cuzco. Perhaps some clue to the lost city might be contained in such letters.

Henry replaced the receiver with numb fingers and slid his sketch of the ring into the fax machine. He dialed out and listened to the whir and buzz as the fax engaged.

As the drawing was forwarded, Henry forced his mind to the other mystery that surrounded the mummy. He had spent the night pursuing this fellow’s past, but with such matters out of his hands, he allowed himself to speculate on the last puzzle concerning the mummy. Something he had not related to the archbishop. Henry pictured the explosion of the mummy’s skull and the splatter of gold.

What exactly had happened? What was that substance ? Henry knew the archbishop could shed no new light on that matter. Only one person could help him, someone whom he had been looking for an excuse to call anyway. Since meeting her again for the first time in almost three decades, he could not get the woman out of his mind.

The fax machine chimed its completion, and Henry picked up the phone. He dialed a second number. It rang five times before a breathless voice answered. “Hello?”

“Joan?”

A puzzled voice. “Yes?”

Henry pictured the pathologist’s slender face framed by a fall of hair the shade of ravens’ wings. Time had barely touched her: just a hint of grey highlights, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose, a few new wrinkles. But her most delightful features remained unchanged: her shadowy smile, her amused eyes. Even her quick intelligence and sharp curiosity had not been dulled by years in academia. Henry suddenly found it difficult to speak. “Th… this is Henry. I’m… I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”

Her voice lost its cold dispassion and warmed considerably. “Early? You just caught me arriving home from the hospital.”

“You worked all night?”

“Well, I was reviewing the scans of your mummy, and… well…” – a small embarrassed pause – “I sort of lost track of time.”

Henry glanced down at his own wrinkled clothing and smiled. “I know what you mean.”

“So have you learned anything new?”

“I’ve put together a few things.” He quickly related his discovery of the friar’s name and his call to the archbishop. “How about yourself? Anything new on your front?”

“Not much. But I’d like to sit down and go over some of my findings. The material in the skull is proving most unusual.”

Before Henry could stop himself or weigh such a decision, he pushed forth. “How about lunch today?” He cringed as the words came out. He had not meant to sound so desperate. His cheeks grew heated with his awkwardness.

A long pause. “I’m afraid I can’t do lunch.”

Henry kicked himself for being so unprofessional. Surely she saw through his words. Ever since Elizabeth had died, he had forgotten the knack of approaching a woman romantically – not that he’d ever had much of a desire to do so before now.

Joan continued, “But how about dinner? I know a nice Italian place on the river.”

Henry swallowed hard, struggling to speak. Dare he hope that she was suggesting more than just a meeting of colleagues? Perhaps a renewal of old feelings? But it had been so long. So much life had passed between their college years and now. Surely whatever tiny spark that had once flared between them had long gone to ash. Hadn’t it?

“Henry?”

“Yes… yes, that would be great.”

“You’re staying at the Sheraton, yes? I can pick you up around eight o’clock. That is, if a late dinner is okay with you?”

“Sure, that would be fine. I often eat late, so that’s no problem. And… and as a matter of fact, um…” Henry’s nervous blathering was thankfully interrupted by the beep of an incoming call. He awkwardly coughed. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’ve got another call. I’ll be right back.”

Henry lowered the receiver, took a long calming breath, then clicked over to the other line. “Yes?”

“Professor Conklin?”

Henry recognized the voice. His brow crinkled. “Archbishop Kearney?”

“Yes, I just wanted to let you know that I received your fax and took a look at it. What I saw came as quite a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“The emblem of the crossed swords over the crucifix. As a former European historian, it’s one I’m quite familiar with.”

Henry picked up the friar’s silver ring and held it to the light. “I thought it looked familiar myself, but I couldn’t place it.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s a fairly archaic design.”

“What is it?”

“It is the mark of the Spanish Inquisition.”

Henry’s breath caught in his throat. “What?” Images of torture chambers and flesh seared by red-hot irons flashed before his eyes. The black sect of Catholicism had long been disbanded and vilified for the centuries of deaths and tortures it had inflicted in the name of religion.

“Yes, from the ring, it seems our mummified friar was an Inquisitor.”

“My God,” Henry swore, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.

An amused chuckle arose from the Archbishop. “I thought you should know, but I must be going now. I’ll forward your information to the Vatican and to Abbot Ruiz in Peru. Hopefully we’ll learn more soon.”

The archbishop hung up. Henry sat stunned, until the phone rang in his hand, startling him. “Oh, God… Joan.” Henry clicked back to the pathologist he had left on hold. “I’m sorry that took so long,” he said in a rush, “but it was Archbishop Kearney again.”