James Rollins - Excavation

Henry’s heart sank as he realized the truth. He had been abducted, whisked out of the country. Another face appeared to him: straight fall of midnight hair, bright eyes, full lips. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered Joan pulling the feathered dart from between her breasts and slumping to the floor. Where was she?

More worried about Joan than himself, Henry stepped to the door and pounded his fist, shaking the planks in their frame. Before he could even call out, a small peekhole slid open near the top of the door. Dark eyes stared at him.

“I want to know what -!”

The peephole slammed shut. Muffled words, too low to hear distinctly, were exchanged a few paces down the hall. Someone left in a hurry. Henry pounded the door again. “Let me out of here!”

He had not truly expected a response; he had only been venting his frustration. So he was shocked when someone responded to his call. A voice called to him from down the hall. “Henry? Is that you?”

Relief flooded his chest, cooling his hot blood. “Joan!”

“Are you okay?” she yelled back.

“Fine. How ’bout you?”

“Sore, sick, and mad as hell.”

Henry heard a lot of fear in her voice, too. He didn’t know what to say. Apologize for getting her in this trouble? Offer false promises of rescue? He cleared his throat and called back. “Sorry… that wasn’t much of a second date, was it?” he called out.

A long pause… then a soft chuckle. “I’ve had worse!”

Henry pressed both palms against the door. He longed to wrap his arms around her.

From outside the cell, the sound of someone approaching suddenly echoed down the hall. Joan must have heard, too; she grew quiet. Henry held his breath. Now what? A voice, firm and curt, spat just outside his door. Henry recognized the cadence of an order.

The grate of a sliding bolt sounded, then the door to his cell swung open. Henry did not know what he had expected, but he was shocked when he discovered two robed monks outside his cell. Their cowls were tossed back and prominent crucifixes hung from beaded chains around their necks.

Henry stepped away as his gaze fixed on the familiar face of the taller monk. It was the gunman from Johns Hopkins, the one named Carlos. Once again, the man held a pistol in his grip, but this time there was no silencer. “Be cooperative, Professor Conklin, and all will go well.”

“Wh… where am I? What do you want with us?”

Carlos ignored him, instead signaling his companion. The guard crossed to another door down the hall and freed the bolt. Swinging the door open, he barked in Spanish and pulled a gun from a slit at the waist of his robe. He waved its muzzle, signaling the occupant to vacate the room.

Joan stepped out cautiously, her eyes instantly finding Henry’s. He saw the clear relief in her gaze. Tears glistened. She wiped brusquely at her face and needed no further prodding from the guard to join Henry and Carlos. Her eyes flicked a moment to the pistol in the taller monk’s hand, then back to Henry. “Why are we here?” she whispered. “What do they want?”

Before Henry could answer, Carlos spoke. “Come. Your questions will be answered.” Turning on his heel, the tall monk led them down the hall. The other monk, gun in fist, followed.

Joan slipped her hand into Henry’s. He squeezed as much reassurance into her grip as possible. If these men had meant them dead, they wouldn’t have drugged them and dragged them all the way here. But where was here? And what did they want? There was only one way to find out.

Henry followed Carlos. He studied the swish of the gunman’s robe, sandals tapping quietly on the flagstone floor. And why these damnable disguises?

As they were led down a maze of halls and up two flights of stairs, Joan remained silent at his side. Her gait was stiff. They passed only one other monk in the hallway, a cowled figure, head bowed. He stepped aside to let the procession pass without raising his face. Henry heard a mumbled prayer upon the man’s lips as he walked past. He never looked up.

Henry glanced back; the monk continued down the hall, either unaware or uncaring about the guns and prisoners.

“Strange,” he mumbled.

At last, Carlos stopped before a set of large double doors, polished and waxed to a brilliant sheen. African mahogany, Henry guessed, and expensive. Carved in relief upon the doors was a mountain range with villages dotting the slopes. Henry knew the view. He had seen it many times while visiting Peru. It was a well-known region of the Andean mountains.

Henry frowned at the door as Carlos knocked.

A deep voice answered, “ Entrada !”

Carlos swept open the doors on oiled hinges and revealed a room as handsome as the mahogany doors. An ornate prayer altar, adorned in silver and gold leaf, stood in the corner, while underfoot, an elaborate woven alpaca rug cushioned Henry’s steps as he entered. To either side, shelves lined with dusty volumes filled the walls from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room, a massive desk rested, with an incongruous computer stationed at one end.

Behind the immense desk, a large man, elderly but still vigorous, pushed to his feet with a squeak of his chair. His size made even the desk seem small.

But Henry ignored the man and room, his eyes drawn to the wide windows beyond. Outside rose the steeple of a stately colonial church, towering above the surrounding town. Henry gaped at the view, shocked. He instantly recognized the landmark structure, knew with certainty where he was – Cuzco, Peru. Beyond the windows stood the Spanish Church of Santo Domingo, a Dominican church built atop the ruins of the Incas’ Temple of the Sun.

Henry glanced back to the room at hand. Knowledge of where they had been imprisoned suddenly dawned. The monks, the view, even the figure now standing behind the wide desk, grinning a welcome…

Oh, God .

Henry stepped forward, eyes coming to rest on the large man, his captor. His features were distinctly Spanish, almost aristocratic. Henry recalled his conversation with the archbishop back in Baltimore. The bishop had promised to pass on the archaeologist’s questions to a Dominican colleague in Peru. Henry remembered the name that the Archbishop had mentioned. “Abbot Ruiz?” he said aloud.

The huge man bowed his head in greeting. “Professor Conklin, welcome to the Abbey of Santo Domingo.” He seemed unperturbed by Henry’s recognition. Abbot Ruiz’s girth matched his height. His chest and belly swelled his cassock and black robe. His large size did not seem soft, more like a man who had once been solid with muscle, but whose shape had become bulky with age.

Henry faced his adversary. He had always considered himself a good judge of character, but the abbot confounded him. His manner was open and friendly. Silver-haired, he seemed a kindly grandfather. But Henry knew, considering the circumstances, that this judgment could not be further from the truth.

Joan shifted beside Henry. “You know this man?”

Henry shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Abbot Ruiz waved them toward a pair of overstuffed chairs. “Professor Conklin and Dr. Engel, please make yourselves comfortable.”

Henry stepped nearer the desk. “I’d prefer to stand until I get some answers.”

“As you wish,” he said, wearing a wounded expression. The abbot returned to his own seat, sinking into it with a sigh.

Joan joined Henry at the desk. “Just what do you want with us, goddammit?”

The abbot frowned, the false warmth melting from his face. “This is a holy place of our Lord. Refrain from blasphemies here.”

“Blasphemies?” Henry said angrily. “Your man over there killed a colleague of ours, then drugged and kidnapped us. Just how many Commandments, let alone international laws, did he break?”