James Rollins - Excavation

Sighing, Joan laid down her pencil and paper, then rubbed her tired eyes. This was the best she could accomplish. Friar de Almagro had been either insane or scared witless, but after what she had witnessed in the vault below, Joan could not be sure his ravings didn’t hold some kernel of truth. Whatever he had found, it had terrified him.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall, interrupting her reverie.

Quickly, she folded the yellow paper and pocketed it again. If she had a private moment with Henry, she would get his feedback… that is, if he would listen to her. She remembered how stubborn Henry had been as a youth, full of deep moods that she could never touch back then. But she wouldn’t let that stop her now. Even if she had to twist his arm, she would make him hear her out. Francisco de Almagro had feared something up in the mountains, something associated with the mysterious metal. If Henry’s nephew was in the thick of things up there, Henry had best listen to her.

A sharp knock on her door was followed by a voice. “The abbot wishes to see you both.” The curt voice was Carlos’s. Joan swung around as a jangle of keys unlocked her door.

Now what?

Henry sat once again in the abbot’s study. Rows of books lined the walls, and the wide windows were cracked open upon a view of the Church of Santo Domingo, its cross bright in the morning sunlight. Behind him, another monk stood guard, pistol in hand.

But Henry saw none of it as he sat huddled in on himself. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Sam buried under piles of rubble and tons of granite blocks. His fists clenched. It was his fault. What had he been thinking when he left the excavation site to a handful of inexperienced students? He knew the answer. He had been blinded by the possibility of proving his theory. Nothing else had mattered. Not even Sam’s safety.

The creak of heavy doors announced the arrival of someone else. Henry glanced back over his shoulder to see Joan escorted in by the dark-eyed Carlos. Her eyelids were puffy, and from the wrinkled state of her blouse and pants, it looked like any attempts at sleep had failed her, too.

Joan offered Henry no smile when she entered the room. But why should she? She was yet another person whose life had been threatened by Henry’s folly. He had reentered her life only to endanger it.

“Sit down,” Carlos ordered the woman roughly. “Abbot Ruiz will be joining you shortly.” The friar then mumbled something in Spanish to the other guard, his words too rushed and quiet for Henry to make out. Then Carlos left.

Joan sank into the other cushioned chair before the wide mahogany desk. “How are you holding up?” she asked.

Henry did not feel like talking, but she deserved at least the courtesy of a response. “Okay. How about you?”

“The same. It was a long night.” Joan glanced toward the guard and leaned a little closer. She touched Henry’s knee, feigning intimacy, just two lovers consoling one another. Her words were no more than soft breaths. “I think I’ve deciphered most of the code on your mummy’s crucifix.”

Despite his despair, Henry was jolted. “What?”

His startled reaction drew the eye of the guard. The monk glared at him, lifting his pistol higher.

Henry lowered his voice, then reached and touched Joan’s cheek. It did not require much acting to play the lover of this woman. “What do you mean?” he whispered. “I tossed the cross away back at the lab.”

Joan reached to a pocket in her blouse and pulled out the corner of a yellow sheet of paper. “My copy.”

Henry’s eyes grew wide. Here he had been wallowing all night in his own guilt and anger, and Joan had spent the hours laboring at the crucifix’s cryptogram. Shame flushed his cheeks. But why should her action surprise him? She had always been so resourceful.

Joan continued in hushed tones, “It warns that this mysterious metal is dangerous. His last words seemed to be a garbled warning about some disease or pestilence associated with Substance Z. Something I think his order knew nothing about… and still doesn’t.”

Henry found himself drawn into the mystery. He could not help Sam directly from here, but knowledge could be a powerful weapon. “What was he afraid of?”

Joan shrugged her face. “I couldn’t decipher it all. There are gaps missing and strange references: the Serpent of Eden, the Greek myth of Prometheus.” She stared intently at Henry. “I need your help in figuring it out.”

Henry’s gaze flicked toward the guard. He wanted to get a peek at her translation, but there was no way with the guard looking on. “The Serpent of Eden is surely a reference to the tempter of forbidden knowledge in the Bible, a metaphoric reference to something that both tantalizes and corrupts.”

“Like Substance Z, perhaps.”

Henry’s brows lowered. “Maybe…”

“But what about the Prometheus reference?”

Henry shook his head. “I don’t see that connection at all. He was one of the mythic Titans who stole fire from the gods and brought it to mankind. He was punished by being chained to a rock and had his liver eaten out by a huge vulture each day.”

Joan frowned. “Strange… why mention that?”

Henry leaned back into his chair and silently pondered the mystery. It was better than uselessly worrying over Sam. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “There must be a reason.”

“That is assuming the man was still sane when he etched the cross.”

“I don’t know. Let me think about this. According to Abbot Ruiz, Francisco was pursuing the mother lode, the true source of el Sangre . He already knew of its transformational property, so I think your earlier assumption was correct. He discovered something up in the mountains, something that changed his mind about the metal.”

“And something that scared the hell out of him.”

Henry nodded. “But he was also eventually executed and mummified, suggesting he had been captured by the Incas after making this discovery. If he wanted to get a warning out to his order, a message on the cross was a smart move on his part, a calculated chance. He must have known that the Incan shamans would have left unmolested any personal items, especially gold, on the body of the deceased. It was his one chance of getting his message out, even if he did not. He must have hoped his body would be returned to the Spaniards, rather than mummified and buried like it was.”

“So what does all this suggest?”

Henry turned to Joan, worry in his eyes. He had no answer.

Any response from Joan was cut off as the door opened again. Abbot Ruiz marched into the room, his face red from either exertion or excitement. Carlos followed in his wake and took up a station beside the other guard. Ruiz continued to his desk, sighing as he eased his large bulk into his seat. He eyed Henry and Joan for a few silent moments. “I have good news, Professor Conklin. Word from the mountains reached us early this morning.”

Henry sat up straighter. “Sam and the others?”

“You’ll be pleased to hear they’ve made it out of the buried temple. They’re safe.”

Henry swallowed back a sob of relief. Joan reached a hand out to him, and he clutched it gratefully. “Thank God.”

“Indeed you should,” Ruiz said. “But that is not all.”

Henry raised his eyes. Joan still held his hand.

“It seems you’ve trained your nephew well.” Ruiz wore a broad smile.

“What do you mean?” Henry asked, his voice hard.

“He and his fellow students have made an astounding discovery up in the mountains.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed.

The abbot leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the suspense. “He’s found a lost Incan tribe, a village nestled high in a volcanic cone.”