Alex Archer - Paradox

“No,” Annja said without hesitation.

His fine brow creased in a frown. “Why must you always make things so difficult, child?”

“ You’re trying to hook me up with a bunch of Biblical literalists? They’re like the archenemies of anthropologists and archaeologists.”

“Why must you be so dogmatic? You really should be more open-minded.”

“The Ararat Anomaly is a total crock. The mountain’s sixteen thousand feet high, for God’s sake! How does a flood plant something up there?”

“It is, in fact, Turkey’s highest mountain at 5,137 meters. Or 16,854 feet, as you Americans would say. I’m with you, by the way—the metric system was another unlovely conceit of the French Revolution. We might as well have kept their ridiculous calendar, with its ten-day weeks and its months with names like Heat and Fog!”

“Okay. Almost seventeen thousand feet, then. Thanks for making my point for me.”

“But what of the photographic evidence? The Ararat Anomaly has repeatedly been photographed by surveillance aircraft and satellites. Some analysts claim it resembles the Biblical description of Noah’s Ark.”

“It’s just a natural formation.”

“Ah, but do you know that for a fact? How? Is this your science, to determine truth by decree like His Holiness the Pope? You’ve not been there. No one has, for very long. No expedition has ever succeeded in examining it in detail.”

“Of course they haven’t,” Annja said. “The Turkish government won’t let anyone in because of trouble with the Kurds. And with the fighting between the Turks and the Kurds continuing the way it is, the Turks are especially unlikely to let anyone in now.”

“Just so. Yet the expedition sponsors and organizers, who I assure you are serious men who are not to be taken lightly, believe they have a way to get to the mountain and climb it with ample time to perform at least a site survey and preliminary excavation.”

“You mean go in illegally, don’t you?” she asked.

“It’s not as if you are a stranger to that sort of thing, Annja dear.”

She shrugged. The motion momentarily unbalanced her. She felt proud that she managed to right herself without clutching at Roux. He had them skating in a circuit about the rink’s long oval now. She noticed he also kept them clear of the rail, most likely to prevent her grabbing it and vaulting to solid ground. Or ground with friction, anyway.

Roux had declared himself her mentor when she first came into possession of Joan of Arc’s sword through some kind of power she did not fully comprehend. Even now she didn’t really know what that meant. The sword traveled with her in another plane and was usually available to her in times of trouble. She could call it to her hands by willing it there if conditions warranted it. It was a privilege and a burden at the same time and Roux, who claimed to have been Joan’s one-time protector, came along as part of the deal. He was always pressing her, pushing her to extend her boundaries, challenge herself.

For the most part Roux seemed content to play business manager for her unorthodox archaeological services. She knew, though, that he had an agenda entirely his own. And she had no real clue as to what it was.

“Where is your dedication to the scientific method?” he asked. “Where’s the spirit of scientific inquiry? Where, even, simple human curiosity? Absent investigation, child, how can you be so sure what it is or is not?”

“Well,” she said, “I mean, how likely is it?”

“My principals claim to have in their possession relics recovered from the site. Allegedly these substantiate that it is, at the very least, artificial in origin.”

His gloved hands gestured grandiosely. Other skaters glanced their way and giggled. But it didn’t disturb his balance in the slightest. In fact he skated with the same ease with which a dolphin swam. He’s had a lot of time to practice this, too, Annja reminded herself

“Think, Annja!” he exclaimed. “Even if it doesn’t happen to be the Ark, would not a man-made structure atop the mountain be a magnificent archaeological find? Would it not also be in dire need of professional preservation? And also, the Americans offer quite a handsome fee.”

“There’s that.”

“You won’t even have to organize matters, nor run the expedition. That burden is borne by others. You’ll be there purely as chief archaeologist.”

She sighed. Roux could be devilishly persuasive.

He was right about one weakness of hers in particular. Science and the scientific method were very important to her, as was the spirit of scientific inquiry. But mostly, she was as curious as the proverbial cat.

“All right, you old renegade,” she said. “You’ve got me wondering just what is on top of that stupid mountain. I’ll agree to hear them out.”

“Splendid.”

“I’m not promising anything else,” she said, shaking her head so emphatically she blew her balance again and had to windmill her arms frantically. Her legs in their black tights slid right out in front if her. She landed on her tailbone with an impact that shot sparks up her spine to explode like fireworks in her brain.

Roux blinked down at her. “Try to contain your excitement, child. People stare.”

Grumbling, she allowed him to help her up once more with his surprising strength of grip and arm.

“Besides,” Roux said as she came back onto her skates, a little tentatively. “I can’t dally here with you forever, delightful as your company always is. I’ve got other projects to attend to. I’ll set up a meeting and will be in touch.” He skated away from her with great speed.

“Roux!” Annja called out to him as he disappeared. Once again she was left wondering what she was getting herself into.

“If you’d please follow me, miss?” The maître d’ was a soft-spoken, light-skinned black man, tall and slender in his white shirt and black trousers, with hair cut short.

The establishment was called, simply, the Penthouse. Its decor was as spare as its name: dark stained oak wainscoting beneath ivory wallpaper, muted chrome accents and crystal lighting. The tablecloths gleamed immaculate white; the only touches of color in the room were the long-stemmed roses—the color of fresh-spilled blood—set on each table in narrow vases.

The real interior decoration was all exterior—the glory of midtown Manhattan by night.

Four men sat at a table with an empty chair, right by one window-wall with lights glimmering in it like a galaxy’s worth of stars. The oldest man, and largest in every dimension, pushed back his chair as Annja approached behind the quietly respectful maître d’.

“Ms. Creed,” he said in a voice that boomed above the discreet murmur of conversation, the tinkle of silver on porcelain and ice in crystal. “How good of you to join us. I’m Charles Bostitch. Please call me Charlie.”

He wore an obviously expensive but somewhat rumpled brown suit with a brown string tie and an expression of jovial indifference to the stares of the other diners on his big, florid fleshy face. His hair was brown and graying at the temples; it looked natural to Annja, not that she was any judge. Seams of his well-rumpled face, exaggerated by his big grin, almost concealed his brown eyes.

As she approached she realized he was very tall. He towered over her, which was rare: he had to be six-four or thereabouts, probably crowding three hundred pounds. He had the look of a former star college quarterback who hadn’t quite had the NFL stuff, and whose career and physique had begun their downhill slide about the same time as graduation and continued until his fifties.

He was a billionaire who had made his money the old-fashioned way—inherited it from his Oklahoma oilman daddy. But, according to the information Roux had given to Annja, he had more than doubled the family fortune despite frequent bouts with expensive bad habits. He’d supposedly cleaned himself up and was now a vigorous proponent of muscular right-wing Christianity.