C. Palov - Ark of Fire

She stared at the enigmatic fourth quatrain.

A trusted goose. A man with a fully devout heart. And the veil between two worlds.

“This would be a whole heck of a lot easier if Galen had simply drawn an ‘X Marks the Spot’ treasure map,” she muttered, wondering if they’d finally hit a roadblock.

“Had he done that, the Ark would have been unearthed long centuries ago.”

“While we’re on the topic of finding the Ark, this might be a good time to mention that I’m starting to worry about Colonel MacFarlane having the Stones of Fire in his possession. You said it yourself: Not only was the breastplate a protective shield, but it was also used as a divination tool, enabling the wearer to communicate with God. Not unlike a two-way radio. If MacFarlane finds the Ark of the Covenant, he’d not only have the best intelligence device known to mankind, i.e. the Stones of Fire, but he’d have a very powerful weapon of mass destruction. You can’t deny that it makes for a deadly duo.”

For several long seconds, Caedmon held her gaze. “Then we’ll do all in our power to ensure that doesn’t happen.” Although the words were quietly spoken, he had about him an air of fierce determination. For one brief, blurry second, she envisioned him decked out in chain mail, fighting to the death on the Plain of Esdraelon.

Returning his attention to the “custody box,” Caedmon tapped his finger against the giant question mark on the fourth side of the square. “This is where we begin to tread murky water.”

“Actually, this is where we need to call it quits,” she matter-of-factly announced, unable to keep the jet lag at bay one second longer.

Sensing a run on her energy bank, her partner good-naturedly patted her on the back. “Come now. Time to brain-storm. Group dynamics and all that.”

Needing to break up the party, she dolefully shook her head. “I need to refuel. How about we grab some pub grub? If I remember correctly, they’re serving seafood salad and lentil soup at the Isis Room.”

“Er, right. An excellent suggestion.”

Not for one second was Edie fooled; she could see the disappointment in Caedmon’s blue eyes. He might be able to pull an all-nighter, but there was no way she could tackle the fourth quatrain without some much-needed food. Followed by some much-needed sleep.

While Caedmon returned the leather-bound volumes and cotton gloves to the stern-faced librarian, Edie stuffed the sharpened pencils and notepaper into her tote bag.

A few minutes later, with Caedmon’s protective arm slung around her shoulders, they made their way along a crowded city sidewalk. Harried locals, heads ducked against a cold, wet wind, scurried alongside them. Casting a quick sideways glance down a deserted alleyway, Edie had a sudden, uneasy feeling, afraid that something malevolent, even deadly, lurked in the shadows.

CHAPTER 43

“. . . at which time Galen of Godmersham succumbed to the Black Death, the great plague of 1348.”

Pointer in hand, Marshall Mendolson underlined the last line of the third quatrain, having had no choice but to begin deciphering the verses. Guns at the ready, these guys were a tough crowd, the older dude with the buzz cut the scariest of them all. He wanted the goods, no two ways about it.

Marshall doubted the head dude even knew his name. Earlier he’d overheard one of his steroid-enhanced bodyguards refer to him as “the li’l Harvard prick.”

“And the fourth quatrain, what of it?” his benefactor pressed, making no attempt to hide his impatience.

Marshall struck a thoughtful pose, doing a fair imitation of one of his favorite Harvard professors. “Hmm . . . good question.” And one he had no intention of truthfully answering.

Did the Neanderthals really think they could outwit, outsmart, outplay a Harvard graduate?

It took only a quick, cursory reading of Galen’s poetic verses for him to figure out that the arca in the third quatrain was an oblique reference to the Ark of the Covenant. Not the medieval chest the head dude had hired him to find. These guys wanted him to hunt down the Ark of the Covenant so they could cash in on it, his cut being a paltry seventy thousand dollars. After he paid off his student loans, there wouldn’t be enough left for a Happy Meal at McDonald’s.

Yeah, well, think again.

Jesus. The freaking Ark of the Covenant.

According to the Bible, the Ark could raze fortified cities, part seas, and kick some serious ass.

And if you believed that , he had some mountain property in Florida to sell you.

Although you didn’t have to be a Bible thumper to know that the Ark of the Covenant was a treasure of immeasurable worth. As in more money than he could ever count.

Hello, Tahiti and a life of indolent leisure surrounded by bare-breasted island beauties.

Given that his mother had once sued the Fairfax County school board over the phrase one nation under God in the Pledge of Allegiance—the groundswell of religious fervor nearly swallowing Adele Mendolson whole—his finding the Ark of the Covenant would be friggin’ ironic.

This one’s for you, Mother.

“The ‘goos’ reference in the fourth quatrain is pretty straightforward,” he answered after a long drawn-out pause, figuring some straight talk was in order, every good lie cloaked in the truth.

“You’re talking about the goose that laid the golden egg, right?” This from the brawny bruiser named Boyd, the man straddling an expensive Sheraton chair like a lap dancer straddling a paying crotch.

“Very good, Sir Rambo. You go to the head of the class.” A measured half beat later, he mockingly exclaimed, “Not!” At that moment he wanted nothing more than to smash the muscled behemoth’s face into the wood-planked floor. As had been done to him by countless bullies in years gone by.

Knowing he could take the put-down only so far, he switched gears, once more the erudite Harvard grad. “In the medieval lexicon, the goose represented vigilance. And given the fact that Galen composed his quatrains just prior to his death, it specifically means vigilance in death.”

Liking the sound of that, Marshall smiled, having just figured out how he could outmaneuver his benefactor.

“Line two of the last quatrain is simply a ‘woe is me’ commentary on the plague,” he continued, barely able to suppress an excited grin. “That takes us to line three, which is an offhand reference to Saint—”

“I want to know where Galen hid his chest,” the older dude hissed, his eyes narrowing as he stared him down.

“Well, now, that is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” Or a thousand times that amount.

It was all he could do not to break into song. Like the bearded Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. Except he really would be a rich man. No “if” about it.

Stepping over to his laptop, Marshall clicked several keys, projecting the next slide—a page from a nearly seven-hundred-year-old document—onto the wall. “From the Feet of Fines record, I discovered that Galen donated a hefty number of golden objects to”—he snatched his handwritten notes from the table—“St. Lawrence the Martyr Church in Godmersham. That being the ‘holy blissful martir’ of the fourth quatrain. Like most medieval men, Galen no doubt believed that he could buy his way into heaven.” Or bribe his way into heaven, depending on your point of view. “Put it all together, my guess is that Galen, quite literally, took the arca to his grave.”

The older dude cogitated on that for a few seconds. Then, obviously an anal sort who liked to verify the facts, he asked, “Are you saying that the gold chest is buried in Galen of Godmersham’s tomb at St. Lawrence the Martyr Church?”