13th Apostle (16 page)

A few minutes later
The Chapel Altar

Gil led the way down into the underground chamber. The smell of mold was overpowering. The beam of his flashlight flickered and began to grow dim. The beam illuminated only a few feet ahead and proved almost useless. The base of the stairway remained in darkness.

At the eighth step, he hit bottom, straightened, and smashed his head against the ceiling. The force of the impact was immediate and unforgivable. Rough damp stone scraped the soft skin of his scalp, and the pain of the impact shot through his neck and shoulders. Instinctively Gil reached out and pulled Sabbie down before she could meet a similar fate. Then, as he remembered that she was a foot shorter, he let go of her hand and allowed himself the luxury of sinking in pain to the floor.

“Come on,” she said. “We don't have any time to waste. Just keep crouching but make sure your head stays higher than your heart. It'll keep the swelling down.”

“Army training, right?” he snapped. His hand explored the growing egg that was rising at the top of his head and came back wet and sticky. The familiar smell of blood needed no further confirmation of the source.

No smart repartee was returned by Sabbie and, for once, no instructions. In the silence, Gil imagined that the grave-like room had swallowed her up.

We aren't wanted here. I can feel it. Like the guys who discovered King Tut's tomb, we're going to be knocked off one by one until…

“Don't start getting weird on me,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Elias wants you here. All you're doing is following the bread crumbs he left behind.”

A sudden, inexplicable calm washed over Gil. He was okay. More than okay. They weren't intruders, they were invited guests; compliments of a monk who had been waiting for them to finish the task he had begun.

Gil rose carefully to his feet and, as he swung his flashlight in wide circles, strained to see the room in its entirety. He sensed, rather than saw, that it was empty. His heart sank.

“I don't understand. If there's nothing here, why would Elias have dug this chamber?” Gil asked. Desperation rose in his voice.

“Don't be an idiot,” Sabbie answered. “Elias wouldn't have built such a huge chamber for one little scroll. Even if he wanted to for some reason, he couldn't have dug it out without any of the other monks seeing him. No, chances are, this is one of dozens of chambers that were built long before Elias' time. These old monasteries endured countless attacks and lootings by French soldiers, Spanish sailors, even pirates. After each raid, those monks who had been spared, would typically rebuild the edifice, adding hidden passages where, in the event of another attack, they might hide any future artifacts they might acquire. The result was a long-forgotten rambling maze of underground tunnels that crisscrossed beneath a monastery much like those of an ant colony. The monks often added crudely dug chambers for refuge, placed at random, so that in the event their tunnels were discovered, they might still survive to begin the process all over again. Over the centuries, the chambers that were dug at random were often forgotten. My bet is that Elias discovered this one and had realized that by securing entrance to it with the musical passage, he had found the perfect hiding place for the scroll.

“So, if the scroll were going to be found anywhere, it would be here?” Gil asked, hopefully.

“Yes,” Sabbie replied, “unless someone else has beaten us to the punch.” Sabbie had moved forward. She followed the now flickering beam of her flashlight and systematically examined the walls, covered with beads of moisture and dark patches of unidentifiable growth.

“Smells like death,” she said simply.

Death of a dream. Sorry, Elias. Looks like somebody got to it before us.

Gil continued to swing his flashlight in an arc to get as much coverage as possible and half-heartedly made his way along the wall to a spot opposite from where Sabbie stood. It was a useless endeavor, but she would insist on a thorough once-over. They might still discover some clue as to who had discovered the scroll before them.

His right foot hit it first. In a corner, on the floor. It was angled in so deeply that he might have missed it if he had depended on the dim beam of his flashlight. Gil straightened in surprise and again smacked his head on the ceiling. He couldn't have cared less.

Sabbie said something. It didn't matter. He knelt on the cold hard dirt for a better look and saw a small heap of dark cloth covered with the same moldy substance that clung to the walls. The beam of his flashlight brightened, then faded to darkness. He shook it vigorously and made it come to life one last time, then the light was gone.

“Come here!” Gil called.

Sabbie was already at his side.

“Down here, at my feet.”

The tar-covered wooden chest sat on a flat-topped stone no larger than a serving platter. The patches of dark fabric that clung to the box gave it an appearance more like that of a huge moldy loaf of bread than a potentially priceless discovery. The wood had rotted away at the corners of the box, leaving small openings through which a dull green reflected back in the beam of Sabbie's flashlight. Tar still sealed the box and made it impossible to open without damaging it.

They squatted, almost butting heads, squinting to make out the detail in the fading light. Sabbie's light flickered and died.

“Son of a bitch,” Sabbie exclaimed. “They probably pawn the old batteries off on tourists,” she muttered, half to herself.

They stood together in the darkness, the promise of treasure at their feet. Gil's mind raced to come up with a logical course of action.

Sabbie hit it first. “The camera,” she cried.

“Great! The flash will give us enough light to get it packed up.”

“No,” Sabbie explained. “I meant that we need to take some pictures. We're certain to be challenged as to its authenticity. Besides…”

“Pictures can be doctored,” Gil retorted without thinking, then dropped the subject. If she wanted pictures, pictures she'd have. And he'd get the light he needed anyway.

Sabbie inched her way toward the steps. In a moment, she called from the top of the stairs.

“Ready? I'm going to shoot from up here.”

“Yeah.”

The first flash was blinding. Gil closed his eyes too late and, as he waited for the red ball to dissipate and for her to get all the photos she needed, he considered how to best protect their find. By feel, he wrapped the box in the blanket, and hoisted the package under his arm.

A surprising warmth radiated from the spot where the bundle rested against his side, and the pleasant heat spread to his back. Sabbie continued to snap pictures to give him light.

“Don't just stand there. Start making your way to the stairs,” she called.

But he couldn't move and he couldn't tell her why. He was weak with joy and filled with power at the same time. The hand that had been throbbing from Sabbie's less-than-delicate removal of the oleander stick tingled with lightly pricking pins and needles. Instinctively, Gil put the wound to his mouth. The warmth spread from his hand to his lips, flushed down his throat, around to the back of his neck, over the crown of his head, and across his chest. His heart leapt, pounded hard for a moment, then fell into a slow powerful rhythm. Never had he felt such a sense of well-being.

With the bundle tucked beneath his arm, Gil made his way toward the predawn illumination that beckoned from the Chapel above. As he emerged from the darkness, he took what seemed like his first breath. It was sweet and cool, and it filled him with a sense of joy he never imagined possible.

Oblivious to any change in Gil, Sabbie rambled on about ways in which they might return the slab to its original position, how many photos they still had left, and what remained to be documented.

The Chapel looked as if it were lit from within. Filled with an overwhelming tenderness, he waited patiently for her to finish her litany of “must do”s.

She's scared. The plans make her feel more secure.

“The slab will close and the underground chamber will return to oblivion once more,” he said softly. “Don't worry.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He didn't respond.

At his direction, Sabbie took up her former position at the bellows, and Gil played the keyboard sequence as if he had practiced it for years. It was the same phrase of notes that had caused the slab to move and had opened the entrance to the chamber.

With one hand securing the box next to him on the organ bench, Gil played the musical passage that had opened the chamber. This time he played it in reverse. The gears and pulleys set the stone slab into motion and removed all evidence of the chamber below save for some fresh scratch marks on the stone floor beside the platform.

Sabbie murmured her relief. Gil had no such reaction. He knew it would work as well as if Elias had whispered the directions in his ear.

“I'll be right back,” Sabbie said. She disappeared out the door. She returned moments later and informed him that the maintenance man was still out cold.

“Are you sure he's okay?” Gil asked.

Sabbie ignored his question and picked up the backpack. “Are you ready?” she asked. “Bring it over there. There's more light.”

Gil joined her at the window.

Carefully, they cut through the tar and gently pried open the ancient box. There, before them, lay the treasure that Elias and his brother had given their lives for. Within its words, a message, two thousand years in the waiting, that would soon be revealed.

Though Gil cradled the open box in his arm, he did not touch the scroll. Sabbie hesitated as well. To touch it would seem a desecration. A single shaft of light lit the spot where they stood. Now, in the new morning, the scroll that had not seen the light of day for a millennium, reflected back the sun's welcome radiance and seemed to beckon them.

Gil took Sabbie's hand, gently placed it on the scroll, and let the voice of antiquity enter her and speak for itself.

Day Ten, dawn
Monastery Road, Weymouth

Sabbie spotted them at a distance.

Moments before, the hotel entrance had looked inviting, a sanctuary that welcomed them home from their long night at the Monastery and offered them the chance to explore their incredible discovery. Now, according to Sabbie, the same facade concealed their would-be assassins.

She squatted behind a pile of bagged garbage and pulled Gil down beside her. The stench of the rotting refuse was overpowering.

“Don't make a sound,” Sabbie whispered. “Breathe through your mouth and the smell won't get you.

“There are two of them,” she continued. “They're right there in that little space where the tall hedge stops and the trees begin.” She pointed to the far right of the hotel's entrance. “One is small. The other's large and heavy. The big one doesn't look like he can move quickly, but the small one can and that's all that counts.”

Gil squinted into the early morning sun and tried to discern their alleged pursuers.

Two men in front of a hotel entrance. That's all they were. They could have been waiting for anyone. Gil tried to talk reason with her. She was adamant. They couldn't go back to the hotel.

“I'm not staying here in the garbage just because you're getting paranoid.”

“Shhh,” she cautioned. “Look, you're the one who keeps saying I should trust my instincts. And I'm telling you something isn't right here.”

He had to admit her logic, as well, wasn't half bad. No car, no bus, no taxi could pull up within fifty feet of where the men were standing. If they were waiting for a hotel guest, there were a dozen more comfortable spots to choose. They were barely talking, but they continued to face each other and look over each other's shoulders. There could be no other logical reason for such odd behavior. Most of all, she added, she just knew it.

“They're here for us…and this.” She put her hand on the backpack as if to protect their precious cargo. Her heart pounded in the hollow of her neck. “God, I can't believe they found us so fast. I thought we'd have at least until this afternoon.”

“At least until this afternoon for what?” he whispered back.

Sabbie ignored his question. “Stay low and follow me.”

He started to protest.

“I'm betting they won't be able to tell it's us at this distance. Be quiet and do what I say,” she ordered. “Walk slowly but don't make it obvious. Look nonchalant. Keep your eyes on me but don't act like we're together. If I stop, you stop. Stay about thirty feet behind. If anything happens, grab the backpack and run like hell. Whatever you do, don't run in the same direction as me…if I'm able to run.”

“What?”

“On the count of three. One…” Sabbie was up, moving fluidly along the building. She headed away from the hotel, back in the direction from which they'd come. As instructed, Gil followed. He turned his head to get a fix on both men but the space where they were standing was now vacant.

Gil looked back to tell her the good news but she was gone. In that moment, she had disappeared, probably into one of the buildings. He shook off a wave of panic. Maybe he should go back and try to find where she had turned off. No, better go ahead and find a break in the buildings to the next street. Maybe she'd was waiting there for him.

A strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder of his sweatshirt, another covered his mouth. He was dragged backward into a small alley. Gil struggled to stay upright, regained his balance, and kicked the feet out from under his assailant.

“Great work, Sherlock,” Sabbie whispered. She got to her feet. “Follow me, this alley goes straight through to the next street.”

Luck was with them. The alley continued for three blocks. They emerged at a more-than-comfortable distance from the hotel and the shadowy figures.

Sabbie steered Gil toward a passing cab that she had signaled.

“Where can we get a good breakfast?” she asked the driver.

La Maison
was five minutes away. It catered to the business elite who minimized the sting of early morning meetings by sweetening up their clients with caramelized French toast smothered in Devonshire cream.

By the time the driver finished praising the restaurant's cuisine and denouncing their prices, they had arrived.

“We need someplace public but quiet,” she told Gil. “This will do.”

Public or not, he appreciated her choice of refuge. He hadn't eaten dinner the day before, and he was starving. Inviting odors filled the entryway, and his stomach grumbled in anticipation. Sabbie's imaginary foes were gone for the moment and he'd be eating soon. If, before he was finished eating, he found himself involved in a shoot-out scene straight out of
The Godfather
, at least he'd die a happy man.

The maitre d' allowed a slow downward gaze to communicate the inappropriateness of their jeans and sweatshirts. A quick glance at his reservations' list indicated the inappropriateness of the unanticipated arrival. A silent frown suggested that both transgressions could be overlooked for the right compensation.

Sabbie discretely placed a bill in the hand of the maitre d' and, in a warm voice that Gil had never witnessed before, asked for help. She explained that their unanticipated arrival and overly informal attire was due to the airlines' loss of their baggage, and added that she was hypoglycemic and felt a bit faint for lack of food.

They were seated immediately and reassured that the serving staff would be informed of her medical condition. The few occupied tables were well out of earshot, most likely to accommodate the most private of business discussions.

A pimply faced youth brought them steaming coffee and inquired if they preferred tea. He was replaced by a gruff, ill-tempered waiter.

Gil ordered quickly, not caring what he selected as long as it was hot and there was a lot of it. With his meal on its way, he formulated the best way to approach a discussion of Sabbie's latest bout of paranoia.

Suddenly, her body stiffened, and she stared oddly over Gil's left shoulder. “Don't look now,” she said. “I mean
really
don't look now. Just keep smiling and chatting.”

“Okay,” Gil said through a wide, fake grin, barely moving his lips. “What am I not looking at?”

“That man who just walked past us. He came in after we did and he's being seated already. Something's wrong.”

“Yeah? Well, he just took a seat two tables behind you,” Gil said. “Maybe he topped your hypoglycemia story or offered the maitre d' more money. Or, now here's one, maybe he had a reservation!” he added sarcastically.

Sabbie ignored his tone. “I don't think so. I saw their reservations list. Their next seating isn't for an hour. Besides, I'm almost sure I saw him on the train and then again at the hotel yesterday afternoon.”

“What's strange about that? He's probably here for a business meeting like the rest of them.” Gil motioned to the clusters of involved discussions around the dining room.

“He's following us,” Sabbie concluded. “He's not one of the two from outside the hotel. That's not good.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but when somebody's tailing somebody, aren't they supposed to stay hidden, you know, out of view?” Gil laughed.

“Not if they're smart or if they want to be seen. Besides,” she added with a shrug that seemed to conclude the matter for the moment, “they have to eat, too.”

At Gil's request, the eggs and bangers arrived first. Twice, although they were not yet finished, the waiter attempted to remove their plates to indicate that they had lingered too long. Their French toast, plunked down in front of them, clattered as he impatiently removed the protective china covers. Gil declined the waiter's overly polite offer to refresh his coffee, fearful he might be inviting third-degree burns. Sabbie remained silent and watchful.

“Tell me what he's doing now,” she said.

Gil peered over Sabbie's shoulder and reported with sarcastic exaggeration. “Well…now here's something suspicious…he's…yes, he is, he's eating breakfast. Very odd if you ask me. I mean, look at this, we order eggs and bangers. Bingo, so does he and…”

“I'm going to the Ladies' Room,” she said, rising. “Just watch and see if he follows me.”

“You said not to look,” Gil retorted.

“Stay here,” she said, steadily looking into his eyes. “Please.”

She rose, made some comments about their upcoming imaginary anniversary, kissed him lightly on the top of the head to project the image of a loving couple, then headed to the rear of the restaurant.

Gil gazed at the man two tables away. Middle-aged, nondescript, and looking decidedly British, the poor fellow sat alone as he read a newspaper and continued his meal. Gil closed his eyes and surrendered to his tiredness. It had been a long, incredible night. His body ached for sleep.

Gil closed his eyes for what seemed like just a moment then woke with a start. The man, only halfway through his meal, had vacated his seat and was headed in the same direction Sabbie had gone.

Gil could think of endless explanations for the man's hasty exit, starting with pure coincidence and ending with the guy having irritable bowel syndrome. Still, the scene was far too reminiscent of his first restaurant encounter with Sabbie and Ludlow.

Gil watched the man walk toward the restrooms. Perhaps Sabbie would emerge before the man disappeared from view and she'd see how foolish she had been.

The telltale bulge beneath the man's left arm sent Gil's heart racing. He had noticed the same curve to the jackets of each of the guards at the Museum security gates.

He's got a gun under that arm.

No more pretense, no more jokes. Gil knew the truth. While he had been busy trying to dismiss everything Sabbie had been saying, she had been busy trying to keep them alive and to save the scroll—though he wasn't sure in which order. He had made fun of her because it was a hell of a lot easier than admitting the truth; the importance of the scroll might well have rendered their lives insignificant.

He was scared, not just for himself. Whoever was following them was far more interested in her than in him. Here he sat, the scroll in his backpack, while the guy went after her.

Went after her!

He had to do something. He could call the maitre d' and say…what? That a man with a gun went to the restroom? He could race to the back and try to warn her—or help her, if she needed it. And what would he do with the scroll?

The hell with the scroll. I can't just sit here.

In the end that's exactly what he did. He waited, silent and miserable, simply because that's exactly what Sabbie asked him to do. Before she had left the table, she had planted a lover's kiss on his head and had asked him to please stay where he was. No matter what. So, this time, for once in his life, he did.

Several minutes passed. Sabbie appeared, her face pale, her manner calm.

“You okay?” Gil asked with relief. “You know I have this tendency to lose people who go to restaurant bathrooms.” His voice trailed off, remembering the last time he had seen Ludlow and Sabbie together and the fate the Professor had met less than twenty-four hours later.

More soberly, Gil tried again. “So, was he following you?”

“Not a problem.”

“Not a problem as in, he wasn't following you or not a problem as in…”

The waiter appeared and handed them the check to indicate he had no intention of bringing them anything else, then disappeared.

She explained that they still had an hour to kill until the car rental agency opened. The word “kill” echoed like never before. “What about taking a train back?” Gil asked hopefully.

“No trains back 'til late this afternoon. We'll drive.”

The waiter reappeared. Sabbie produced another traveler's check and passed it to Gil to sign. He hesitated, shrugged, then signed Ludlow's name without argument. What was one more felony added to the list?

The waiter nearly pushed them out the door and slammed it closed behind them, happy to rid his restaurant of their unsightly presence. They waited on the busy street, hoping to hail a passing cab. Sabbie's gun was secreted somewhere on her person, of that he was certain. But gun or no gun, with the backpack slung on his shoulder, Gil had never felt more exposed and vulnerable.

The next seating of breakfast customers had begun to arrive and, with them, several taxis. Grateful for the security of the cab, they slid into the back seat. Only then did Gil realize that Sabbie had never given him a straight answer about the man who had followed her to the restroom. Nor, come to think of it, had Gil ever seen the man again.