Chapter 18

Keith sat alone in the lab beneath Rolf’s house and wolfed down the sandwiches and coffee that had been left for him. Tradition said that the third degree master could have whatever time alone that it took for him to study the contents of the chest; but it did not dictate that he had to starve while doing so. He pushed away from his meal and returned to photographing the documents. He would need to refer to these in order to put the pieces together, but everything had to be locked securely back in the chest before he left. Pieces were beginning to fall into place.

Maddie had been right when suggesting that he start with the Gospel of John when applying the rubric to the printed pages. When the correct grille was lined up over the first page of this Gospel, the first twenty marks spelled out the perfect beginning. “In principio erat Verbu.” In the beginning was the Word. The combination of the next several letters confused Keith until he realized that the text he was reading had switched from Latin to German. Spaces between words were not marked, so he had to divide the letters into sensible words and sentences. It was made more difficult by the fact that most of the vowels had been omitted.

“Jeder Wort man schriebt ist unter den Hierothesion konserviert...” Every word man has written is preserved beneath the Hierothesion, where gods and men commune. Stand beside the king and follow the symbols of initiation to the water’s edge. There you will find the path to enlightenment. Fierce protectors—the fire of the desert—guard the word. Their religion is salvation of the word. In their temple, I learned the art of the book. Tutored by the Wisdom of Ptolemy, I made my greatest alchemical work. Ptolemy created the Protectors to guard his knowledge. This secret must remain hidden until the world is ready to learn.

Keith had an advantage that no other third degree master had before him—the Internet. He called up his search engine and entered the term Hierothesion. The word meant nothing by itself. If it was Greek, “hiero” would refer to something sacred. The only relevant Greek terms that included the second half of the word, however, referred to various mountains. Finding one sacred mountain in the world, even in Gutenberg’s world, could take years. What the Internet search returned, however, was unbelievable. Only half a dozen websites came up on the search, and they all pointed to Nemrud Dagi in Southeastern Turkey—the burial tumulus of Antiochus I of the last century BC kingdom of Kommagene. The tumulus burial place was referred to as the Hierothesion.

“Antiochus’ tomb is concealed somewhere inside the 165-foot high man-made burial mound, with its spectacular terraces on three sides.

“On either side of the east terrace stand reliefs of the King’s ancestors, framing 20-foot tall figures of the gods facing the main altar. These include, in addition to eagles and lions, Zeus, Ares, Apollo, and Tyche, as well as Antiochus himself.”

Stand beside the king, Keith thought. He would know when he got there. It was only one of the pieces of the puzzle that was included in ritual.

The manuscript page they had brought with them from the Kane Memorial Library was the sixth of seven pages and must have been removed by a third degree master sometime in the past. It gave the clue to what they were looking for. The encoded rubric told where. One was really no more than an interesting artifact without the other. Keith had placed the missing page back with the others and added to the collection the twelve pages of rubric that served as a grille.

These pieces could get him into a lot of trouble. Mount Nemrut was a national monument in Turkey. He could scarcely drop in and start digging. Besides, according to the archaeological website, digging in the tumulus had been tried in the 60s with disastrous results and was banned to preserve the monument. He really knew nothing about dealing with the Turkish government.

But he did have a key. Keith opened the Carthusian manuscript to the title page and laid the key on the page. The business end of the key looked like any other skeleton-type key fitted to a custom lock. He supposed that a good lock-picker could open the lock on Gutenberg’s chest without too much problem. But the decorative shank of the key was surmounted by a cypher 4 cross, identical to the coat of arms drawn on the title page of the monastery catalogue. All that was missing was the motto “Guardians of the Word.” Keith knew now what he would have to do.

He locked the chest and went to the lab. He copied all his files to a memory card and then erased them from the lab computer. He could not simply destroy the disk, but he used a downloadable utility to write all blank sectors of the disk to zeros. A computer forensics expert might be able to recover the information, but the Guild would never engage an outsider to examine their secrets. If Keith failed, it would take the next third degree master to unlock the chest and the secrets of the Guild.

Finally, Keith removed one of his shoelaces and threaded it through the opening of the loop at the end of the key he had forged. I’ll get a new shoelace at the airport, he thought. He tied the lace around his neck and buttoned his shirt. Now he needed to set things in motion.

“Let’s talk about the explosion last night,” Fry said. “You believe there is no way they could have tracked you.”

“Anyone with your resources could track us. It’s not like we’ve been hiding,” Keith said. Agent Fry sat back in the chair in his room at the Sheraton in Mainz. Keith sat on the sofa facing him. Agent Holtz sat quietly nearby, observing the exchange. Either the room had been made up before he got there this morning, or the Homeland Security agent had not slept in his bed. Either way, it looked much like any other hotel room in the world except for the remains of the agent’s breakfast on his desk.

“There are more direct means of tracking you,” Fry said.

“Only my grandfather and Maddie knew for sure where we were going,” Keith said. “You can’t think that either of them would lead a terrorist around.” Keith shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. His arm still hurt from the burns, even after additional applications of the soothing salve. He had re-bandaged his eye after the ordeal last night, but he had reduced the covering on his left hand to a gauze pad and cotton glove from the stock of document handling gloves in the underground laboratory. Any move he caught in his peripheral vision caused him to turn his head to see. Agent Holtz kept changing positions, pulling his attention away from Agent Fry. He had the feeling it made him look shifty.

“Maybe not intentionally,” Fry said. “Your girlfriend’s brother, however, is another matter.”

“We’ve never met.”

“She talks to him, and I suspect that he has the code to the tracking software in her cell phone,” Fry responded.

“A GPS?”

“We weren’t idle when I kept your cell phones,” Fry said. “There is commercially available software that can be installed on a cell phone that will inform a computer where the phone is. It’s commonly used for tracking down lost cell phones or for parents keeping track of their kids. She may be unaware that the software is on her phone.” The agent looked at Keith while he considered his next phrase. “Or she may not.”

“Maddie is not aiding a terrorist.”

“You need to read the morning newspaper,” Fry said. Keith was puzzled, but took the offered paper from Agent Fry.

“Do you need a translator?” Agent Holtz asked.

“No, I read German,” Keith responded automatically.

“Of course.”

Keith scanned down the article with mounting disbelief.

Police Kill Passerby at Historic Museum

Over-zealous police guarding the Gutenberg Museum in Mainz against unspecified threats shot and fatally wounded a passerby in the city’s main square. The woman, believed to have been an American tourist who didn’t speak German, failed to heed police warnings to stop. Police dogs attacked the woman and when she struggled, an officer shot her. The woman died on the scene.

An eye-witness who chose to remain anonymous for fear of reprisal, nonetheless took photographs of the scene as it happened. “They just shot her,” he said. “She didn’t do anything.”

Police have declined to comment on the incident, having released only a terse statement indicating that a suspected terrorist was killed in an explosion in the Mainz city square.

Independent sources indicate that the woman may have been American scholar Madeline Zayne, known to have been touring Mainz on her spring break. Dr. Zayne is Director of the Whitfield Rare Books Room at the Kane Memorial Library, which was attacked by unidentified terrorists less than a week ago. Associates say that Dr. Zayne was an outspoken critic of government censorship and regulation of libraries. Sources have been unable to reach Dr. Zayne since the incident.

Keith reached for his cellphone. He had not called Maddie since he came up from the catacombs. Fry cut him off.

“She’s fine. She went out for coffee this morning and stopped at a pharmacy. She’s no doubt waiting to hear from you, but you can call her later.”

“This is incredible,” Keith said in disbelief. “First that the world knows she is here and second that there is a news story that is so completely wrong. The police didn’t kill the terrorist, did they?”

“No,” Fry said. “I was there, in fact, I’m in one of the photos. These pictures are carefully selected frames taken from a video feed. They imply, but they don’t actually show what was happening. But what they indicate is that you are squarely in the center of what these people want. Before I give you the help you say you need, I want you to look at the newest note claiming credit for the bombings. They’ve upped the ante by using a suicide bomber. That leads me to believe there are a lot more of them than we originally thought. A group that only has one or two fanatics in it doesn’t waste them on suicide bombings.” Fry handed Keith a printout of the note. Keith read and re-read the note then shook his head.