Helios (Cerberus Group Book 2) Read online

  “Felice,” Lazarus murmured. “Play nice.”

  Mateos laughed. “We are as proud of Dinkinesh—I believe you call her ‘Lucy’—as we are of our spiritual traditions. One need not preclude the other.”

  “I can appreciate symbolic value,” Carter countered. “But I’m a scientist. Facts are the only thing that matter to me.”

  “And yet you seek the Ark of the Covenant, a powerful religious symbol. And you look for it here, where all we have are our stories, which you do not believe. Curious.”

  “What we seek,” she clarified, “is a powerful device once used by Moses and Joshua to trigger earthquakes and stop the sun in the sky. And we came here because millions of Ethiopians are convinced that you’ve got that device. The man we work for made a pretty convincing case for why it can’t be in Ethiopia. So whether I believe or not is irrelevant. Do you have the Ark? Are those stories true?”

  Mateos sagged into one of the chairs bolted to the deck. “The story you know and that all my countrymen believe, the story recorded in the Kebra Nagast, the Glory of Kings, which we have told for hundreds of years, is almost certainly false. It is a story created by men to justify their right to rule over other men. I know this. All learned men know this. The Kingdom of Sheba was not in Ethiopia, and neither Solomon nor the Priests of the Holy Temple would have permitted anyone to remove the Ark. However, I also know that the one true Ark is here, and has been for more than two thousand years.

  “This is what I believe happened: In the days of Zedekiah, the last king of Judah, God sent the prophet Jeremiah to deliver a message of judgment. The king, angered by the prophecy, ordered Jeremiah to be cast into a cistern, where he would surely have died. But the king’s servant—his abdemelech—was a godly man. He rescued Jeremiah from the cistern. To repay his faith, God promised the abdemelech that he would be spared when the judgement came. Scripture says little else about that godly servant, except that he was an Ethiopian.”

  “Pierce thinks Jeremiah hid the Ark,” Lazarus said. “But he could have had help from that Ethiopian.”

  “I believe that is how the Ark came to be in my country, but it is only an idea I have. Perhaps there is another explanation, I do not know. I know only that the true Ark is there, at Tana Qirqos. You will see.”

  Despite the man’s evident conviction, Lazarus remained skeptical. From what he could tell, the entire story of the Ark in Ethiopia was like one great big shell game. First the Ark was in the Chapel of the Tablets, but no one was allowed to see it. Then that Ark turned out to be bogus, but the real one was somewhere else. He couldn’t help but wonder if the Ark at Tana Qirqos would prove to be just one more deception.

  In the early light, the island looked like a fortress rising from the surface of the lake. A solid mass of basalt, it looked at least four hundred yards long and a hundred feet high, surrounded by reedy shallows. The wall itself was sheer, impossible to climb, but the boat’s skipper seemed to know where to take them. They circled around the island and put ashore near the base of the wall. Mateos led them along a barely visible trail that reached a section of the island that could not be accessed by boat. There, they found a small compound of stone structures that looked like ancient ruins. In one small round building—little more than a hut—they met a group of wizened monks who smelled of roasted meat and incense. The monks regarded Carter with undisguised disdain—Mateos had explained that women were not permitted to enter the monastery—but they said nothing, deferring to the senior clergyman, who explained their purpose. The exchange happened so quickly, Lazarus did not even have time to contact Dourado and have her activate the babelfish system.

  It occurred to him then that they had not checked in with Cerberus HQ since the previous afternoon, shortly after arriving in Axum. Dourado had not called, which probably meant that Pierce wasn’t having any better luck than they were.

  One of the monks led them up a steep trail that rose to the top of the fortress-like rock, overgrown with scrubby brush and cactuses. The surface of the lake was more than a mile above sea level, but the two Ethiopians, despite their advanced age, moved up the path like a pair of mountain goats. Once atop the rock formation, the trail brought them to another structure, more modern than the monastery, but just as run down. The structure covered a natural rock formation, carved into an altar that looked like a tower of stone cubes.

  Their guide muttered something in his native language, which Mateos translated. “This is the altar where sacrifices were made when the Ark was kept here many thousands of years ago.”

  The monk stared at Lazarus for a moment and then beckoned him forward. Using gestures and pantomime, the monk explained that they needed to move the altar out of the way. Lazarus was a bit surprised at the request, since it appeared to be a solid mass, connected to the underlying rock, but as he braced his shoulder against it and started pushing, he saw a well-concealed seam.

  The stone was heavy but not impossibly so, and after a couple of minutes of rocking and shoving, a small square opening was revealed. The monk pointed to the hole and said something that needed no translation.

  In there.

  Lazarus glanced at Carter, reading the doubt in her expression. Mateos must have sensed their shared skepticism. “The Ark was brought into this crypt through another entrance, which has been sealed to prevent it from being stolen.”

  The explanation was plausible enough, but then so were all the other excuses Mateos and his Church had employed over the years to prevent anyone from verifying their claims about the Ark. Mateos seemed sincere enough, but if he intended treachery, there was no better place to disappear them than a hidden crypt on a remote island that no one even knew they were visiting.

  Lazarus stuck his head through the opening and surveyed it in the beam of his flashlight. The floor was about five feet down and sloped away to form a descending passage that led away into the darkness. Satisfied that it was at least passable, he reversed position and lowered himself feet first into the passage. It was a tight fit, and his shoulders scraped against the stone walls as he pushed deeper into the hewn-out shaft. Carter came next, slipping through with considerably more ease.

  The passage sloped, and after about thirty feet, it opened into a larger chamber. Before he reached it, Lazarus sensed a change in the air. Fingers of static electricity brushed his skin like the touch of butterfly wings. A whiff of ozone stung his nostrils, and the air hummed with a sound like an electrical transformer. As he emerged from the passage, his light fell upon on an object shrouded in heavy blankets, with long poles protruding out from beneath the coverings. It was bigger than he expected. The shape under the blankets was longer and taller than the replica he had seen in the Chapel of the Tablets in Axum, almost six feet long, and more than four feet high. Although the relic itself was not visible, the poles returned a metallic reflection—hammered gold.

  The hum grew louder as he approached the shrouded object. It was the source of the disturbance.

  The old monk’s voice rang out in the chamber, and Mateos translated. “Go no closer.”

  Lazarus looked back and saw the others—Carter, the bishop, and the monk—standing by the wall near the mouth of the passage. Carter’s eyes were wide with disbelief.

  “It must remain covered,” Mateos continued. “Except in the presence of the ordained High Priest, wearing the Crown of God and carrying the Urim and the Thummim in the Breastpiece of Judgement. No one else may see it, lest the glory of God consume them.”

  “Glory of God,” Carter echoed. “Pierce called it shekinah.”

  “Yes. When it is uncovered, the Ark creates shekinah. Only the High Priest can command it.”

  It could have been another convenient excuse, another part of the endless shell game designed to con believers into taking it on faith.

  It could have been.

  But it wasn’t.

  Lazarus didn’t need to see it to know that they had found the true Ark of the Covenant.

  FIFTY-TWOr />
  Gakona, Alaska

  The Jeep slowed to a complete stop in the southwest-bound lane. There was little danger of a collision with another vehicle. There were no other cars on the highway. Technically, there wasn’t even a highway anymore. The earthquake had obliterated several stretches of the remote Tok Cut-off section of the Glenn Highway, leaving it impassable to anything not built for off-road travel. Fortunately, there were plenty of vehicles like that in the 49th State, and more than a few intrepid and opportunistic souls willing to embrace the challenge for the right price.

  Ishiro Tanaka handed over a roll of bills, the balance of the amount he and the Jeep’s owner had agreed upon before leaving Fairbanks almost six hours earlier, and climbed out. Anchorage would have been closer, but at last report, there wasn’t much left of Alaska’s largest city.

  “You sure about this, buddy?” the driver asked. “It’s going to be a while before anyone else comes out this way. You’ll be on your own.”

  “I’m sure,” Tanaka said. “I used to work here. I know what to expect.”

  The driver shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

  The thought brought a smile to Tanaka’s lips.

  The Jeep pulled away and executed a tight 180-degree turn, lining up to head back the way they’d come, but before departing, the driver stopped again. “Hey, buddy! Here.”

  He pitched something in Tanaka’s direction, a tall cylinder that looked a little like a small, home-sized fire extinguisher. “For what you paid me, it’s the least I can do.”

  Tanaka recognized what it was even before he caught it out of the air. A canister of Counter Assault bear repellent spray, similar to self-defense pepper spray, but designed for driving off grizzly bears and other deadly wild animals—a must-have when venturing into the Alaskan wilderness. Tanaka wasn’t planning to do any cross-country hiking, but he touched the top of the can to his forehead in a friendly salute. “Thanks.”

  “You watch yourself out here,” the man added, and then drove off.

  Tanaka stuffed the canister into the pocket of his coat but waited until the Jeep rounded a corner before starting up the adjacent road. A large blue sign with white block letters was mounted on posts at the roadside.

  IONOSPHERIC RESEARCH OBSERVATORY

  At the top of the sign, in smaller letters, was the name that formed the acronym most commonly associated with the facility.

  HIGH FREQUENCY ACTIVE AURORAL RESEARCH PROGRAM

  Directly ahead at the top of a low rise, about two hundred yards from the highway, was an enormous, windowless white building. Between him and it was an eight-foot high chain link fence, tipped with another foot of barbed wire.

  One last obstacle to overcome, he thought.

  He approached the gate—locked, as expected—and gripped the links. He had never been much of an athlete, never had reason to even attempt climbing a fence, but how hard could it be?

  His toes refused to find purchase in the tight diamond-shaped holes between the links, and his arms were too weak to lift his body without help. He tried again, to no better effect, and then hammered his fists against the gate in impotent rage.

  For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost, he thought. I should have brought bolt cutters.

  He gripped the links again, but looked away, toward the trees that surrounded the fenced property. Failure was not an option. He had to get inside.

  “Help you with something?”

  The disembodied male voice startled Tanaka. He took a deep breath to compose himself, then located the speaker box mounted to the side of the gate.

  That’s new, Tanaka thought, but then he recalled that the last time he had been here, the gate had been manned by soldiers armed with M16 rifles.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I thought everyone was gone.”

  “Well, you thought wrong. This is a restricted facility. I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”

  Tanaka had assumed that the University would evacuate their personnel from the site, but someone had stayed behind as a caretaker. He took another calming breath, then continued in his best professional manner. “I’m afraid we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here. My name is Dr. Ishiro Tanaka. I worked here a few years ago. I’ve been contracted by the government to assess the extent of the damage.”

  “The University owns the facility now.” The man said it like a challenge.

  “I’m aware of that, but I’m sure you’re aware of the government’s ongoing stake in this operation.” He paused a beat. “Listen, why don’t you give the head office in Fairbanks a call. They’ll verify everything.”

  Phone lines and high-speed networks were down statewide, and satellite phones were unreliable so close to the Arctic circle. Even if the man managed to get through to somebody in authority, there would be no way to confirm or refute Tanaka’s claim. He doubted the man would even make the attempt.

  There was silence for several seconds, then the voice spoke again. “I’ll be down in a second.”

  Tanaka allowed himself a relieved sigh, as he leaned back against a fence post. A few minutes later, the crunch of tires on pavement and the faint whine of an electric motor heralded the approach of a golf-cart, similar to the robot shuttles Marcus Fallon had used at Tomorrowland, except this one was not autonomous. A twenty-something man with long hair, wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt sat behind the steering wheel. He drove the cart down the hill and stopped just a few steps from the gate.

  The man regarded him warily for a moment but then dismounted and approached the gate, key ring in hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Tanaka. If I had known you were coming…”

  Tanaka waved off the apology. “If it’s all the same, I’d like to get started right away. Was there much damage here?”

  “A few broken dishes in the cupboards, but nothing serious.” The man unlocked the gate and swung it open to admit him. “With the generators, we probably could have stayed online, but the project manager made the call to get everyone back to civilization.”

  Tanaka stepped through. “Everyone but you, I take it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good,” Tanaka said, and then added. “I’m sorry.”

  The confused look on the man’s face disappeared as Tanaka brought the canister of bear spray up and squeezed the handle.

  Contrary to popular belief, bear spray was not more potent than similar products designed for self-defense against human attackers. In fact, the concentration of capsicum—the hot pepper oil used as a blistering agent—in pepper spray could be as high as 30%. By contrast, government regulations required bear spray to contain no more than 2%. The purpose of bear spray was not to harm a bear or other animal, but to discourage it from a distance, which it did with a greater volume of spray under higher pressure, more than doubling the effective range.

  At point-blank range, though, a blast of bear spray in the face guaranteed that a generous amount of the mild acid went into the victim’s eyes.

  The man jerked away, hunching over, covering his face and swearing. A moment later, the curses became a shriek of pain as the capsicum began reacting with his mucous membranes. But those were silenced when Tanaka brought the mostly full canister down on the back of the man’s head. The blow dropped the man to his knees, dazing him.

  As blunt weapons went, the bear spray canister was a poor choice, but as with its contents, any deficiency in potency could be offset with volume.

  Tanaka brought the metal container down again. The stunned caretaker threw up a hand, blindly trying to deflect the assault, but another blow flattened him. Tanaka did not relent however. He dropped to his knees and hit the man again.

  And again.

  And again.

  The canister had become slick with gore and threatened to twist out of his grip every time he slammed it down. He squeezed it so tightly that the pressurized container dimpled under his fingertips, but he kept slamming it down, until the man’s head was an unrecognizable mass of ravaged tissue and bone.
Then, he fell back on his haunches, turned his head, and vomited.

  He had just killed a man.

  He knew, on an intuitive level, how absurd it was to feel remorse over a single death. His actions in Geneva had killed thousands…hundreds of thousands…perhaps even millions. And soon, he would bring about the death of every living thing on Earth. Bludgeoning the caretaker had been different only in that it was more immediate.

  More…visceral.

  But the end result was the same. A few moments of pain, and then an end to suffering forever.

  He checked his watch and was surprised to see that it was almost nine p.m. At this latitude, and so near the summer solstice, the nights were short and started very late. That had been one of the hardest things for him to adjust to during the eighteen months he had spent here, back in the early days of the project. The cold and the long nights of winter hadn’t bothered him much at all, but eighteen-plus hours of daylight was enough to drive the soberest soul crazy.

  That thought brought another smile. In a few hours, the length of time it would take him to retrofit the Ionic Research Instrument—the IRI—to accommodate the Roswell fragment, the distinction between night and day would become meaningless.

  He would divert all the sun’s light away from the Earth. There would be only night, and in a matter of weeks, a frozen wasteland with no one left to care.

  There would be suffering, yes, but in the grand scheme of the cosmos, it would be brief.

  He coughed, spat to clear the taste of bile from his mouth, got to his feet, and dragged the corpse off the road and into the trees, where it would not be seen in the unlikely event that someone happened by. Then, he got in the cart and started up the hill.

  No more obstacles.

  No distance left to travel.

  It would all be over soon.