Father Justin regarded the two females with a pinched expression, but made no comment as he turned on his heel and shone the lantern toward the gates. “Follow me.”
“I don’t think he was expecting women,” Fiona whispered.
Pierce grinned. “I don’t think it’s going to be a problem. Just be glad this isn’t a mosque or a synagogue.”
“Actually, there is a mosque here,” Father Justin said, looking over his shoulder. “But if you knew anything of our teachings, you would know that women are greatly esteemed in the Orthodox Church.”
Pierce ducked his head in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
The monk made a sweeping gesture. “This place honors a woman, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, a child…” Here, he turned and gazed at Fiona, “About your age, I imagine, who devoted her life to studying the teachings of Christ. She condemned the Roman emperor Maxentius to his face for his cruelty, debated his wisest advisors, and won, converting many of them to Christianity, even though doing so meant instant martyrdom. Maxentius imprisoned her, tortured her, but she would not renounce her faith. More than two hundred individuals, including Valeria, the wife of Maxentius himself, came to her in prison, begging her to deny her faith. Every one of them were so moved by her words that they, too, confessed faith in Christ and were martyred. After her execution, angels brought her body here, to the Mountain of God. It is said that a healing spring flowed from the place where she was buried.”
Fiona gave a wry smile. “I like her.”
Justin stared back for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes. She still has that effect on people.” His demeanor softened a little. “Why have you truly come here?”
Pierce exchanged a glance with Gallo, but before he could figure out his next move, Fiona took the bull by the horns. “We told you the truth. We are here because of the earthquakes.”
“But not to survey the damage?”
“No. We’re trying to stop any more of them from happening.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” He waved again. “From here, no less?”
Fiona’s smile did not falter. “With a miracle, of course.”
Pierce allowed himself a tentative sigh of relief. Fiona’s approach was spot-on, and despite his initial surliness, the monk seemed to be warming up to her. Pierce took a step back, nodding for her to continue.
“A miracle.” Justin nodded, as if intrigued. “Are you here to pray?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Fiona replied. “We know that this was a holy mountain long before the monastery was built. We’re looking for something that has probably been here a lot longer.”
Some of the cleric’s earlier wariness returned. “You’re treasure hunters.”
To Pierce’s dismay, Fiona did not deny the accusation. Instead, she held out her hand, displaying the sphere of memory metal she had recovered from deep under Arkaim. “We’re looking for something like this.”
The monk shone his light on the artifact, bending close to inspect it, then stood up straight. “I am sorry. There is nothing like that here.”
Pierce sensed a curiosity in the man, a desire to know more, despite himself. He decided to take a page from Fiona’s playbook. “This artifact was made by an ancient civilization called ‘the Originators.’ They don’t appear in the historical record, but they do show up in the myths and legends of other cultures that we do know about. The ancients thought they were gods, but they didn’t have any magic. Just technology.”
“Gods,” Justin echoed, thoughtfully.
“The Originators created a device that can harness solar energy.” Pierce went on. “Unfortunately, it can also cause seismic disruptions. Earlier today, the device was used, and you have seen the results. We believe there is another device here that can stop it.”
Justin spread his hands helplessly. “As I have said, there is nothing like that here.”
“Please,” Fiona said. “There’s got to be something here. Just let us have a look around.”
Justin stared at her for a few seconds, then managed a tight smile. “We are not in the habit of refusing those who come here praying for miracles.”
TWENTY
Death rode to the holy mountain, not on a pale horse, but in a pair of road-weary and battle-scarred minivans. The men inside the vehicles speeding along Nuweiba Road, the highway that snaked through the lesser peaks, all the way up to the infidel church on the slopes of sacred Jabal Musa, were killers, freshly blooded after a swift surprise attack on a police checkpoint further down the mountain.
The firefight had been unavoidable. There was no hiding the fact that they were armed to the teeth. Most carried AKS-74 carbines, but their arsenal also included an RPG-7 anti-tank rocket launcher. So even though killing policemen wasn’t their primary mission, it had been a necessary action. A prelude to what would soon happen when they reached the end of the road. And, from what Abdul-Ahad al-Nami could discern after listening to the subsequent conversation of his fellow passengers, their first chance to kill in the name of the Prophet.
They were all strangers, all young men like him, gathered from Egypt and all over the Arabian Peninsula, all full of zeal for the fight. At first, he was not sure that he should trust any of them. However, the more he heard, the more he knew that they were his brothers, fellow soldiers who had heard the trumpet of Israfil.
Israfil was one of the Malak — a messenger of God, an angel — who would sound the trumpet on Yawm al-Qiyāmah—the Day of Resurrection. But Israfil was also the nom de guerre of a senior organizer in the army of the Caliphate — the Islamic State — or at least that was how he had introduced himself to Abdul-Ahad a few months earlier, in an online forum where holy warriors gathered to indulge their passion for jihad. Over the ensuing weeks, Israfil had opened the young man’s eyes to the urgency of the times and prompted him to be ready. The Caliphate had been restored, and soon the armies of Rome would gather on the plains of Dabiq, for the final battle. Abdul-Ahad had wanted to travel to Syria and join the fight, but Israfil had urged him to be patient, promising him a far greater role in the outworking of God’s plan.
Tonight, he had made good on that promise, summoning Abdul-Ahad and the others to a coffee shop in Suez, where the minivans and the weapons were waiting, along with the mission: go to the Jabal Musa and stop the agents of Masih ad-Dajjal—the anti-messiah — from defiling the sacred ground where Moses spoke to God.
Israfil had explained that the outcome of the great battle between good and evil would be decided here, on the holy mountain, and Abdul-Ahad knew that it was not an exaggeration. He had heard the news reports, of the earthquakes, and the signs in heaven.
The end of all things was upon them.
He glanced down at the pictures Israfil had sent them, photographs of the enemy’s agents. A man, a woman, and a girl — all Westerners.
Abdul-Ahad had no reservations about killing women or children, not if they were servants of the anti-messiah.
Tonight, they would kill the enemies of God, and, he did not doubt, they would be welcomed into Paradise as martyrs.
But first, the world would burn.
TWENTY-ONE