Lazarus waited another twenty seconds, then made his move.
He stole along the edge of the wall, crossing the forty yards to the corner of the Chapel of the Tablets in four seconds. He vaulted up and over the fence like a parkour master, dropped to the ground on the far side, and pressed himself against the rough brick exterior of the Chapel. He paused there only a moment, just long enough to make sure that he had not been noticed, then kept going. The door was on the north wall, just a few steps away.
It opened with no resistance.
Lazarus moved inside with the same decisive swiftness he had once used when conducting military raids. He doubted very much that the lone monk assigned to the lifetime position of guardian would be lurking in the corner with an AK-47, but that didn’t mean the venture was risk free. If he was spotted and the alarm was sounded, getting out of Ethiopia would be tricky. If it happened before he was able to verify that the Ark inside the chapel was a fake, it would all be for naught.
He moved inside and closed the door behind him. The interior was dark and still. He waited a few seconds, listening, breathing, tasting the air for any sign of trouble, before clicking on a small disposable flashlight. He kept the light covered with one hand, allowing a sliver of illumination to slip through his fingers. It was enough for him to navigate the interior and make out a few details.
The chapel’s layout was simple, a large open room surrounding a tall square enclosure in the middle. The walls of the enclosure were adorned with brightly painted panels, depicting scenes from the Bible and the story of how the Ark came to Axum. Lazarus could not fathom why the builders of the chapel would decorate a room that only a few men would ever be permitted to see.
Three sides of the enclosure had shuttered windows. The fourth wall had a door, screened off behind a partition of colored glass. Lazarus ducked around the partition and approached the door with the same assertiveness he had shown entering the building.
The closed door reminded him of Schroedinger’s Cat, the old thought experiment used to explain competing alternate realities in quantum physics. While the door was closed, there were two potential realities occupying the same space on the other side. In one reality, the enclosure contained the highly sought-after Ark of the Covenant, the actual relic from the Bible, imbued with supernatural powers. In another reality, the enclosure contained a forgery. Yet, it was not a case of one or the other. While the door remained closed, the actual truth known only to the guardian monk, the two realities existed simultaneously. The Ark was there for those who believed it was, and it was not for those who did not believe.
Once he entered the enclosure, one of those realities would cease to exist.
Lazarus did not hesitate. He was certain about which reality would survive, but not so certain that he did not harbor a small sliver of doubt. He and Carter were only here because of that sliver, that remote possibility that could not be completely dismissed.
What if that reality survived? What if he found the actual, real Ark?
Sneaking into the Chapel of the Tablets was one thing. Trying to sneak out, while carrying a holy relic that probably weighed hundreds of pounds, not to mention possessing the power to strike anyone touching it dead, would be another matter.
Still, if that happened, at least the question of the Ark’s final disposition would be resolved. They could work out the rest of the details later.
He opened the door and saw it. A chest, covered in shiny yellow metal that gleamed as it caught the flashlight’s reflection. It looked like pictures he had seen, right down to the angels covering the lid with their outstretched wings.
But that did not mean it was the real Ark. There was only one way to determine which reality would survive. As with Schroedinger’s Cat, he would have to open the box. If it was the true Ark, he would probably be struck dead, and given its supernatural properties, there was no guarantee that his regenerative abilities would bring him back. The wrath of God could be tricky that way.
Without hesitating, he stepped into the enclosure, reached out both hands, and took hold of the covering angels.
Nothing. No electric shock. No release of divine retribution.
He lifted the lid, and immediately knew that the metal covering the carved angels was not gold, but something lighter and harder. Polished brass in all likelihood.
One reality blinked out of existence. The Ethiopian Ark of the Covenant was not the real deal.
Time to go.
He set the lid back in place and clicked off his light. The open layout of the chapel would be easy to navigate in the dark. No sense risking discovery now, with the mission almost complete.
He exited the enclosure, circled around to the front door, opened it…and froze in his tracks.
Abuna Mateos stood just outside, flanked on either side by old men in priestly vestments. They all held burning candles, which cast just enough light upon their faces to reveal a hint of disappointment, but not a trace of surprise.
None of the men were armed, at least not that Lazarus could see, and they did not appear poised to attack or to attempt subduing him until the authorities could be summoned. They just stood there, blocking his escape route.
Lazarus considered pushing past them and bolting for the wall, but that wouldn’t get him out of the country. Before he could make up his mind, Mateos spoke.
“Are you satisfied, now that you have seen for yourself?”
Lazarus sensed he was being cryptic. Did Mateos know that the Ark in the chapel was a forgery? Did any of the men standing before him? And if they did not, what right did he have to burst the bubbles of their faith? “You could say that,” he answered, equally vague.
“I knew that you would come.”
“Was I that obvious?”
Mateos smiled. “I saw it in a vision. The Lord told me to expect you.”
Lazarus had no response to that. “I’m finished here,” he said, keeping his tone firm but diplomatic. “I won’t tell anyone what I saw in there.”
He hoped the subtext was clear to the older man. Try to stop me, and I’ll tell the world.
Mateos, however, just shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
FORTY-EIGHT
The pain subsided to a dull ache after about half an hour, but Fallon’s dark rage showed no sign of abating.
That bitch, he fumed.
Even more powerful than the pain and anger was the fear. He had abducted Gallo. Taken her across international borders. Buried Pierce and his young protégé alive. In the heat of the moment, he had not even stopped to think about the potential consequences of these actions, but now he was terrified.
How am I going to get out of this?
The answer disturbed him.
Kill her. Kill them all.
He couldn’t think of another way to avoid rotting in a jail cell.
But first, a strategic withdrawal. He had limped from the nave of Chartres Cathedral and found Williams waiting outside. If Gallo had left, she had done so unnoticed. Fallon couldn’t take the chance that her threat to call the police was a bluff, but he left Williams and the Alpha Dog mercenaries with instructions to keep watching, and headed for the airport, just in case.
Before getting out of the car to board the plane, he called Williams on a borrowed mobile phone. “Any sign of her?”
The mere act of talking sent a fresh wave of pain through his groin.
“Negative,” Williams replied. “Maybe she slipped our net. But no sign of the police, either. I think she was yanking your chain about that. They don’t want cops involved any more ’n you do.”