“Really,” said Bunny again, “I got nothing.”
“The page is believed to have come from this book,” said Church, and another image filled the screen. A very large book lay in a niche in a stone wall, its covers secured with heavy chains and ancient padlocks that looked to have been welded permanently shut. “The book was part of a private collection overseen by Islamic and Eastern Orthodox clerics. A very special kind of shared conservancy, and it’s a stewardship that dates back centuries.”
I felt my heart go cold and sink to a lower and darker place in my chest. Top and Bunny came to point like hunting dogs, but not happy ones.
I said, “You’re going to tell me that this is one of those books, aren’t you?”
Church did not smile. He didn’t actually move.
“The Unlearnable Truths,” whispered Top in a hollow voice. “Fuck me—”
We logged a lot of silent miles before any of us spoke. The Unlearnable Truths was like a hex to us. They were books belonging to a very specific list of works that have been deemed “dangerous.” There was a larger list, the Index Librorum Prohibitorum, also known as the Pauline Index, named for Pope Paul IV back in 1559. Most of the titles on the Index were merely heretical or viewed as contrary to the politics and agenda of the Catholic Church. However, there was a second, shorter list that was never shared with the public. Word leaked out, of course, but secrets are like that. This second list became known as the Unlearnable Truths. Many of the titles on that list were individually known to the public, but once leaked there was a pretty effective campaign by church spin doctors to make people think they were entirely fictional. Books like the Necronomicon, which is widely believed to have been created by the pulp fiction writer H.P. Lovecraft, and is part of 20th century horror fiction history. Except it wasn’t. That book, and many others, are real.
Now, whether these books are literally dangerous was an open question for a while. They’re supposed to be books of magic. Yup, actual black magic. Couple of years ago I’d have laughed at anyone who said that magic was a real thing. Not so much anymore, though I don’t believe much in the supernatural. What’s changed is that I’ve come to believe that a lot of what people called magic is actually some aspects of a science we haven’t really begun to understand. My lover, Junie, calls it the ‘larger world.’ I call it Freaksville.
When we went up against a group using the Unlearnable Truths, very bad things happened. People I cared about died. And some stuff happened that hurt all of us. Top, Bunny, and me. Hurt us bad. Nearly destroyed us, leaving scars on body and soul and mind.
“I’ve called in an expert to advise,” said Church, bringing me back to the moment. “Dr. Elizabeth Corbett, formerly of the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale.”
“Corbett? I’ve heard that name,” I said. “Wasn’t she the one that found the Templar treasure a couple of years ago?”
“A large part of the treasure, yes,” said Church. “She’s a rare book scholar of some note and an expert on ancient languages. She was in Syria working with a team to acquire and preserve artifacts targeted by ISIL. She’ll meet you at the airport.”
“Does she know about the Unlearnable Truths?” asked Top.
Church sliced off a thin sliver of a smile. “Yes,” he said, and disconnected the call.
3
SHE WAS STANDING there at the bottom of the stair-car as we deplaned. Thirty-something, bookish, medium height, with lots of frizzy ash-blond hair that framed a pretty face. Big glasses, bright blue eyes and firm chin. If you didn’t look closely, and if you were the kind of lout prone to sexist and belittling assumptions, you might call her a nerd girl. And she probably was nerdish, but so what? So was Junie. So, in fact, was I at times. But as she stepped forward to offer her hand, I saw past the scholarly disguise of ubiquitous khakis, button shirt and many-pocketed vest, Hogwarts wristwatch, and New Age jewelry, and saw deep intellect in those eyes. It radiated like heat. Not just knowledge but the promise of wit and insight.
And Church trusted her, so that spoke volumes.
“Captain Ledg—” she began but cut herself off and flushed. In a whisper she asked, “Sorry, should I use some kind of code name?”
I grinned and shook her hand, which was thin and strong. “I don’t think this is a combat callsign kind of gig. Joe Ledger, pleased to meet you.”
“Lizzie Corbett,” she said, giving me a final pump before letting go.
I introduced Top and Bunny, and she gave Top a longer and more lingering appraisal than she did Bunny. He has that effect on some people. He’s no Idris Elba, but he’s not a cave troll, either. The women who take particular notice of him tend to be more educated and more complex than the surfer gals who drool over Bunny. I noticed that Top dialed up the wattage on his smile. Not a lot, but it was there.
“I have a car,” she said. “We can go directly to the site.” She glanced past me to where the flight crew were unloading several metal cases. “Luggage?”
“Toys,” I said.
Ten minutes later, we were driving toward the Door to Hell.
Lizzie drove fast but not well. While the miles rolled past, she talked.
“Mr. Church said that you guys know about the Unlearnable Truths,” she said, “so we don’t have to cover that ground. I have to ask, though… do you believe in what they are?”
Bunny said, “We’ve seen some shit. Far as I’m concerned, I’m keeping an open mind.”
“And a loaded gun,” added Top.
“Hooah,” Bunny agreed.
Lizzie studied them for a moment in the rearview mirror.
“You have a problem with that?” asked Top.
“Not as much as you’d think,” said Lizzie. “I’ve seen some stuff, too.”
I smiled. “You were going to say ‘shit,’ weren’t you?”
She gave me a small grin. “I won’t ask what you’ve seen because I assume it’s classified.”
“That’s complicated,” I said. “It was classified while we were working for Uncle Sam. We don’t do that anymore. We’re building a new outfit. Unaffiliated and international.”
“So I heard. Very hush hush. Very Mission: Impossible but without the politics.”
“Close enough.”
Cars whizzed by. Apparently fast and reckless driving was the standard here in Turkmenistan. Fun. Wish I had a bottle of Jack Daniels and a sippy straw.
“The book,” I prodded.
“The book,” she said, nodding. “The book itself has no actual title, though it’s informally known to certain scholars as the Book of Uttu, named for the Sumerian goddess of weaving, who is often depicted as a spider. The text on that page matches some on file.”
“Wait,” said Bunny, leaning forward between the front seats, “I thought it was, like… bad… to even open those books. Isn’t that why those monks kept them locked up? The picture Mr. Church showed us was of that book chained up, and it didn’t look like anyone’s opened it since the tenth century.”
“Close,” said Lizzie, jerking the wheel to avoid a goat standing in the middle of the road playing chicken with high-speed traffic. “That photo was taken four years ago, when the book was rescued from a temple overrun by ISIL. The monks were killed and many of the artifacts destroyed or sold to the black market. A Turkish black marketer named Ohan has a deal with some ISIL leaders to discreetly obtain and sell certain items, with the profits going back to fund ISIL’s activities.”
“Ohan’s not doing that shit no more,” said Top.
She turned to glance back at him. “How can you be sure?”