“It’s okay,” Katrina said. “Take your time.”
“Now I’m not even sure if we’re in the right part of the Bod or the right library.”
“All right, let’s look in general anthropology.”
“Or archeology,” Renee added as an afterthought.
They renewed the search. At the two-and-a-half hour mark they took another break, this time for tea and sandwiches in the commissary. The Oxford scholar was clearly frustrated.
“I’m sorry. I thought it would be easier. You know how when you take notes you remember where something specific is on a page even weeks or months later?”
“Try years,” McCauley answered.
“The good thing is I can literally see where it was on the shelf. Third of the way up, right side. The row is another thing. Might have black binding, gray lettering. I can’t really recall.”
McCauley nodded. Just like digging for dinosaur bones. “Maybe you’re not taking into consideration how many new books have been added since you saw it last,” he noted. “It’s probably not in the same place. You sure you don’t remember the author?”
“Positive.”
“Then we simply keep looking.”
Two hours later, Renee threw up her hands. “I’m sorry. I give up.”
“You can’t,” Katrina implored.
“My knees ache from bending. I’ve got a headache as big as Big Ben. It’s useless.”
“I’ll give it another hour,” McCauley said. “The two of you take a break.”
McCauley decided to act on Kritz’s first impression again. He returned to the Russian anthropology section. Aisle after aisle opened up to him in the immense space. The lighting was never right for close up examination at different levels and his knees were also feeling the stress. Nonetheless, he kept looking for a book he didn’t know by appearance, name, or location.
After forty-five minutes, McCauley stood in front of a shelf he’d passed quickly earlier in the day. By now everything looked the same. He was tired and frustrated and about to give up himself when…
He focused on a thick tattered black book with Cyrillic block lettering in gray. He removed it from the shelf. On the leather cover, a worn etching of a haggard old man. McCauley carefully paged through what appeared to be a chronicle with sketches of the same man, as weathered as a Siberian winter, with a beard as long as time.
McCauley sat on the floor, catching the ambient light from the window. He gathered the book was the account of a recluse who lived above the Anuy River…in a cave.
He couldn’t read Russian, but impressions and thoughts jumped out that suggested the work was written and sketched by someone in the church.
McCauley stopped on page 273. His eyes widened. He felt like his heart skipped a beat. And then he did something he’d never done before. Dr. Quinn McCauley stole a library book.
McCauley found the two women outside, sitting on a bench.
“Have you ever been in a bookstore, not knowing what you wanted to read, and suddenly it seems like a book picks you out rather than the other way around.”
“Well, yes,” Katrina said.
“Then care to take a guess what happened inside?”
“You found it?”
“No, Dr. Kritz.”
Her smile faded.
“It found me,” McCauley said. “By accident, like books do.”
“Let’s go get it,” Kritz said. She stood ready to trudge into the Bod.
“No need,” McCauley said. He knocked on the left breast of his jacket. It made a thud.
“You didn’t?” Katrina exclaimed.
“I did. Trust me, we don’t want any of our names on the loan out.”
Understanding, Katrina said, “Okay, let’s see.”
“Not here.” McCauley motioned for them to walk back to the parking lot. “Someplace quiet where we can all look at it.”
Back at Kritz’s home, McCauley opened the book to page 273.
“That’s it!” Kritz declared.
He laid the photograph from the disposal camera right under the sketch.
“My God, it’s so close to what we—” Katrina began.
“Shot,” Quinn interrupted. “Yes.”
Two representations of virtually the same thing discovered a half a world and centuries apart. The photograph looked like it was taken of the sketch; the sketch a representation of the photo: A wall of rock framing utter blackness.
McCauley gathered his thoughts. “We can sure rule out NASA, the NSA, a black ops site, or anything contemporary.”
“Who then?” Katrina asked.
“Based solely on the author and what I remember about the work, it’s the memoir of an old Roman Catholic priest in Tsarist Russia,” Kritz offered. “He was like Alexis DeTocqueville, traveling and writing about his observations; relaying his experiences. We should get someone to do translations, though.”
“No,” McCauley said. “No one else.”
“What about Google translates?” she replied.
“It’ll be hard without a Cyrillic keyboard with all the different characters.”
“I think I can load that on your computer,” Alpert volunteered.
“Okay. Worth a try. But focus on the chapter with the sketch,” he responded. “What else?”
“Well, I’m more intrigued that there’s a church connection,” Kritz noted.
“But if it’s the same, how can this exist now and in Dionisij’s day?”
“One thing at a time,” McCauley proposed. “Start with who might keep secrets such as this?”
They struggled with the answer.
“Not who,” Katrina finally said. “It’s bigger than who. It takes influence and power and money. A lot of money. An institution that’s been around for a long time.”
“A monarchy?” Renee proposed based on her studies.
“Back to the church?” Kritz added. “Or a business.” She paused considering her own idea. “What businesses have been around for hundreds of years?”
Kritz proposed a few. “Railroads, oil, mining.”
“Publishing?” McCauley added. “Whatever it is, there’s a sophisticated operation behind it.”
“Rules out publishing,” Kritz grumbled.
Fifty-nine
DeMeo had driven his motorcycle to Rome. He spent the morning trying to track down Father Jareth Eccleston. The best he could get, which wasn’t much, was that the priest was out of town; returning in a few days. So in lieu of waiting, DeMeo booked himself a Vatican tour.
“Good thing we passed up the waiting line for the fast track tickets.”
DeMeo turned to see a slender blonde, beautiful beyond all belief.
“I’d say,” DeMeo responded. She wore a knee length black skirt, a dark blue blouse and a simple pearl necklace. He noticed her when she joined the tour late. It was impossible not to.
“The wait for the regular tour was going to be a couple of hours,” she said. “So I’m glad I found this one. Did I miss much?”
The woman had a soft Italian accent, sexy, yet with an easy, natural quality. DeMeo was partial to blondes, always had been. To add to the allure, she had deep blue eyes and inviting lips.
“Just prelims from the guide.”
DeMeo thought for a moment then asked one of the things on his mind.
“Do I really look so American you knew to speak English?”
“It’s an English language tour, silly man.”
DeMeo laughed a little too loudly.
“Excuse me?” said the tour guide, a very serious sixty-three-year-old former religious history teacher.