“How cold?” Katrina asked.
“On average zero degrees Celsius— right at the freezing level.”
While Quinn and Katrina looked through the papers, Kritz went to her bookshelf and pulled an oversized National Geographic book of maps.
“Here’s where it is,” she said carting the book back. “The southern portion of the West Siberian Plain. Definitely a trek. You’re not planning on going, are you? It’s not the best of times to be knocking on Russia’s door.”
“Can’t say yet,” McCauley replied. “But I’m really curious about the priest’s account. What else do you have?”
Kritz gave him a sheet that read in English, Memoirs from the Altai Mountains: A Holy Mission by Father Mykhailo Emilianov.
McCauley dove into the rest of the translation. Fr. Emilianov was a Roman Catholic who paid Dionisij visits every spring for about ten years. He described the hermit, how he provided him with whatever supplies he could carry in his sacks, their relationship and conversations, and an unusual cave Dionisij discovered.
Amazingly, some of the detail even included the dimensions of the entrance, distances between areas, and most interestingly, a description of…nothingness. Finally, in Emilianov’s own hand, was a sketch that was virtually identical to their discovery in Montana.
McCauley sat back in awe. Katrina was equally overwhelmed. “I don’t understand,” she looked at Quinn bewildered. “How…?”
The word old came back to him, nothing more. He quickly went through Renee’s material and held up a picture. “This is the entrance to the Denisova Cave?”
“Yes, from a Russian website.”
The photograph showed a family walking up to the entrance along a dirt path lined with tall grass. Fauna draped over the rocks. Based on the estimated height of the people, he calculated the opening to the cave to be about fifteen feet wide and ten feet high.
McCauley looked up at the ceiling as if the answers would be there.
He re-read part of the priest’s account and then found another article on the cave system.
“Here, here, here…and here,” he said putting the descriptions, photographs and sketches side-by-side.
Katrina and Renee peered over his shoulder. Katrina immediately saw McCauley’s point.
“The dimensions and details of the entrance … they’re different. It used to be bigger.”
Katrina leaned back.
“It was more than twice the size in Denis’ day. Here’s the priest’s description.” He showed them. It was remarkably different.
“What’s it mean?” Kritz asked.
“Likely a different way in and it probably leads to interior areas other than the ones described by the priest. Sometime between the priest’s writing and who knows when, it changed. Or, it was changed,” McCauley assumed.
“Changed the way an airplane crash changes things?” Katrina proposed.
“Considering recent history, it makes me very curious about the fate of the priest and the hermit.”
“Where’s the best place to look that up?” Kritz offered knowing full well.
McCauley smiled. “The Vatican.”
“Precisely.”
“And we’re in luck then. I got a text earlier from my teaching assistant.
“Good news, bad news?” Katrina asked.
“It’s all depends on your perspective. He opened the app and read the text aloud.
Boss. I fell in lust. Will keep you posted.
Heard yr guy is out of town. Returning soon.
Left him yr #. Here’s his.
The phone number followed.
“Can’t blame him,” Katrina playfully said. “It happens.” She smiled warmly at McCauley.
“Suppose so.” McCauley said not picking up on any signals. There was a lot that worried him right now.
Sixty-one
Lucia had gotten her way with Pete DeMeo the night before. Today, he talked her into joining him for a road trip. First, he explained, he had some work to do.
With a little online research, he was able to track down Father Jareth Eccleston. He was a featured speaker at a scientific conference in Prague titled Epistemological Challenges to Understanding the Cosmos — From Galileo to Hawking. The conference home page promised Pure Eccleston.
Next, based on what he discovered on the conference website, DeMeo made four calls and left four messages: at the Hilton Prague front desk, the concierge, the main convention office, and Eccleston’s STOQ office in Vatican City. Each time he left a message to call. Not too much, but enough to seed curiosity. DeMeo also got the priest’s email address from the woman at the convention and sent a more enticing tickler about a new, potentially controversial discovery. It said nothing and something at the same time.
An hour later, Pete DeMeo was on the phone with the dynamic Vatican priest. He explained in general terms what McCauley would cover in specific. It was sufficient to engage Eccleston, who said he’d be back in Rome in two days and would be open to a meeting.
DeMeo was into his goodbye just as he felt Lucia Solera’s breath on his neck and her arms wrapping around him. He wondered whether she’d been listening the entire time.
Sixty-two
Katrina was fixed on locating the French explorer. McCauley assigned himself two calls: one to Father Eccleston, whose number he had thanks to Pete DeMeo. When the priest didn’t answer, he left a message and dialed the second. It was eight hours earlier in California; not quite 2 A.M. He figured Robert Greene would be awake.
On the third ring, Greene answered his cell.
“Identify,” he said not knowing the call ID.
“It’s McCauley.”
“He lives,” Greene said.
“Apparently so do you.”
“What can I do you for, doctor?”
“First of all, how are you?”
“Fine. Better than fine. I’ve never had so many hits on my website. Immediately made bestseller status online. Seems that attempted murder gives the conspiracy crowd raw meat. I don’t think they’ll touch me again. Besides, I came up with a great cockamamie story that gives your friends cover and me breathing room.”
“Breathing is good.”
“Breathing is what I live for.”
McCauley agreed. “No truer words, my friend. So who’d you blame?”
“I mentioned a couple of shady groups working out of Ciudad del Este, Paraguay. Shady is an understatement. It’s the Western Hemisphere home to Hamas, Hezbollah and some crazy Korean and Japanese gangs. With a little research, I stumbled on a recent CIA operation — black op stuff — that presumably brought down some major dude. So I figured, why not mention Ciudad del Este terrorists in the same sentence as the explosion. That’s how it begins.”
“Creepy,” McCauley said.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Greene added. “So I assume you need something.”
“More help. We found a book. There aren’t many copies around. I’ll send you a screen shot of the cover, a sketch that’s in it, and some translations. It’ll help with a lot of what we didn’t tell you.”
“You didn’t tell me a damn thing!”
“Right,” McCauley laughed. “I forgot. Well, this will and I’d love your opinion.”