The door was opened very slowly until there was a two-foot gap. The guardian and Maya slipped into the building and the door was shut behind them. She found herself in an anteroom about twelve feet square. The only light in the room came from the lantern. It swung back and forth as the guardian shuffled across the concrete floor to a second door. Maya looked around her and saw that the history of the Ark had been painted on the walls. Israelites with the skin color of Ethiopians followed the Ark during the long journey through the Sinai desert. The Ark was carried into battle against the Philistines and stored within Solomon’s temple.
Now the second door was open, and she accompanied the guardian into a much larger room. The Ark had been placed in the middle of the room and was covered with an embroidered cloth. Twelve earthenware pots surrounded it, their lids sealed with wax. Maya remembered Petros explaining that this consecrated water was removed once a year and given to women who were unable to conceive.
The priest kept glancing at Maya as if he expected her to do something violent. He placed the lantern on the floor, walked over to the Ark, and removed the cloth. The Ark was a wooden box completely covered with gold leaf. It stood up to her knees and was about four feet long. There were poles on both sides held by rings, and the gold figures of two cherubim were kneeling on the lid. These angelic beings had the bodies of men and the heads and wings of eagles. Their wings glowed brightly in the lantern light.
Maya approached the Ark and knelt before it. She gripped the two cherubim, removed the lid, and placed it on the embroidered cloth. Be careful, she told herself. No reason to move quickly. Leaning forward, she looked inside the Ark and found nothing but the acacia-wood interior. It’s nothing, she thought. A complete fraud. This wasn’t an access point to another realm-just an old wooden box protected by superstition.
Feeling angry and disappointed, she glanced back at the guardian. He leaned on his walking staff and smiled at her foolishness. Once again, she looked inside the Ark and saw a tiny black spot near the bottom edge. Is that a burn mark? she wondered. An imperfection in the wood? As she watched, the black spot grew larger-to the size of the British penny-and began to float across the surface of the wood.
The spot appeared to be immensely deep, a patch of dark space without limit. When the spot grew to the size of a dinner plate she reached into the Ark and touched the darkness. The tips of her fingers completely disappeared. Startled, she jerked her hand back. Still in this world. Still alive.
When the access point stopped moving, she forgot about the guardian and the other priests, forgot about everything but Gabriel. If she reached forward, could she find him?
Maya steadied herself, and then forced her right arm into the darkness. This time, she felt something-a painful coldness that caused a tingling sensation. She pushed her left arm in and the pain startled her. She suddenly felt as if she were being knocked over by an enormous wave, dragged out to sea by a powerful current. Her body wavered and then surged forward into nothingness. Maya wanted to say Gabriel’s name, but that was impossible. She was in darkness now. And no sound came from her mouth.
41
It was raining hard when Boone reached Chippewa Bay on the Saint Lawrence River. When he stood at the edge of the dock, he could barely see the castle on Dark Island. Boone had been on the island only a few times. Recently, it had been the site of the meeting where Nash had presented the Shadow Program to the executive board. Boone had expected to be in Berlin right now, looking for the criminals who had destroyed the computer center, but the board had insisted that he travel to the island. Although the job was going to be unpleasant, he had to follow orders.
When the two mercenaries finally arrived, Boone told the ferry-boat captain to head across the river. Sitting in the boat cabin, he tried to evaluate the men who were going to help him kill someone. Both mercenaries were recent immigrants from Romania who were somehow related to each other. They had long names with too many vowels, and Boone didn’t think it necessary to learn the correct pronunciation. As far as he was concerned, the smaller Romanian was Able and the larger man was Baker. The two men sat on the left side of the cabin and braced their feet against the floor of the boat. Able was the talkative one, and he babbled nervously in Romanian while Baker nodded every few seconds to show that he was listening.
Waves rose up from the river and splashed against the bow. Raindrops struck the fiberglass roof of the cabin and made a sound that reminded Boone of fingers drumming on a tabletop. The boat’s two windshield wipers clicked back and forth as a sheet of water flowed across the glass. The Canadian boat captain kept adjusting his radio as the pilots of the container ships announced their position along the seaway. “We’re half a mile starboard,” a voice kept saying. “Can you see us? Over…”
Boone touched the front of his parka and felt two hard lumps hidden beneath the waterproof fabric. The vial of CS-toxin was in his left shirt pocket. In his right pocket was the black plastic case that contained the syringe. Boone hated to touch people, especially when they were dying, but the syringe demanded some degree of physical contact.
WHEN THEY REACHED Dark Island, the captain cut power and allowed the ferryboat to drift up against the dock. The head of island security, an ex-police officer named Farrington, came out to greet them. He grabbed the bowline and looped it around a stanchion as Boone stepped out of the boat.
“Where’s the rest of the staff?” Boone asked.
“They’re having lunch in the kitchen.”
“What about Nash and his guests?”
“General Nash, Mr. Corrigan, and Mrs. Brewster are all upstairs in the morning room.”
“Keep the staff in the kitchen for the next twenty minutes. I need to present some important data. We don’t want anyone walking into the room and eavesdropping on the conversation.”
“I understand, sir.”
They hurried through the sloping tunnel that went from the shore to the ground level of the castle. Boone transferred the syringe case and the toxin to his pants pocket while the two mercenaries removed their damp overcoats. Both men wore black suits and neckties, as if they were back in Romania attending a village funeral. The soles of their leather shoes made a scuffling sound on the grand staircase.
The oak door was closed, and Boone hesitated for a few seconds. He could hear the Romanians breathing and scratching themselves. They were probably wondering why he stopped. Boone smoothed down his wet hair, stood up straight, and led them into the morning room.
General Nash, Michael, and Mrs. Brewster sat at one end of a long table. They had finished their bowls of tomato soup and Nash was holding a platter of sandwiches.
“What are you doing here?” Nash asked.
“I received instructions from the executive board.”
“I’m the head of the board and I know nothing about it.”
Mrs. Brewster took the platter from Nash and placed it in the middle of the table. “I called a second teleconference, Kennard.”
Nash looked surprised. “When?”
“Quite early this morning-when you were still asleep. The Brethren weren’t happy with your refusal to resign.”
“And why should I resign? What happened yesterday in Berlin has nothing to do with me. Blame it on the Germans or blame it on Boone-he’s the one in charge of security.”