Kismet opened the ruggedized laptop computer, which was linked by a wireless connection to the GPR and began analyzing the collected data. “Let’s see what’s under our feet.”
The Zond unit consisted of two parts: the radar unit, which consisted of the antenna head and a control box and the computer. The software loaded into the computer was designed to collate the information gathered after walking a search pattern of overlapping lines, and give the illusion of seeing through the rock and soil to whatever lay beneath. To the uninitiated, there appeared to be no corollary between the rainbow colors on the monitor and the ground upon which they stood, but with just a little practice, Kismet was able to differentiate the large solid blocks, buried beneath centuries of dust, from the surrounding soil. The three-dimensional cross section allowed him to isolate certain areas and examine them from several angles. The results of his search, while fairly easy to digest, were less than encouraging.
“What does it mean?” inquired Chiron, sensing his growing frustration.
“That this whole area has been disturbed, and more than once.” He pointed to several lighter areas on the display. “I can’t tell when this happened. Definitely within the last century or so, and that’s our whole margin for error. But the soil density is pretty much uniform. There are some larger objects: cut stone blocks and so forth, but no evidence that someone dropped an exploratory shaft.”
“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place?”
Kismet shrugged. “Samir specifically said the artifacts had been located under the Esagila the Temple of Marduk.”
Chiron gestured to a high mound in the distance. “Could he have meant the Tower of Babel? Or perhaps a difference temple to Marduk?”
“I would be inclined to rule out Babel. The site held no special significance to the Babylonians, and unless he was actively trying to deceive me, Samir would not have made that mistake. As to another temple…” He shrugged again. “We may have to accept that we aren’t going to find what we’re after. They’ve had twenty years to completely loot this site. Maybe everything was moved out when they first excavated, and our black marketeers have just been sitting on their trove, saving it for a rainy day.”
“Surely you are not ready to admit defeat so quickly?” Chiron’s words were rapid and anxious. “This may be the only tangible link to the mystery that has troubled you for more than a decade. You know, Nick… You know that something was found here. You have the word of the man who died revealing this truth, and you have the testimony of your own eyes. You have seen the proof.”
“Proof of what, Pierre? Proof of the existence of a historical site that needs UN protection? I think we both know that’s not what we’re talking about anymore.”
The older man glanced quickly toward Marie, looking to see if their sharp words had roused her. She appeared to be sleeping. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. “My apologies. It would seem I find the specter of failure the most haunting ghost of all.”
Kismet sighed, almost regretting what he had said, even though both men knew it to be true. “Christ, Pierre. You don’t really think you’re going to find some piece of rock with the words ‘God was here,’ do you? I know it would make everything better if you could believe that Collette had gone to the Elysian Fields, but you know as well as I do that there isn’t a single tangible thing on this planet that can convince you of that if you don’t already have faith that it’s true.”
Chiron shook his head sadly. “You are right, Nick. Even now, as hungry as I am to believe, I cannot bring myself to accept that God can be found.”
“Then what in hell are we doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” He meant it as a joke; a way to diffuse the gravity of their discussion, but Chiron was not ready to let it go.
“Nick, do you believe in miracles?”
Kismet considered answering once again with levity, but thought better of it. “If you mean the water-into-wine variety, I guess I’d have to say no.”
“And yet so many do believe, and not just in the miracles of Jesus Christ and Moses. There are thousands, perhaps millions, of personal accounts. Everything from healing to the intervention of angels to preserve someone in a time of great danger.”
“Faith is a powerful thing…”
He knew from Chiron’s smile that he had inadvertently made the very point the old man was arguing. “No doubt you will say that those who believe they have been healed, did so psychosomatically, or perhaps that their maladies were imagined to begin with. Or that the reports are simply fraudulent. And you would probably be right in ninety-nine percent of the cases. But it is the one percent that fascinates me. Does an irrefutable account of a supernatural act establish the existence of the Divine?”
“Irrefutable?” Kismet countered. “That’s a pretty tall order.”
“Ah, you are right. I have strayed from what I meant to say.” Chiron checked Marie’s motionless form for any indication that she was stirring, then resumed speaking in a low voice. “Real or not, the world has been shaped by miracles, most outstandingly, those spoken of in the Holy Bible. Moses’ ten plagues and the crossing of the Red Sea are images burned into our collective consciousness. More than that, they are the foundation for a system of belief that dominates our thinking four thousand years later. Think about it — more than half the world’s population subscribe to one of the three forms of monotheism: Christianity, Islam or Judaism. All three worship the same God and recognize the events described in Genesis as part of true world history. The same could be said for the miracles of Jesus Christ. Without those events, do you imagine that these men would have made such an impact on history?”
Kismet recalled this facet of Chiron’s personality — the philosopher. The argument had changed, but the passionate search for truth remained. For his part, the novelty of the debate had worn off. He had never really been that interested in grasping the meaning of life — his personal quest always seemed more immediate — but on warm Paris nights, over brandy and the occasional cigar, philosophical meanderings had their own unique charm. Not so in the swampy heat on the banks of the Euphrates. “So what are you saying? That those miracles had to have been real in order to have such a profound impact?”
“Maybe. Or maybe that they have become real because we need them to be.”
Kismet returned a blank look, saying nothing.
“But again I have strayed,” Chiron continued. “You mentioned earlier the power of faith. What if it is more than simply a neurotic, individualized response to a passionate moment? What if a person could believe something so strongly, they could actually influence the physical reality of their surroundings?”
“Like telekinesis? I tend to lump parapsychological phenomena in with miracles anyway. You’re just substituting psychic power for God. So far, I haven’t seen substantial proof for either.”
The Frenchman raised a hand. “There is compelling evidence to suggest that psychic power does exist, Nick. I’m not talking about parlor tricks — hypnosis and spoon bending — but simple occurrences of precognition…déjà vu. Have you ever been humming a song, then turned on the radio only to discover that very song being played?”