The Tenth Saint (22 page)

“Sounds plausible to me,” a voice behind them spoke.

Daniel and Sarah turned. An Ethiopian man wearing a woolen balaclava stood at the entrance of an open doorway, a movable wall so well concealed that neither of them had noticed it before. The three holes of the balaclava revealed the man’s charred skin, which hung loosely over pink, raw flesh.

Apostolos’ murderer.

In one swift motion, Daniel grabbed his revolver and pointed it at the masked man. “Who are you? Speak or I’ll put you out of your obvious misery.”

”I wouldn’t do that, Dr. Madigan.”

Daniel turned around.

A second man was in the room.

A pistol pressed the back of Sarah’s head.

“Slowly drop your weapon.” The man spoke in English.

Sarah looked at Daniel but didn’t dare speak.

Daniel dropped his gun. The leader called out to another of his associates, who picked up the gun, made sure it was loaded, and pointed it at Daniel. “I am Mr. Werkneh. I bring the regards of Mr. Matakala. He regrets he couldn’t come greet you personally, but you will see him soon enough.”

Matakala. Sarah wasn’t surprised the director of antiquities was corrupt; she’d suspected it all along. But she hadn’t imagined that a government official was the mastermind behind the killings, nor could she fathom his true motives. Her mind raced across a field of possibilities. Had Matakala contracted with a collector for these relics? Was he working for Apocryphon or against them? Was this a matter of faith or greed?

“Turn around.” The man prodded Sarah with his weapon.

She turned to face him. The Ethiopian, a short man of husky build, hid his eyes behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. A half-spent cigarette hung from the corner of his fleshy mouth.

She glared at him. “Just answer me this. How did you know about the codex?”

Werkneh laughed. “We have good informants. You see, this is Africa. For the right price, everyone is a traitor.” He glanced toward the masked man. “I believe you’ve met Brehan. Not so long ago, Brehan was the chief acolyte of Brother Apostolos. He was being groomed to succeed him as the guardian of the Sheba Stone and the church’s archives … the documents in this very library. But he came to realize he could be so much more than a monkey in white robes. He craved the company of women, not men. He liked the idea of driving a Mercedes and drinking beer. The church couldn’t do all that for him. Isn’t this true?”

Brehan laughed.

Sarah’s stomach turned. All it had taken was a fistful of worldly goods and the promise of pleasure for this former disciple of God to sell his soul. He had been entrusted with the secrets of Yemrehana Kres-tos, down to the hidden entrances to the church’s most holy of holies, and he’d bartered them without remorse. She considered how painful it must have been for Apostolos to come face-to-face with his acolyte’s betrayal. Even so, he had let Brehan live. He could have easily ended it in the labyrinth, while Brehan had lain defenseless, but that was not his way. She wasn’t sure she would have done the same.

Werkneh picked up the codex. “What he didn’t know was how to get to this. Apostolos kept that little secret to himself all these years. And yet … he told you.” He looked her up and down and licked his ample lips. “Tell me, Dr. Weston, how did you get him to trust you? Did you pleasure him in that dark chamber?”

Sarah’s face burned, and she instinctively struck Werkneh’s face. His glasses crashed to the floor. Snarling, he grabbed Sarah by the throat. The barrel of his gun trembled in his hands as it dug into her forehead.

She didn’t struggle but spoke behind clenched teeth. “Go ahead and kill me, you bastard. Or don’t you have the guts?”

“It would give me immense pleasure,” he hissed, “but Mr. Matakala wants you alive. You can still be of service to him.” He waved Brehan over.

The masked monk slipped handcuffs around Daniel’s wrists, then Sarah’s, and covered their heads with burlap sacks.

The car ride was long and tortuous. The incessant bumps, twists, and turns told Sarah they were in a remote part of the country, well removed from asphalt roads and stoplights: a place where a band of thugs could go about their dirty business undetected. Hours seemed to pass before the car lurched to a stop.

Sarah and Daniel were marched inside. She heard footsteps around the room. A mobile phone rang, and a man answered. She couldn’t make out his words.

At last, their hoods were removed.

Sarah’s eyes had to adjust to the brightness of the room. Beyond the surrounding bare windows was a remarkably well-maintained rose garden. A mountain range loomed in the distance, but it offered no clue as to where they were. In Ethiopia, mountains always lined the horizon. The room itself was painted white and sparsely furnished. There was a sofa covered loosely in white linen with traditional red embroidery, some floor cushions, and a low tea table. Bookcases, packed to every available square inch with books and overstuffed notebooks, lined the walls. Sarah and Daniel, still handcuffed, were told to wait for “the boss” and left alone.

“So. Your friend Mr. Matakala resurfaces,” Daniel said. “Maybe this time he’ll tell us what he really wants.”

“Would you believe him even if he did? Things are so convoluted here. You can’t count on anyone for the truth.”

“True, but there’s a reason we’re here. Maybe he wants to strike a bargain.”

“What bargain? He has everything. The codex, the cross, access to the tomb. What can we possibly offer him at this point?”

The door creaked open, and Andrew Matakala walked in, looking dapper in a khaki linen suit with a navy T-shirt underneath. He took a seat on the sofa and crossed his legs, his bony ankles exposed between crisp trouser cuffs and expensive Italian loafers worn without socks. Soft shadows defined the contours of his chiseled face in the afternoon light. He ordered an attendant to bring tea, then addressed them.

“It’s good to see you again, Dr. Weston.” He turned to Daniel. “And a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Madigan. I’ve seen your documentaries on television. Quite intriguing.”

“Can’t say the same about you,” Daniel said. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? I like to know who I’m speaking to.”

“Very well. I am the director of antiquities for the Ministry—”

“No, pal. I want to know who you really are.”

Matakala placed two sugar cubes in his tea and stirred. “Let’s just say I work with some very important people. People who stand to suffer from your little project.”

For the right price, everyone is a traitor.
Sarah resisted the urge to verbalize her anger. It was a dead end. What she needed now was diplomacy. Matakala had kept them alive for a reason. Their only hope was to use that to their advantage.

”Why did you bring us here?” Her tone was calm but firm.

He took a sip of tea, then delicately placed the china cup on its saucer. “It seems you can be useful to me … to us. You see, when you didn’t leave for England after your expedition was closed, people worried about you. When the news came out that you were in the monastery during that unfortunate siege, why, UNESCO and Cambridge claimed the incident was connected with the Aksum tomb and began demanding answers from the Ministry. Your father, in particular, has been rather up in arms about your sudden disappearance. For some reason, he has been asking a lot of questions about me. He’s even sent Scotland Yard agents to Ethiopia—most inconvenient to our mission.”

“I sure would like to know what that mission is,” Daniel said.

Matakala did not acknowledge his statement but kept his eyes on Sarah. “My offer to you is this. I can let them find you and Dr. Madigan here in the highlands, the victims of a tragic accident. Or I can let you live.” He paused and leaned forward. “In order for me to select the latter, you must call Daddy and tell him you are alive and well and to please call off the dogs. Then you will explain to Cambridge that you have discovered the tomb was nothing more than the resting place of a Roman missionary. That the cave inscriptions were merely an account of Christian worship rites and religious battles in fourth-century Aksum. I have taken the liberty of constructing the official translation, which will be authenticated by you on behalf of Cambridge and filed on record with the department of antiquities. Shall I read it to you?”

Sarah was speechless.

“Very well, then.” He put on his reading glasses and read aloud.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Sumerius, former merchant, humble monk, unworthy servant of God, in the service of Ezana, king of Aksum and of Raydan and of Saba and of Tsiyamo, king of kings, invincible to his enemies and servant of the Lord Christ, amen.

“I come to Abyssinia from the great empire of Rome, through Constantinople to Nabataea to Persia to the fertile valleys of the Tiger and Euphrates. I am charged by God himself to spread his word to the heathens of Africa, who know not his divine mercy.

“The great King Ezana of the Aksumite Empire has accepted me into his kingdom to teach his subjects about the power and grace of the Almighty. I have erected an Orthodox church on Dabra Maryam, where the men of royal blood may gather to learn the teachings of the Lord Christ.

“The men of Aksum under the leadership of the most excellent King Ezana have been summoned to holy battle at the Kasu. As God is my witness, we will rid the valley of the pestilence of nonbelievers and install the great faith to the heathens that escape our swords. O Lord, your word is our shield, our spear, and our guidance. It is in your name that we pursue our enemies and turn them to dust if they do not repent and bow to your will.

“The men ofAksum fought valiantly and destroyed those in their paths and made prisoners of their enemies. Many of King Ezana’s troops were killed in battle in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. The losses were devastating but necessary, and those men were martyrs before God.

“This humble servant of God has been speared through the rib and fears the end is near. But the parting is not one of sorrow, for I long to be united with the Creator, the one whose divinity is without question, and whose mercy is greater than the greatest deserts and the vastest skies. Take me swiftly, O Lord, for it is only in your kingdom that I will be redeemed. Amen.”

Matakala threw the paper on the tea table in front of Sarah.

She weighed all her possible moves as if she were playing a chess game. Anything she did at this point would likely end in checkmate. Only one move could prevent her from losing, but it was risky and her opponent might well see through it.

She had no choice. “Mr. Matakala, I might be more inclined to do what you ask if you tell me one thing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re really in no position to demand anything, Doctor.”

“No, I’m not. But I don’t get many opportunities to converse with someone like you. All I ask is that we exchange knowledge as one intellectual to another.”

He smirked. “Very well. This could be amusing.”

“Why does Apocryphon want to keep the prophecies hidden?”

“Simple. It’s dangerous knowledge. It has been deemed so since the sixth century, when a holy man named Aregawi found the tenth saint’s tomb. If you know your Ethiopian history, and I trust you do, you will know Aregawi was one of the nine saints who spread Christianity. As a Syrian familiar with the dialects of the desert, he translated the inscriptions and saw they were prophecies of the world’s last hours. At the time, it was anathema. Just as the church was adamant for so long about keeping the book of Revelation under wraps, they wanted these prophecies safely hidden from common men. If the people believed the end was near, there would be mass chaos.” He held a silver strainer above his cup and poured more tea. “So Aregawi removed the cross from the coffin and sealed the tomb. He then formed Apocryphon to keep the secret alive until it was time to release it to the world. He originally hid the codex with his translations in Dabra Damo, the church he erected near the site of the prophet’s tomb. It stayed there several centuries and was moved when Aregawi’s last descendants defected and were taken in by the priests of Yemrehana Krestos.”

“Apostolos?”

“And his brother.”

She was stunned but didn’t need an explanation. That was why Apostolos had taken Brehan under his wing. And why he couldn’t kill him even in self-defense. She was nauseated by the realization that money and power could pit brother against brother. But there was still something she didn’t understand. “You once told me Apocryphon would stop at nothing to protect what is theirs. Why would they destroy what they vowed to defend?”