The Crypts of Eden

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

If any morning could be considered darkly ominous, this was it. The sky was battleship gray and the air had the feel of dreary dampness.

When Alyssa left her tent, she did so wearing a yellow windbreaker. It was the first time she had worn it since the conditions finally merited it. Hall’s commandos wore uniforms in the color scheme of desert camouflage. Slung over the shoulder of each man was an MP-7 assault weapon, a blunted version of a submachine gun.

Noah, despite the chill, wore shorts with cargo pockets, carried a backpack, and couldn’t have been happier, judging by his smile. Standing next to him were two senior archeologists from the Istanbul Institute, one male, one female, late twenties, both matching Noah’s dress of cargo shorts and backpack.

The Vatican emissary, however, had no dress other than what he had walked into camp with — which was the black cleric shirt, pants, and Roman Catholic collar. The shirt was un-tucked, the tails extending to the mid-thigh region; the five o’clock shadow thicker and darker. The man looked as if he was coming off a binge.

The commandos chortled at Savage’s appearance and then Aussie pointed the weapon at him in a non-threatening manner. “Is that all you got, Padre?”

“It’s all I need.”

More laughter. What they didn’t see was the Glock concealed by the tails of Savage’s shirt. “Whatever, Padre.”

Obsidian, wearing exclusive casual wear with the creases of his white pants ruler-straight, a cream-colored Oxford shirt, and white loafers, joined the group. The backpack he carried was crafted of the finest leather.

“Are you kiddin’ me, mate?” Aussie laughed in concert with his teammates. “You look like you’re going on vacation.”

Obsidian smiled beneath his sunglasses. “You have no idea,” he said.

Alyssa looked at Hall, and then at the clouded sky. Is he wearing sunglasses to look cool? And then: “Are we all here?” she asked.

“It looks that way, my dear,” said Noah.

There were ten in all, the same number in her father’s team, an ominous number for sure. But she had not counted on the emissary.

“Is that all you’re taking, Mr. Savage?”

Again: “It’s all I need.”

While the commandos laughed, she looked at him differently. Savage appeared sad and detached — his unkemptness a key symbol of feeling indifference. “Are you all right?” she asked him.

He smiled his patented false grin of congeniality. “Everything’s fine,” he told her.

“Then perhaps you’d like to ride with me to the site?”

“I’d enjoy that,” he told her. His patented smile never left.

She nodded approval at his acceptance. She wanted Savage to ride with her group along with Noah and the two Turkish archeologists, neither of whom could speak English, with Hall and his team the follow-up.

She turned to Hall, who looked out of place. Does he not think that he’s not going to get dirty? “Mr. Hall, is your team ready?”

He turned to Butcher Boy, who nodded. “We’re ready,” he said.

For the next six hours, as they flew to Eden in separate helicopters, everyone in Alyssa’s group was chatty with the exception of John Savage, who stared out of the chopper window at the approaching tempest. She could not take her eyes off him.

Along with the man’s sadness was a certain inner quiet, she considered; a strength. But she couldn’t quite figure out the type of strength, the man was a puzzle. She knew that he was aware of her watching him but he blatantly ignored her, more intent on the distant clouds. Yet he was still handsome, she considered, despite the need for a shave and the dirt smudges soiling his shirt and Roman Catholic collar.

“I would think you’d be more excited!” she yelled over the rotors.

He turned to her and smiled. It was so obvious to her that it wasn’t real. “I am,” he said. “Just thinking, that’s all.” And this was the truth. By leaning against the interior of the chopper, he could feel the outline of his Glock pressing against his back.

“About what?”

About how and when I’m going to kill you. “Just… things,” he told her.

She reached across and grabbed his hand, more out of sympathy for a man who seemed to be filled with great sadness than anything else. He nearly reacted by pulling it away, but didn’t. He let it rest as she embraced it, her hand as gentle as silk.

“Whatever it is, Mr. Savage, it’ll be all right!” she said intuitively.

Was he showing her something?

“Yes!” he said. “I know!” And then: “There’s a solution for everything!”

When she released his hand, he flexed his fingers, sensing a wonderful strangeness in the aftermath of her touch. He looked at her and she smiled; a most beautiful smile, he considered, against the framework of a most beautiful face.

And when he smiled back, it was very real, prompting her to give him a thumbs-up. “Now that’s more like it!” she cried.

And for that brief moment — in that little snippet of time — he felt good. He turned to Noah, an older man who appeared happy as he spoke to the seniors from the Istanbul Institute over the notes regarding the Göbekli Tepe site. He saw their unbridled enthusiasm and listened to their laughter. He used to laugh like that, he recalled, when he was courting his girlfriend, who later became his wife, the woman now living with another man and raising children together.

His smile quickly faded.

And he turned to look out the window to see the second chopper flying adjacent to them.

Inside the second chopper, Obsidian Hall held a briefing with his team.

“Eden? The biblical Eden?” Butcher Boy appeared amazed, not sure if Obsidian Hall was spinning a tale or telling the truth.

“Is there another?” he returned.

“The bloody Garden of Eden?” asked Aussie, leaning forward so that he could be heard over the rotor blades.

“Except it isn’t much of a garden anymore,” he told him, “but rather a desert plain.”

“So our mission is to protect you from what?” asked Red.

“It’s twofold, actually,” he began. “One: there is something inside that’s not too friendly to those not indigenous to its territory.”

“Like what?” asked Carroll.

“That’s the question, isn’t it? It appears that nobody knows for sure! Whatever it is, I want it dead should it come anywhere near us!”

“And two?” asked Butcher Boy.

“And two: It’s believed that there are crypts within. And what is a constant in every crypt?”

Aussie smiled, and then leaned back. “Treasure,” he said. “Lots and lots of bloody treasure.”

“Exactly! But, of course, Ms. Moore will protest your newfound profits should you decide to pilfer from the ancient till, if you know what I mean. I, however, want only one thing!”

Aussie leaned forward to get within earshot. “And what’s that?”

“I want what’s inside those crypts!”

For a brief moment, nothing could be heard but the loud swinging of the rotors. They were all thinking the same thing. But it was Butcher Boy who forwarded the question to Hall. “You want what’s inside these crypts for yourself?”

“That’s why I funded this project!”

“Ms. Moore is not about to allow you to do that, sir!” he said loudly. “And neither will the Istanbul Institute!”

“Maybe Ms. Moore and her team will, unfortunately, meet with a horrible and untimely fate, just as her father did before her!”

“You want us to take her out?”

“When the time comes!” he shouted. “And that priest, or whatever the hell he is! We’ve been hired to protect them, which we’ll do up to a certain point. But we need her to read the texts that will show us the way to the chamber! After we find it and no longer need Ms. Moore or her team, then they are to be terminated with extreme prejudice! Is that clear, gentlemen? Whatever profits are to be had will be ours and ours alone!”

Aussie, Butcher Boy, Red and Carroll looked at Hall with the look of men who had gladly nailed their souls to the devil’s altar.

No one had regrets. Especially not Obsidian Hall.