The Grail

CHAPTER 5

Duncan ran her hand along the top of the Ark, feeling the thin wires coiled into the lid. At first she had thought they were artwork, but when she tugged on them, they came out. Three long filaments of metal, ending in what appeared to be a small rose-shaped object about half an inch across, each made of a different material.

She looked at the wires for a short time, something nagging at her, as if she had seen this before. She reached up and took the crown off her head. On each of the three bands of metal that comprised the crown was a small indentation, the inverse of the objects on the end of each line.

She took each lead and placed it against the indent on the band made of the same material. The first two clicked firmly in place. She hesitated on the third, not sure what it would bring forth, but she had an overwhelming urge to move forward. She pushed the last one in place and the lid glowed brightly, enveloping her in a golden light, but that was all.

Duncan lifted the crown and set it on her head.

She gasped as she “saw” the Giza Plateau from a bird’s-eye view, in the midst of a lush, green land, but with no pyramid or Sphinx on its surface. The vision shifted and she saw a Talon spacecraft on the plateau, its long, lean form against the blue sky. The Talon fired a beam down into the rock of the plateau, burning deep into it. Another Talon appeared, the Black Sphinx just below it, held in a golden field propagated from the tip of the craft. The Black Sphinx was lowered into the hole that had been cut. Men and women were now getting off the first craft carrying supplies.

Duncan was overwhelmed, her mind receiving input faster than she could process it. What she was experiencing was more than a vision. She knew things about what she was seeing. It was as if the Ark was giving her information in the form of memories.

She reached up and ripped the crown off her head, then collapsed next to the Ark, her body shutting down to protect itself.

It was the worst defeat the US Navy had suffered since Pearl Harbor. The Nimitz-class carrier USS Washington, the pride of the Pacific fleet, was lost. As was the USS Springfield, a Los Angeles-class attack submarine.

The loss of the carrier and its battle group to the unknown force on Easter Island had effectively gutted Task Force 78’s power, as the surviving ships’—two guided missiles cruisers, three destroyers, two frigates, another LA-class sub, and two supply ships — primary mission was to guard the carrier.

The arrival of the Washington’s sister ship, the USS Stennis, and her battle group, had restored the combat effectiveness of the fleet that now steamed two hundred miles north of Easter Island, with the new title of Task Force 79, under the control of the commander of the Stennis, Captain Robinette.

The orders to sit tight and do nothing didn’t sit well with Robinette, nor the men and women he commanded. When he received a mission asking for a SEAL team to infiltrate Easter Island with the dual mission of reconnaissance and rescue, all he cared was that it had sufficient clearance, and ST-8 was the highest possible. He knew that he should check in with Pacific Fleet Command at Pearl to confirm, but he chose not to, for fear they would countermand the order. Instead, he personally took the tasking to the commander of the SEAL team billeted aboard his ship.

Turcotte had been pacing in the hallway outside the conference room for the past hour after grabbing a quick meal in the base’s cafeteria. Yakov sat on a hard plastic chair just outside the door, a bottle of vodka between his knees. He’d made a big show of getting the bottle from Quinn, but Turcotte noted that the level had dropped less than a half inch in the past hour, barely a wetting of the lips for the Russian.

Turcotte was ready to go, but the replacements for the men who had been killed had not yet arrived, nor did he have sufficient intelligence on the Giza Plateau to even begin planning a second rescue mission.

Turcotte spotted a familiar face coming out of the room and changed his direction to walk beside Larry Kincaid, the NASA and JPL representative.

Kincaid had a file folder tucked under his arm. “I’m going to get these pictures from Hubble updated.”

“Mars?”

Kincaid nodded.

“Cydonia region?” Turcotte narrowed it down to the spot where the Airlia base had been discovered.

“Yep.”

As they reached the end of the hallway, Turcotte put a thick forearm across Kincaid’s chest, halting the other man abruptly. “You got a secret or you going to tell me why you’re being so quiet?”

Kincaid paused. “No secret.” He held up the file. “They’re doing something on Mars. I just can’t figure out what.”

“A weapon?”

Kincaid shook his head angrily. “You military guys — that’s all you ever worry about—‘is it a weapon?’ That’s what Majestic spent all those years concerned about: whether the Airlia artifacts could be used as weapons. Whether the Russians would find an Airlia weapon. And when we did find an Airlia weapon — or I should say the Germans did — we kidnapped it and used it to build a nuclear weapon to kill other humans. But nobody worried about the bigger picture.”

“Is that a no?” Turcotte asked, forcing a smile on his face. He’d worked with men under stress before and he knew that things could unravel quickly.

“Too much coffee,” Kincaid paused. “I don’t know what it is, and I’m having a hell of a hard time getting more information. We’re getting the shaft from our own government — they want to pull use of the Hubble from me. What are they going to look at that’s more important than alien machines on Mars? We’ve had our heads in the sand about the aliens forever, and now people want to stick our heads back in there and pretend nothing’s changed.”

Kincaid took a deep breath before continuing. “I don’t know, Mike. They could be uncovering a weapon. Nothing much we can do about it if they are. I would like to at least see what they’re doing with the best equipment we have.”

“Talk to Quinn,” Turcotte suggested. “He can work some backdoors in the classified world, maybe get you the Hubble back.”

“I hope so.” Kincaid shoved the door open and went into the Cube. Turcotte spun on his heel and paused. Yakov stood there blocking the corridor.

“Do not be so hard on him. He is out of his depth. Overwhelmed. We all are.” Yakov thumped Turcotte on the chest with a large finger. “Remember what happens to us when we think with this, rather than with this.” He pointed at his own head.

“Don’t—” Turcotte began, but paused when he saw Professor Mualama standing in the doorway to the conference room. “What is it?”

“I have translated the first two chapters of Burton’s manuscript,” Mualama said.

“That was quick,” Turcotte noted.

“My studies have been very beneficial,” Mualama said.

“Right,” Turcotte replied, his tone indicating what he thought of Mualama’s answer.

Mualama held his hand out for the door. “You’ll find it very interesting. You have to remember that Burton was more known for his translation of others’ writing — like the Kama Sutra or The Thousand and One Nights — than his own writing. This manuscript is all in his words, but it appears a large part of it comes from his translation of documents he discovered.”

Turcotte went into the conference room, Yakov following. Quinn went to wake Che Lu.

“By the way,” Mualama pointed at a picture tacked to the bulletin board, “that’s Burton.”

Turcotte paused in his rush to get to the computer. Burton was a savage-looking man, with scars etched on each cheek, blazing black eyes, and dark skin.

“He had a spear run through both cheeks when he was attacked at Berbera on his first expedition with Speke,” Mualama said.

“Speke?” Turcotte asked.

“John Speke, another English explorer. The two went to Africa several times to search for the source of the Nile,” Mualama explained.

There was another picture tacked to the side of the photo. A large stone structure, shaped like a tent.

“What’s that?” Turcotte asked.

“Burton’s tomb,” Mualama said. “It’s designed in the form of a Bedouin tent. His wife did that because he had a terrible fear of being enclosed in darkness. There’s even a stained-glass window in the structure to let light inside where the body lay. Burton once said that he had horrible nightmares of being trapped inside a mummy’s case.”

Turcotte nodded, remembering what it felt like to be trapped inside a sub’s hatch during lockout. The thought of being trapped inside a coffin, still alive, was more than he thought he could bear.

Mualama cut into his thoughts. “Your computer is all set to project the translation.” Mualama had already disappeared behind the computer monitors. Che Lu hurried into the room and sat next to Turcotte, Yakov on the other side.

Turcotte hit the enter key. The screen on the far wall flickered and then the first words appeared.

Turcotte stopped scrolling, excited. “That’s it!” He spun in his seat to Yakov. “That’s how we’re going to get to her. Through the Second Gateway to the Roads of Rostau, to the Hall of Records.”

“My friend.” Yakov’s voice was a deep, steady rumble. “Perhaps we should finish reading first. We do not know for sure that Mister Burton made it out exactly that way.”

Impatiently, Turcotte turned back to the screen. He hit the scroll.

“What is he speaking about?” growled Yakov.

“His imagination was running wild,” Turcotte said. “He had just survived an attack on his life. He was in a pitch-black tunnel that led God knows where.”

“He was a brave man,” Yakov said. “A man who went where others feared to go. He would not have written this if it was only his imagination. He really felt something was following him.”

But Turcotte was already thinking ahead. “How far is it from the Giza Plateau to the Nile?”

“I don’t know offhand,” Yakov said.

“I’ve been there,” Che Lu said, “and it’s several kilometers at least to the river.”

“Good, we can—”

“Let us finish reading,” Yakov once more tried to douse Turcotte’s enthusiasm.

“If this tunnel he escaped through comes out north of Giza,” Turcotte said, “then this underground river must begin somewhere south of there. That’s how we’ll infiltrate, with the current.”

“But how will you find the cavern that houses this Black Sphinx?” Yakov asked.

“I’ll find it,” Turcotte promised. “I’ll reverse the directions Burton gave.” He picked up the phone and talked to Major Quinn in the Cube, ordering him to get every bit of intelligence and imagery possible on the Giza Plateau and the nearby Nile, particularly hydro-graphic surveys of the river. He also told Quinn to begin working on the request for the support Turcotte thought he might need.

“But how will we open these doors Burton mentions?” Yakov asked.

“We have to get a Watcher’s ring,” Turcotte said. “We had one before; Harrison, the Watcher who died in South America, but Duncan took that with her to Giza. We need another one.”

“Then we need to find another Watcher,” Yakov said.

“They show up when you least expect them,” Turcotte said. “They’ve been—” He paused and turned to Mualama. “Why did you start following Burton’s path and studying him?”

“I found him a fascinating individual and—”

“How did you find the scepter so quickly?” Turcotte cut him off, angry with himself for not having suspected this before.

“I told you. There were drawings in the manuscript that—”

“But you told us at first you couldn’t read the manuscript,” Turcotte said. “And now you’ve been translating it. You lied to us.”

“And you kept the scepter secret for a while,” Yakov noted, picking up on Turcotte’s suspicion.

“Why did you let Duncan go to the Ark and not you?” Turcotte demanded.

“The robes would only fit her,” Mualama said.

“You’ve only done what you wanted, when you wanted,” Turcotte noted. He stepped closer to Mualama. “Who are you working for?”

“I work for no one,” Mualama said.

“I don’t believe you,” Turcotte said.

Che Lu came forward between the two men. “We need to work together, not against each other.”

Turcotte stabbed a finger at Mualama. “He’s the one that’s had his own agenda. It stops right now.” He turned to Quinn. “I don’t want him to have access to anything. The manuscript — anything. Put him under guard.”

A panicked look crossed Mualama’s face at the prospect of being cut off from the manuscript. “Wait!”

Turcotte turned back to him. “Yes?”

“I can tell you where you can find some Watchers.”

“And how can you tell us that?” Turcotte asked.

Mualama reached into his shirt and pulled out a medallion hanging on a chain. The Watcher’s symbol was etched onto the surface.

Turcotte’s hands balled into fists. “You’re a Watcher?”

“I was a Watcher,” Mualama corrected.

“What happened?” Yakov asked.

“Do you still have your ring?” Turcotte’s question was right on the heels of Yakov’s.

“I did not have a ring. Only those of the first order have rings. Those of the second order have these.” He held up the medallion once more.

“You said you are no longer a Watcher,” Che Lu said.

“I was searching for information, and the first order did not approve of that. They wanted me to watch my corner of the planet and keep my mouth shut and my mind closed.”

“Why did you turn on the Watchers?” Che Lu asked.

“I was tired of being a second-class citizen,” Mualama said. “My ancestors were recruited to be Watchers by the original Watchers, the wedjat. There is a hierarchy in the organization, a split between those who claim a lineage to the original wedjat and those who were recruited, the first and second orders. And I wanted to know the truth.”

“About?” Yakov asked.

“Who the Watchers were. Why we were watching.”

Turcotte leaned forward. “And did you learn the truth?”

Mualama nodded. “Quite a bit of it.”

“Tell us,” Che Lu said. “Who are the Watchers? How did they begin?”

“Will your information help us get a ring?” Turcotte demanded, his mind focused on the upcoming mission.

Mualama rubbed a hand through the stubble of his gray hair. “It began when my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. She went through it all — mastectomy, chemotherapy, experimental drugs. And none of it worked. When she died, I lost—” He spread his hands, searching for the right words. “I lost all my beliefs. My wife had been a Christian. To the moment she died, she believed she would be going to a better place. But I, who knew of the Airlia, did not know what to believe. I wanted the truth then.

“I had learned from another Watcher, one of the line of Kaji, about Burton visiting Giza. And I had found reports about Burton in Tanzania where I lived. So I began to study him. Then I began to follow his path all over the world, to the many places he had been, trying to discover what he had learned.” Mualama shook his head. “It is funny that he found the repository of the Watchers, scant miles from his own home, in his dear England.”

“Where?” Yakov wanted to know.

“Glastonbury Tor, near the Salisbury Plain, in southwest England,” Mualama said. “Burton traveled there in 1864 with John Speke, his companion from their search for the Nile. The Watchers had tried to kill Burton before, so I imagine he brought Speke for protection. Or, more likely, to make sure someone else knew the truth in case something happened to him.

“During Burton’s time as consul in West Africa, an attempt was made on his life after he mounted an expedition in search of the Mountains of the Moon, known to the natives as Ruwenzori, deep in the heart of my continent. It was not the first time such a thing occurred, and it would not be the last. When I learned that Burton and Speke had traveled to Glastonbury, I went there also. Especially given that Speke died the next day, supposedly of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, but I saw the long hand of the Watchers in that death. I assumed Burton and Speke had come close to something significant to evoke such a response.

“I approached the Tor at dusk, seeing the jagged, broken finger of the stone tower at the top. I climbed the long path when I knew there would be no others there, to see what was to be seen. I knew what to look for, and using a flashlight, I eventually found the smallest of indentations in one of the old stones on the side of the ruined tower. I pressed my medallion against it, but nothing happened.

“I continued my search and was about to despair of finding anything more when I heard the sound of stone moving on stone. A figure robed in brown came out of the pitch-black shadow of the tower. He looked like a monk, with a long white beard and pale skin that had seen little of the sun. I held up my hand, showing my medallion to him, and he in turn showed me his ring.”

“Where did the rings come from?” Turcotte wanted to know.

“Patience,” Mualama told him. “That will be clear shortly. The Watcher signaled for me to turn my light out. ‘What do you seek?’ he asked me.

“I had thought about what to say if I met another Watcher, and I had decided that the truth was best. I told him I had traveled far from my home and that I sought knowledge. It was the right answer, for he smiled at me. ‘I am the keeper of our knowledge,’ he told me.

“I asked him who he was and he told me his name was Brynn. I knew the roots of the name from my studies of Burton’s published writings — it was a derivative of the ancient Welsh name — it meant ‘from the hill.’ He asked me mine. I told him as well as where I was from. I was not yet considered a renegade — it was that night that would make me an enemy of the Watchers.

“Have any of you ever been to Glastonbury?” Mualama asked.

He was greeted with a unanimous negative. “It’s a very impressive place. We were over five hundred feet above the land on a mound of Earth that poked unnaturally toward the sky. How such an abrupt hill came into existence in the midst of a vast plain was a mystery that the locals referred to in terms of legend. I had learned to listen to such legends very closely.

“There were legends that in the old days Druids lived on the Tor and sang the eternal song. Constantly rotating people twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year, they kept the song alive, which supposedly kept the Tor alive. I asked Brynn about the Tor.

“He told me ‘In the old days the Tor was surrounded by water. The land around us is actually below sea level and this was an island. It was called Avalon.’ ‘That is a place of myth,’ I argued. ‘Not real.’ ‘Do you feel the Earth beneath you? Is that not real?’ Brynn didn’t wait for an answer from me. ‘This was Avalon. Many feet, belonging to people much more famous than you, have stood in this place and felt the ground under them. Arthur was here on his deathbed. Arthur was brought here after his last fight, the Battle of Camlann. Merlin came here many times.’

“Brynn told me more as we stood there,” Mualama said. “He told me that before Arthur and Merlin there were others who had been on Avalon. He listed names I had heard of only in legend: Bron, the Fisher-King, who he said ruled from atop the Tor long before Arthur. And before Bron, Joseph of Arimathea came there from the Holy Land. He even told me there were some who believe the Christ-child came with Joseph during one of his early trips to trade tin.”

“Ah!” Yakov could not control his reaction.

Mualama looked at the Russian. “I am only telling you what I heard and saw.”

“Go on,” Yakov said. “It is just that every time I think I have heard so much I cannot be shocked, I hear something more.”

“I know how you feel,” Mualama said. “Brynn led the way and we slid between broken stone into the ruined abbey, to the remains of the high tower. We stood in the center, the night sky visible directly overhead. Brynn held a hand up, muttering some words that I could not hear. Then he knelt, placing his ring on the stone floor. A large block, six feet long by three wide, dropped down two feet, then slid sideways, disappearing, revealing stairs etched out of the Tor itself, descending into the depths.

“I felt a sense of dread looking into the hole, as if a woolen blanket had been draped over my soul. For the first time in many years, I wondered if I really wanted to know more of the truth, if ignorance might indeed be bliss. What little I did know already weighed heavy on my heart.

“Brynn did not wait on me. He headed down and quickly faded into darkness. My boots echoed on the stone steps. The air was dank and chilly. I could tell from the walls that as we descended we were moving back through time. No one knew exactly when the current Tower had been built, but most agreed it was sometime in the fourth century.

“The stones that lined the stairs were perfectly cut. These stones gave way to the solid rock at the heart of the Tor. The walls were smooth, the tunnel sliced out of hard rock as easily as I could cut butter at the dinner table. Looking down, I could see that the steps were worn very slightly in the center, from generations of Brynn’s walking up and down them, I imagined. Still we went down, the path ahead dimly lit from Brynn’s and my lights, darkness beyond.

“Brynn had come to a halt on a landing. The stairs did another ninety-degree turn and continued down, but he was facing the stone wall. He placed his ring on it, and another doorway appeared. He waved me to go inside. I stepped through. Brynn followed, the door sliding shut behind them. It was dry inside, but still chilly.

“I gasped as I looked about. I was in a large cavern, about two hundred meters long by a hundred wide. It was brilliantly lit as the small amount of light from our lanterns reflected from the brilliant crystals that lined the walls, ceiling, and floor. Brynn set down his light.

“I asked him where we were. He told me ‘This place has gone by many names over many generations. Some call it Merlin’s tomb. Others say it is the antechamber to the Otherworld.’

“I asked him what he called it, and he simply replied home.

“I followed. In the very center of the cavern was a large crystal, over two meters tall. We didn’t go that way, though. Brynn turned to the right and walked along the wall. He then opened a door, cleverly hidden between two pillars of crystal to reveal a level tunnel cut through the stone.

“We went along it for almost a kilometer before Brynn stopped. He placed his ring against the wall and a door suddenly appeared. The stone slid up. This time Brynn led the way in.

“We were in a small chamber, about ten meters long by five wide. The center of the room was full of wooden desks crammed tightly together. The entire wall on the right was fronted with what appeared to be wine racks, except instead of bottles, the small openings held rolls of parchment. I had seen a similar thing at an old monastery in France — a scriptorium — a room where monks painstakingly copied texts by hand before the days of the printing press, to ensure that copies survived.

“He told me the scrolls were the records and reports of our order, the tale of the wedjat. We were underneath the town, where the new Abbey was built. In the old days this was secreted under water.

“I stared dumbfounded, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. Not even in my wildest dreams had I imagined such a treasure trove.

“Brynn waved a hand at the wall. ‘They are in various tongues and from many times. I have looked at some and there are few I can read.’

“I moved toward the scrolls, drawn as if by a powerful magnet that was linked to my heart and mind. There was only one other time in my life when I had felt such a way — the first time I laid eyes on my wife.

“Brynn and I sat and talked for a while and he told me what he knew. His line of Watchers didn’t watch. They recorded reports from Watchers all over the world as they arrived. He told me that the task was now computerized. His job was to maintain the old records and allow other Watchers access to them.

“From him I learned that for millennia the wedjat was exiled from Glastonbury Tor. As he spoke, I eagerly went to the first racks. There was a rolled parchment in the upper, leftmost opening. Carefully I pulled it out. I took it to a desk and unrolled the first piece. It was covered in markings, much like the Egyptian hieroglyphics, but different in many ways. I know now they were High Runes.

“Brynn told me to look below the first sheet. I lifted the parchment and underneath was another page, written in Celtic. He told me it was the translation, done in the Dark Ages by his predecessors.

“I ran my fingers lightly across the first lines. I could feel the age of the paper and thought of the men who had labored here in this cave, translating the story of the history from High Rune to Celtic. I asked him to tell me of the wedjat, of the early Watchers.

“The wedjat were the priests of Atlantis. They served the Airlia, worshipped them as Gods. They worshipped the Airlia in a temple where no man was allowed. A pyramid, blood red in hue, capped the peak of the temple. Inside, upon a table in the center, was the Ark which held the Grail, worshipped as the bringer of eternal life, health, and knowledge.”

“This red pyramid,” Turcotte interrupted. “I haven’t heard of this. The guardian computers I’ve seen are all gold.” He glanced at Yakov. “Have you?”

Yakov shook his large head. “No. Perhaps that is the master guardian?”

“Perhaps,” Mualama acknowledged. “The priests of the wedjat were not allowed to touch the red pyramid or even view it, never mind touch the Grail. The Ark remained closed to them. The leader of the Airlia, Aspasia, promised the wedjat that if they obeyed and were faithful, the day would come when all that the Grail could provide would be man’s. Foremost among them would be eternal life. Immortality, the ultimate gift of the Gods, lay inside the Ark, vested in the Grail. You can imagine how that brought obedience.”

“Not too different from many religions,” Che Lu commented.

“The Grail held such promise and the wedjat worshipped it, but they were forbidden to tap into its power. They were told there would be a time when they would be given access to the Grail and all its bounty, but the time was not now. This went on for generations, each successive wave of wedjat believing the promise. Each dying and passing on the belief to their children. As this went on and on, and the Grail was never revealed, there were murmurs of discontent.

“Thus there were those who, despite the comforts of Atlantis and the bounty of the Airlia, were not content to serve. Those who wanted the knowledge and the power of the Airlia themselves, who wanted what the Grail could give now, before their own deaths, not content with the promise that it might be given to their children, or their children’s children. There were even some among the wedjat who felt this way. They felt that if they could have access to the Grail, they too would be gods. But the Airlia were too powerful. Any sign of rebellion was dealt with quickly. Man had his place and the Airlia theirs.

“Then Artad arrived and the civil war among the Airlia began. The wedjat and the people of Atlantis fought for Aspasia and many died. And they were betrayed. They learned that their worship and obedience was worth nothing. The Airlia made a truce among themselves. Aspasia and his followers were banished to Mars, and Atlantis was destroyed by Artad. Many of the wedjat were killed. A small group remained alive, their mission to convert the locals to worship of Aspasia.”

Mualama looked around at the others in the conference. “Could you imagine the sense of betrayal they felt? Their families killed, their home destroyed? They decided to organize themselves, to meet at the northern summer solstices in England, on the Tor. They met some of the survivors of Atlantis and learned some things.

“They were told that just before Aspasia left some of the most fervent of the wedjat had been taken inside the temple and transformed by Aspasia and his golden pyramid, the guardian.”

“The Guides,” Yakov said.

Mualama nodded. “They were given the job of moving the Ark and Grail to a safe place. They established The Mission. They also heard of others, The Ones Who Wait, recruited and changed by Artad to prepare for his return.

“So the survivors decided they would never again trust the Airlia. They would watch and make sure mankind was never again betrayed. A binding oath was taken. Then they scattered to their new homes. The Tor was set up as the repository of their knowledge.

“Brynn told me that the Tor was being phased out. That all the material was being scanned and stored in a computer at the Watcher headquarters. Basically, he was a relic. I think he was lonely. I asked him if he had heard of Burton. He told me his grandfather had allowed Burton in many years ago. Burton had Kaji’s ring and had learned much from the Watcher records — even taking some scrolls — before being discovered. He managed to escape before they killed him.”

“The rings?” Turcotte prompted.

“All priests of the wedjat had been given a ring that allowed them access to places in the temple. The same access technology was built into all the Airlia facilities.”

“You still haven’t told us where we can get a ring,” Turcotte noted. “You’ve lied to us all along, why should we believe you now?”

Mualama ignored the question. “While Brynn and I were still talking there was a chime. He told me that meant someone had placed their ring or medallion on the wall, like I had. He left to go see who it was. I used the time to look through the documents.” Mualama fell silent.

“And?” Turcotte asked.

“The Watchers must have been watching the Tor and Brynn, knowing he was old and foolish. Someone — whoever had come — threw an incendiary grenade into the scriptorium and shut the door. The scrolls began to burn. The room filled with flames and smoke, trapping me behind and the door. I lay on the floor as the room burned. My clothing caught fire but I didn’t move, breathing the little oxygen that was left low to the ground. Eventually everything that could burn had done so. I was badly burned. The door opened and someone came in.

“A man knelt next to me. He told me that a painful death was the price I had to pay for betraying my order. He left me to die.

“He underestimated me.

“As soon as he was gone, I got to my feet and followed. I used the pain as a way to focus, to move.”

Turcotte had seen men do incredible things while in unspeakable agony, turning the pain into motivation. And he had seen the scars on Mualama’s back, which lent more credence to his story. Still, though, the effort required to move in such pain astounded him.

“In the tunnel ahead I could see Brynn in his robe and the stranger. I followed all the way to the surface and waited while they exited, giving them time to start down the Tor. Then I went outside into the night air. I could feel my shirt burned into my back, the cool breeze on the exposed nerve endings. I stumbled down the hill to my car. The worst was sitting in the seat. I almost blacked out. But I could see the headlights come on from their car and I wouldn’t allow myself to pass out. I followed them.

“They drove east and I thought we might be going to London, but then they turned north. When the road passed between stone sentinels, two upright rocks, I knew where we were: Avebury. We were inside the ring of stones that surrounds the place. They left the main road and went onto an old trail. I turned my lights off and followed. A large hill was directly in front and I was amazed to watch their car drive right into the hill and disappear as if snatched up by the darkness.

“I waited as long as I could, but they did not reappear. Then I went and sought medical attention. But I had learned where a Watcher base was: Silbury Hill, inside the ring of circles at Avebury. If anywhere, that is where you will find your ring.”

Turcotte turned to Quinn. “Get a bouncer ready for me. And all the intel you can get on this hill.”

“The manuscript?” Mualama asked.

Turcotte poked a finger in the African’s chest. “If the information you’ve just given us is true, which we’ll find out shortly, I’ll let you continue translating. But if I catch you in another lie, or you hold something back from us again, I’m going to make you disappear.”

Turcotte left the room, followed by the others, leaving Mualama alone. The African looked at the pile of papers and a strange, confused look crossed his face as if he didn’t know where he was. His body twitched as his spine drew tight, shoving him rigidly back against the seat he was in. He gasped and his right hand went to the back of his neck, the source of the pain. He blinked and the confused look was gone. The hand moved to his left ear and lightly touched it. He pulled the hand back; there was blood on it. A small trickle was seeping out of the ear.

Mualama dabbed at his ear and cleaned the blood. He waited, but no more came. Then he resumed typing.