Old Earth (3 page)

He stepped onto what he thought were small rocks. Only they weren’t rocks. At least rocks like he’d seen before. He bent down and picked up what looked to be a tiny piece of bone that had hardened to stone. There were other odd things: a jaw or teeth, but maybe not. They, too were hard as rock.

Dionisij couldn’t grasp the experience or the significance. Such understanding would not come in his time. However, he took advantage of what it offered: food, warmth, the spoils from placing traps, and bathing in the hot springs-fed lake.

A month later, an old priest, on a full day’s walk, arrived at Dionisij’s cave with a satchel of dried food and a heavy frock for the hermit. It was a trek he repeated every spring. The priest was surprised to see the hermit looking better than the previous year. He had more color and life, as if food were not a problem.

The hermit, still grateful for the priest’s kindness, accepted the gifts then told the white-haired clergy why his stomach was full and his body clean.

The priest listened to Dionisij’s story which went far beyond just the artifacts he produced. It reminded him of a conversation he long ago overheard between two cardinals in Rome. They’d whispered about a cave in Italy and the mysteries it revealed.

“Close your ears forever to the words that mistakenly came your way. It is none of your concern,” he’d been told under threat of excommunication. “Forget whose lips they came from. Forget everything.”

Of course he didn’t. Now fifty years later, the exchange came back to him with the belief that his superiors needed to know. He told the hermit to take him inside the cave. Deep inside.

The way was lit by Dionisij’s single oil lamp. However, it was the proverbial blind leading the blind, two men tripping over a past they couldn’t begin to fathom.

On the walls were crude, ancient cave paintings of primeval hunters bringing down great beasts, and on the cavern floor, hollowed out stone bowls and rocks shaped like teeth. The priest collected some of the finds. Dionisij insisted on holding onto things that he needed to survive. But there was no shortage of relics.

The hermit beckoned him further.

They entered a vast chamber. The priest gasped. Ahead was nothing, or a
nothingness
. He approached slowly with his right hand extended. At the point he thought his hand would disappear into the void, he felt a smooth surface, something that seemed like a wall, carved out from the rocks. Or, he thought,
within it.
Dionisij had worked on it, scraping away layers of stone. So had ancients before him. The wall was flat, completely vertical from base to ceiling. More astounding, even with their two torches, the wall absorbed all light. It was utterly, frighteningly black.

With authoritarian command, summoning God, Jesus and the Holy Mother, the priest ordered the hermit to leave, never to return to the chamber for fear of opening the door to hell.

Dionisij, preferring to stay warm, clean and well-fed, did as he pleased after the clergyman left. But he never got through.

Back at his abbey, the priest wrote a cardinal in Moscow about the discovery. More than a year later, a stranger came to the cave. Thereafter, no one ever saw Dionisij, and the section of the cavern that raised the priest’s interest became impassable due to a devastating cave-in.

The story of Denisova Cave might have been lost completely had the priest not committed his observations to his memoirs.

Three

LONDON
PRESENT DAY
LATE SPRING

“No ‘I think,’” Gruber demanded of Kavanaugh. “Never ‘I think.’ Never! Own what you say. If you don’t own it, then it is not ready to be said.”

“I am sure.”
Am I? Yes, for goddamned sake
. “Our firewalls are secure. No viruses. No intrusions.”

Gruber nodded. For all that he knew about history, he also kept current on computer technology…and threats. “Hackers?”

“No sir. We are steps ahead of the Chinese and they’re the only ones who have shown interest in us.”

“Not the Russians?”

“Well, technically speaking, they’re both extremely capable, but we change our protocols daily. We’re good.”
Damn. The old man’s right. I have to dive deeper.

“So far,” Gruber judged. It was not a prediction, but a fact of life.

“Yes, sir and I’ve added multiple levels of security. Our IT people are subject to thorough background checks. I know who they are, who their families socialize with, and what other jobs they’ve had,” Kavanaugh explained. Whenever anyone leaves, we review everything and make the proper changes as you’ve insisted. As I insist now.”

Kavanaugh cleared his throat, pleased that he was controlling the conversation. “The staff believes we’re paranoid of the competition.
Condé Nast
for one. The Travel Channel for another.”

“Very good, son.” Gruber used the term sparingly. He didn’t get close to anyone. But still, like an apprehensive father, he worried that this corporate progeny might not be ready for all that lay ahead.

“And our most valued
reporters
?” The old man placed special emphasis on the word.

“I read their work on multiple levels.”

“You will have to recruit and train more. Look at the star pupils coming up. We have a tradition. But beware. In this world of instant communication, people write without thought and hit send without always realizing who they include. Even the best will make a mistake in haste. Our work cannot permit that. Past, present, future. It is all one. No mistakes.”

“I understand, Mr. Gruber. You have my assurance.”

“Not just your assurance. Your dedication. Your commitment. Your faith.”

“Forever. Without question.”

Gruber studied his disciple. He had been there himself many years ago, grilled in the same manner, faced with the same scrutiny.
Was I so eager to replace my mentor?
He weighed whether he was seeing the real Kavanaugh with his desire to purely please or his brazen ambition. He hoped it was the former, but he would have to be certain.

“This must be forever ingrained.” He wanted Kavanaugh to especially appreciate his next comment. “You will be a guardian without the luxury of failure.”

The statement hung in the air. Though Kavanaugh didn’t know everything, he had connected enough dots to understand what
fail
could mean.

“I will be ready,” Kavanaugh responded with authority. “I
am
ready.”

Gruber laughed. “Well, stay ready. Because I’m not so eager to leave this earth. Not quite yet.”

Kavanaugh’s eyes shifted, a reaction not lost on Martin Gruber. “Sir, I still have a great deal to learn from you and yes, I haven’t done enough to protect our hard drives and firewalls. I will do more.”

“Well then, on that note, let us toast to how close we both are to a certain kind of ascension.”

Gruber slowly rose and walked to an old liquor cabinet at the far end of his office. He opened it and removed a bottle Kavanaugh had never seen before.

“Ah, I have your full attention now. This is indeed special. Though it’s not old, the tradition of how we shall drink it is. This is an
Amaro liqueur
made from twenty-three medicinal and aromatic herbs, aged over six months, and crafted by Monte Oliveto Maggiore Benedictine monks.”

Gruber poured one brandy snifter two fingers high, then another. He handed Kavanaugh the first glass.

“This blending of herbs and plants originated in the Middle Ages. It promises legendary restorative powers. But first you have to survive the wallop it delivers,” he added laughing.

“Take in the scent.”

“Lovely,” Kavanaugh offered. “Here’s to—”

“Ah, no. This is my toast,” Gruber interrupted. “To tradition. It is far greater than us.”

“To tradition.”

They clinked their glasses.

Colin Kavanaugh slowly sipped the Benedictine blend. It warmed his throat, then his whole chest expanded as the monks’ combination of herbs, roots, bark, and citrus peel mixed with alcohol and sugar syrup worked its way down.

“Tradition, Colin. You are doing as I did with my mentor, Alexander Dubesque, so many years ago. Before that, glasses of the Monte Oliveto Maggiore Amaro celebrated the passage of overseers for generations, all the way to the beginning of our order and Father Raffaelo.”

“And eventually it will be my duty.”

Gruber peered into Kavanaugh’s eyes and smiled. But behind the smile, the nagging question.

“Tradition.” Gruber held his glass of the Amaro against the light of his chandelier. “From
Voyages
and our earlier endeavors,
L’institute de l’adventure
and
LaRosa.
From Rome to Paris, to London. Always maintaining tradition. Always.”

He sipped the Amaro and savored the taste. “I’m going to miss this,” Gruber said.

“Who’s to say there won’t be greater rewards in heaven.”

“Heaven? You may have a different view of things as you begin to make your mark, my boy.”

He refilled his glass showing he was at least going to enjoy it
now.

“Through it all, through the years, do you know we’ve only had one rite of passage?”

“No, what is it?” Kavanaugh asked.

“No black robes or candle light processions marked by Gregorian incantations. No full moon sacrificial blood-letting in ancient abbeys. Not the things of thrillers and pseudo documentaries.”

Gruber let the aroma of the drink waft up and fill his nostrils. “No. The only true rite of passage is this.”

The old man spoke nostalgically. “Our heralded Monte Oliveto Maggiore Amaro Benedictine is our only tradition. It seals our pledge. In France the commitment was to
Le Sentier
. In Italy,
Il Sentiero
. In our favored Latin,
Autem Semita.
”

In Martin Gruber’s day, and now as Colin Kavanaugh prepared to take over, the commitment, the mission, and the organization translated simply into English as
The Path,
or the narrow way laid down by continual passage.

Martin Gruber now made himself unequivocally clear. “And, Mr. Kavanaugh, remember, there is only
one
way. Only one
path
. Follow
Autem Semita
.”

Four

YALE UNIVERSITY
NEW HAVEN, CT
THE SAME TIME

“Looks like a solid group,” Dr. Quinn McCauley said to his graduate teaching assistant, Pete DeMeo. “Shame you’re not coming this year. Look at this photo.”

He started to hand his iPad across the desk.

“Don’t bother. I know just who you’re talking about. The one from Harvard, right?”

McCauley smiled at DeMeo. “Right. Chohany. Just your type. Hell, you could be missing out on the love of your life.”

“Got my sights set on finding her in Europe. Besides, you’d hate me if I abandoned you for Boston.”

“Spent great years there.”

“But these days you’re all about sticking to the Yale side of the field.”

“So I’m a little bit political.”

“And if Harvard gave you a big ass grant and offered tenure?” DeMeo joked.

“Like I said, I’m a little bit political.”

McCauley was something of a renegade professor of paleontology studies. He liked to work outside the system, which constantly brought furrowed brows and antipathy from many of his peers. But the media liked him and so did his students. His visibility helped Yale rate within the top ten best graduate programs in the study of prehistoric life and evolutionary development. It was a competitive field and Harvard was their major competition in the northeast.

Yale’s Department of Geology and Geophysics faculty was recognized for its scholarly contributions in the advancement of earth sciences. Harvard shared international acclaim, but provided a competitive curriculum in organismic and evolutionary biology within the Department of Earth and Planetary Sciences.

It was the scholarly combination that drew McCauley to both universities. For now, Yale was his home. He basically ate and slept there and looked the part of a college prof. In fact, the people at the Johnson & Murphy down the road in Westport loved him. He shopped their store for everything, from loafers and sandals to striped button-down shirts, slacks, sports jackets, and vests. Everything including his leather zip top briefcase. It fit his academic look, right down to his black, wavy hair and infectious smile, made all the more pleasant with his warm, deep voice.

The seven students joining McCauley on this summer’s dig were from a variety of colleges. He liked to cast them based on their interests and disciplines and how they could contribute to the whole experience. He personally picked each of them. The students, alas, weren’t the issue now. He was still trying to decide where to go. There were so many treasure troves in the west, particularly eastern Montana where students could extract the real crowd pleasers—good old fossilized dinosaur bones. On site, his team would quickly discover that, in addition to being a brilliant teacher, McCauley was arguably one of the country’s best archeological safe crackers.

McCauley reviewed the resumes one more time while DeMeo gave a running commentary. There was Anna Chohany from Harvard, Rich Tamburro from the University of Michigan, Tom Trent from the University of Chicago, Adam Lobel and Leslie Cohen, both PhD candidates from Penn State, Carlos Rodriguez from the University of Madrid, his only foreign student this year, and Al Jaffe, UC Berkeley.

“Now Jaffe’s an interesting guy,” DeMeo noted. “A little older. He’s a vet. Served two tours in Afghanistan. I don’t think he’ll have any problem with the accommodations. It may be a step up.”

“Yes, a solid group, Pete. Thanks. Send out the acceptances. Tell the dream team they’re good to go, but they better be ready to work like crazy.”

“Consider it done,” DeMeo replied.

DeMeo was a postgrad student, hoping to have a faculty assignment much like his boss. But that’s where the similarities ended. McCauley’s graduate teaching assistant was a former member of the Yale crewing team, with a winner take-all attitude and a huge sexual appetite. He kept his curly, brown hair short, his body tight, and his personal calendar extremely busy. He lived in black jeans and polo shirts all year long, at least when he wasn’t romancing the latest coed.