Destiny of Coins (11 page)

“Follow me, please,” said Rafael, still looking at me knowingly. “After Francisco speaks with Judas and Roderick, we shall dine together this evening.”

Rafael returned to the other four men, speaking to them in a form of Spanish I hadn’t heard used in more than two centuries. It contained Aymara and some other influence. The men chuckled and looked at me again. Rarely have I felt like I had a third eye in the middle of my forehead. Rafael and his compadres led us into a well-lit cave with intricate angelic carvings along both walls. When we emerged, the kids, me, and Cedric gasped once more. I think we all knew the castle was coming up soon. But to step out into the fading sunlight from a dark cave and find this soaring edifice waiting for us was truly an inspiring moment.

An ancient cathedral-styled structure fashioned from enormous blocks of red granite. Fitted tightly together, the seams were almost undetectable. I now had something other than Kaslow’s planned exploits to talk about with our Essene hosts—especially after allowing my gaze to follow the castle’s incredible height—several hundred feet at least, and the upper spires could be even higher. Truly, an ornate fortress, and one built into the mountainside to our right. A swollen stream from melting glacial ice flowed in front of the structure. Amy was especially delighted we would have to cross a drawbridge to get to the main entrance—one with a pair of gorgeous stained-glass angels on either side of a medieval-styled entryway.

“How in the hell did these guys know you were coming before Roderick confirmed we were on our way to South America?” asked Alistair, as we prepared to enter the castle. He inadvertently interrupted Cedric, who had been trying to get my attention to discuss something fairly urgent. He had said something to me inside the cavern…something about how lifelike the angel depictions on the walls looked, and how what he saw through Tampara’s spyglass related to it. “Who else could’ve possibly known?”

Rafael suddenly stopped ahead of us, motioning for everyone else to keep moving down the ornate corridor to the reception area where apparently the Essene Superior, Francisco de Luciano, awaited our arrival. I thought for a moment he would let us pass as he had everyone else, since my son and I pulled up the rear of the line. But he stopped us, and this time instead of on me, his attention was focused on Alistair.

“The answer to both of your questions is the same,” he said. “It is a simple answer that perhaps you will not appreciate. Not until you have spent time with us.”

“Well, you certainly behave like genuine Essenes,” I said. “You speak in mysteries and half-truths. Doubtless, we shall be treated to a parable or two from your leader.”

It was all in good fun. Although, I was just as curious as Alistair to find the source for their knowledge about me, and how they predicted a visit I had not even considered before yesterday afternoon.

“Parables and clues…and the clues for our ultimate source of information are all around you, Judas,” said Rafael. As he stepped away from us, he regarded me over his shoulder. “That which dominates our art is the very thing in reality we rely on for our insights, inspiration, and when the Internet is down, our news about events in the outside world that affect us.”

“What…the frigging angels?” Alistair could scarcely hide his skepticism, snickering as he said this.

“Why, of course,” confirmed Rafael.

He smiled before running to catch up with the others, leaving Alistair with his mouth hanging half-open in
surprise, and me with the dread that the Almighty’s most trusted servants were far more involved with my earthly business than I cared for them to be.

I now hoped for good, solid answers from Francisco de Luciano.

Chapter 9

“Welcome, our American brothers and sister!”

The announcement reverberated against the colonnades that surrounded the large reception area in the center of the castle. Furnished tastefully, if this had been 1950, a handsome bearded man with intensely warm brown eyes stood in the middle of the room. He was much taller than his Spanish brethren, and unlike their militia apparel, this man wore a long colorful robe not unlike what his distant ancestors from Judea once preferred. In fact, for a brief moment I felt a tingling sensation along my spine at the realization this man’s facial features favored those of Jesus’ more comely brothers, Josef and James. Prominent cheekbones with softer brow-lines were the genetic traits from Mary’s side, whereas the less appealing heavier brow and plain facial features were what their more famous brother and most of their sisters inherited from Joseph.

The charisma of Jesus was all the more remarkable since, as the Gospels did get right, it wasn’t aided by the regal comeliness so often depicted by artisans down through the centuries. I found myself thinking of Josef, especially, as I regarded this man…this slightly eccentric individual who must certainly be the current Superior for this band of Qumran descendants. He was a near dead-ringer for the man who long ago snatched my coin from the dirt near the stone walkway outside the courtyard where my Lord was betrayed.

“As you have heard by now, I am Francisco de Luciano. Please, come sit with me while we await the preparation of our supper with you.” He motioned for us to step over to an arc of seven black leather chairs that faced a single high-backed chair resembling a papal throne with a red crushed velvet seat. Ostentatiously tacky. “I would love to hear the details about your journey to reach us. Would any of you like something to drink? We have our own special blend of herbal tea…or perhaps you would prefer water?””

“After the rigors of our journey, we might all do well to accept your offer of tea,” said Tampara, getting affirmative nods from the rest of us. “Perhaps it would be best to introduce our guests to you before you get started.”

While the rest of us sat down, he elected to stand, choosing the left side of the arc. It appeared that none of the chairs would comfortably contain his large, powerful frame. Tampara’s gaze was momentarily drawn to the subdued flames in an immense black marble fireplace behind Francisco.

“Si, I believe it’s a good idea,” agreed Rafael, offering a slight bow to the robed man who prepared to sit upon the garish throne. He clapped his hands and a pair of young servants—a girl and a boy—soon appeared from an alcove near the fireplace. Each carried a silver pitcher, along with several clear crystal goblets. While the pair attended to us, Rafael moved one of the chairs away from the arc and sat down.

“Very good,” said Francisco, studying us, while we sipped tea surprisingly quite delicious. I detected a hint of coca leaves beneath the citrus blend. Francisco’s infectiously warm smile widened when his gaze settled on me. “As the Fifty-seventh Superior of the South American Essenes, I am delighted you all will be staying with us while we seek to stop the Russian, who has yet to arrive.”

He made it sound like Kaslow was an old friend. I bristled, drawing a soft chuckle from Alistair.

“If I may, I would like to handle our introductions, my dear friend,” Roderick said to Tampara, who nodded for him to go on. Roderick turned his attention to Francisco. “I once knew your father, Frederico de Luciano, when he was not much older than yourself. You favor him well.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Roderick Cooley is my name. I actually met you when you were a very young lad.”

“Sorry that I don’t remember so much from my early youth, but I am quite pleased to officially meet you now, Roderick,” said Francisco. “You must be the ‘pale warrior’ Father would sometimes mention. And, who are your companions?”

Roderick introduced us all, based on our proximity to him. Since I had purposely taken the chair furthest from the Essene Superior, I was last in the roll call.

“William Barrow….” Francisco’s voice trailed off, and for a moment, his eyes bore a far-away look. “Moroni has spoken of you, most recently this past Monday evening, when it became clear your enemy intends to pay us a visit. You are thought of fondly by the angels as the
‘Man of Twelve’
.”

I honestly didn’t know what to say to such a comment, but nodded with a slight smile to be polite.

“Yes, I’m sure it sounds confusing…unless you know why they call you this name, Judas.” He laughed, pulling the loose flaps from his robe across his lap. “They say you have a dozen aliases, and now that you have selected the last of the twelve, you are finding it nearly impossible to let go of this one. It is a fixation with the specific number, whether it be Judean tribes, twelve disciples for your Messiah, or twelve names to define your persona as you carry out your earthly stay. But the name ‘William Barrow’ fits you well, and the inspiration for it is as noble as your quest to find your coins. I doubt you will ever want to go back to being called ‘Emmanuel’ ever again. If Moroni’s latest prophecy to me comes true, your quest for redemption will reach its resolution before this decade ends.”

His words rendered me speechless, and for so many reasons. I could muster neither a smile nor a nod.

“Surely you’re not referring to the Archangel Moroni that is a key character to Mormon lore,” said Alistair, who had been whispering covertly to Amy and pointing subtly toward the ceiling several hundred feet above where we sat. Several floors of open verandas surrounded the reception area, and I took this brief opportunity to raise my eyes to the room’s apex. Perhaps the most amazing fresco I had ever seen covered the ceiling, aptly depicting a confrontation between the Almighty and Satan. “Or, are you?”

“Do you subscribe to Mormon tenets?” he asked, turning his attention entirely to my son.

“No…not at all,” said Alistair, sitting up straight in his chair. I could tell Francisco’s intense scrutiny unsettled him. “But the Book of Mormon is the only mention in modern literature I’m aware of that contains the name ‘Moroni’ in the context of angels.”

“Alistair…you are truly a man after my own heart,” he said. “Surely, this name would never have come up in the many years you studied Middle Eastern history—unless your students at Georgetown brought this mighty archangel into a class discussion, no?”

“How did you know about my professorship?”

“The same way I know of your beautiful fiancée’s wish that she had pursued the same anthropological career as her brother, instead of the more lucrative career she enjoys as a freelance corporate lawyer,” he said, nodding knowingly. “Or, the fact the black gentleman with you prefers the mischief your father gets him into over his usual field routine working for the CIA. I could go on…but you already know quite a bit about the three immortals in your midst.”

“Well, since you know so much about us, why did you let us introduce ourselves as if we were complete strangers?”

Careful, Ali…. In the bigger scheme of things, withholding one’s prior knowledge is a fairly common practice throughout many cultures—especially those rooted in ancient traditions.

“Surely this is to make a point that will tie it all together. Isn’t that so?” I said, stepping in before Alistair could possibly offend our Essene hosts. I drew an admiring glance from Roderick. “You mentioned you have spoken to Moroni—one of the Almighty’s powerful archangels.”

“The four sovereign archangels of Elohim,” Francisco corrected me.

“Okay…I can agree to refer to the Almighty as Elohim, since like you, I believe it is He who presides over all aspects of our earthly existence,” I said, drawing the same intense scrutiny my son had endured just a moment ago—but mostly from the three American mortals among us. “So, you have regular commerce and communion with Moroni?”

Francisco’s smile that had been subdued after my son’s upbraid brightened once more.

“Yes,” he said. “That would be the best way to describe it. He and the other three archangels visit here from time to time. This man, Viktor Kaslow, worries them. Mankind has seen its share of evil, destructive warmongers…but never anyone with as deep a desire to watch the world crumble and disintegrate around them. He must be stopped. This vile immortal you helped create must be thwarted at all costs.”

His last words were like a series of serrated daggers thrust into the very core of my soul. Although, as anyone reading my past two journals is aware, I have never verbally acknowledged the blame for Kaslow’s continued existence upon the earth. But, in my quietest moments when no one is around, my thoughts are often brought back to that moment in the sacred cave inside the Alborz Mountains where I watched him die.

I should’ve beheaded the bastard, like a vampire or zombie—or any other thing that should be dead and is not. I should’ve made sure his existence was truly over—especially since I saw the faint glow from the milky-green crystal lodged inside his chest, pulsing in time with his severed heart, as blood seeped out from the terrible wound he received when the Tree of Life’s jagged shard ripped through his torso.

“There is still time to stop this one,” said Francisco, drawing me back to our present discourse. “Our sources have told us that he arrived in La Paz this morning, and at some point will seek to find the map Giuseppe de la Serna wrote about in his diary. As long as it remains hidden inside one of the archdiocese’s cathedral walls, we will have a significant head start in dealing with him.”

“Unfortunately, we checked there earlier this afternoon, and the hiding place has been found…the map most certainly is gone,” Roderick advised. “But, area surveillance cameras show Kaslow arrived a few days ago. I’m sorry to say your sources are incorrect.”