Old Earth (33 page)

“So, where are you?” McCauley said on the other end of the call. It was extremely noisy.

“Apparently not out of earshot, boss. I hope the number helped.”

“Thanks. I left a message.”

“Where are you heading?”

“So far, on the road to debauchery. Eventually the Amalfi Coast.”

“Okay. But please, Pete, be careful.”

“Hang on for a sec. Too noisy. Gonna pull over.”

DeMeo slowed and rolled to a stop. Cars that hadn’t kept up with him, now passed at blistering speeds.

“Okay, what were you saying?”

“Waiting for a call back. Meanwhile, please be careful.”

“All’s fine,” he said lasciviously. “Meanwhile, are you going to do what you promised?”

“Thinking about it.”

“You do it! Talk to the priest, then quit this. Maybe in a few years you can write a paper on it. Whatever
it
is.”

“Right.”

“Do more than think. Have your conversation with your fellow traveler.”

“Okay.”

Lucia’s hands were wandering again.

“Gotta go. I’ll call you when…I,” DeMeo laughed, “…recover. Bye.”

DeMeo flicked the kickstand, stepped off the motorcycle and removed his helmet.

“So who was on the phone? Seemed like work. I don’t want you to think about work.”

DeMeo laughed. “How’d you know?”

“Your body is like, how to explain, an echo chamber. Hellooo…helloooo.”

She continued to busy her hands. “No, no, no. Let’s get back on the road. I need a real hotel bed.”

“What if I can’t wait?” she cooed.

“You do have that problem!”

DeMeo stretched his legs and was ready to gun the bike. But Lucia kissed his neck and nuzzled up to his ear. “So, who was on the phone?”

He turned half way around. “Just my boss.”

“I thought you were through.”

“I am.”

“Good answer, silly man,” she said “But when we check in, you’ll have to fill me in.” Her fingers put an exclamation point where none was needed.

Sixty-four

LONDON

McCauley quickly realized the conversation with Katrina wasn’t going well. But, it was worse than that. They were circling each other in Kritz’s flat, taking turns as predator.

“I’ve had to worry about you since you first showed up!” he said.

“You were only worried about your own standing and what I’d report,” Alpert shot back.

“As a spy.”

“In an open, academic, and professional evaluation.”

“Bullshit. You came with a holier than thou attitude. I didn’t need anyone under my feet then and I sure as hell don’t want the responsibility watching over you now.”

“You misogynistic, anachronistic, self-absorbed twit. Do you think for one minute that if I simply return to Cambridge, which is only thirty minutes away, I’ll be any safer than I am under your supreme care? For that matter, what about you? You call
game over
and think everything will be okay back in New Haven? Jesus, McCauley, you’re one of the strangest creatures I’ve ever dug up!”

Alpert was winning the battle of the words. McCauley exhaled slowly.

“I’m sorry, I thought it would be better for you to go home.”

“Wrong. Sure I’m scared, but don’t think it’ll all get better sending me away. Show me what you’ve got inside those briefs,” Alpert said hearkening back to their first conversation.

They stared at one another and then broke up.

“You were doing great until the underwear reference,” he offered.

“I wasn’t referring to your underwear, mister. Your balls!”

“I got it.”

“Then get this. We’re doing this together, just like we started.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve known you longer?” McCauley asked.

“An argument will do that. Running for our lives will do that.”

“Yes, I guess it will.”

“So tomorrow we see Bovard in France. Together,” Alpert affirmed. She was clearly the victor.

“Together.”

Sixty-five

LYON, FRANCE
LATER THE NEXT DAY

McCauley and Alpert took an inexpensive ninety minute easyJet flight from London’s Gatwick Airport to Lyon, France. After another forty-five minutes, much of it uncomfortable thanks to a cabbie with a particularly heavy foot, they gratefully arrived at Claude Bovard’s home on the outskirts of the historic town.

The French explorer invited McCauley and Alpert to sit down and join him in a bottle of Bordeaux. They both passed and asked for some stomach quenching Coke. Bovard seemed to understand. “Ah, you undoubtedly had one of our Grand Prix hopefuls,” he said. “There are many. The worst, however, are in Nice. They try to set a new record every time they drive from the airport. Quite the experience.”

Alpert laughed. McCauley just wanted to curl up into a ball and rest, but the soda soon refreshed him. While Bovard casually spoke, Quinn took in the explorer’s living room, decorated with artifacts from decades of explorations representing every continent in the world. He identified fossils from a distance: a footprint of a Brachiosaurus from the late Jurassic period, likely from Colorado, and a backbone from a Tyrannosaurus rex that inhabited an even older earth. Bovard noted his interest and pointed out plaster molds of three-feet tall stalagmites and photographs of cave dweller paintings.

Quinn and Katrina appreciated his explanation, however, they hadn’t come for a Cook’s tour. Nor did Claude Bovard invite them there for small talk.

“Yes,” the seventy-nine-year-old explorer suddenly said.

“Yes?” McCauley responded with uncertainty.

“Yes, it is now time for questions and answers. I have seen what you speak of.”

Bovard settled into a leather chair as dry, worn, and craggy as the features on his face. His most notable feature—his eyes. They were the completely hypnotic, maybe because of the marvels the explorer had observed through his life.

“Your principal work has been on the surface, correct?” Bovard stroked his full white beard. He looked the part of a spelunker.

“You could say that.”

“The most beautiful and extraordinary discoveries are not sifted through screen meshes in the daylight, they’re revealed by the narrow light from a helmet in the darkest, coldest environs. That’s where true art is to be discovered—art that the earth has created.

“Based on what Dr. Alpert explained on the telephone, you search for evidence of death,” the old explorer continued. “My work constantly demonstrates that the earth is truly alive.”

“Both are important,” McCauley said in an almost challenging tone.

“Forgive me, Dr. McCauley. Of course. I didn’t mean to disparage your scholarly endeavors. Sometimes I forget myself.”

McCauley nodded appreciatively. “We have the same desire, Monsieur Bovard. To delve into the unknown, evaluate the possible, and postulate on the impossible. As academicians, we also have a hell of a lot of paperwork to do.” He looked at Katrina. It was a light-hearted glance that was returned with a kick to his shin.

“Thank goodness I have only had to please the foundations who support me,” Bovard replied. “But they fête me with far too many broiled chicken dinners.”

“Chicken? You do realize you’re eating the same protein structure that was contained in dinosaurs,” McCauley noted.

“Point well taken. Perhaps there are more similarities than differences to our work.”

With the mood lightened, they moved into a spirited discussion about the spelunker’s explorations.

“Permit me to cover some basic ground…or
underground
as it were.” Bovard laughed at his own joke.

“Please,” McCauley encouraged.

“Of course, you have long learned things from the dinosaur bones that speak to you. I get my stories from the earth’s bones; the vessels of which are different types of caves. As you know, limestone caves are the most common. To my mind, these are the most adventurous and challenging. I’ve also explored many of the world’s majestic ice caves including the largest in Eisriesenwelt, Austria which is more than forty-two kilometers in length.”

Next, he talked about lava and sea caves. Most were formed by volcanic rock, weakened along fault lines and carved by the action of waves. “I’ve been to the longest in the world, the Matainaka Cave in New Zealand.”

Finally, he gave his guests a primer on how wind and rain had carved caves out of compressed sandstone, fused at the bottom of ancient oceans turned to deserts. All of this was important to Bovard. He sought to make certain that the paleontologists would see the earth’s hidden spaces as he saw them. “I have been to the earth’s most magnificent natural cathedrals; awe inspiring, profound and humbling, with spires reaching through the darkness toward the heavens and light streaming through cracks that pointed to God’s greatness.”

“That is my world—speleothems, the cave formations that can positively leave you speechless. Like dripping icicles, but rock. Flowstones that appear to be frozen water. Stalactites that hang like curtains from the ceiling. Gypsum crystals that rise like shards from Superman’s Fortress of Solitude and crystalline calcite and aragonite that resemble frost on a winter’s window.”

The explorer dropped his voice. “However, make no mistake, caves are dangerous places as much as irreplaceable grand museums,” the explorer explained. “They’re forged by the ages, shaped by wind, water, earth’s movements, tsunamis, and yes, the changing climate. As permanent as we may think they are, they are not. Nothing about the earth is permanent. And,” Bovard offered, “they’re unpredictable. The forces that created them are the same forces that, over time, alter them. Water tables rise and fall, weakening foundations, ceilings and walls. Rain causes runoffs which can lead to rock slides. In mere seconds, earthquakes close caverns for good and open others we’d never known. And gas leaks are a true threat to deep cave explorers and casual hikers. They’re volatile and flammable. You don’t want to be around, near, or in one when it explodes. But many times, a human presence in a cave is the destabilizing factor to cause a major change.”

The Frenchman shook his head. “And when destruction comes by man’s stupidity or man’s intention, it should be considered a criminal act against nature; against the earth itself.”

“Monsieur, you’ve seen such incidences?” McCauley asked.

“Of course. When you’ve explored as much as I have, you’ve seen it all.”

McCauley wondered if that was true. He’d find out soon enough.

“I’ve made my way through the deepest, longest, most remote, dangerous and out of the way caves in the world,” Bovard further explained. “Those that others have put in their history books, and a fair share for which I can take all the credit. Among the most fascinating—the Covaciella Caves in Asturias, Spain. Tremendous finds. Upper Paleolithic age. Real evidence of how human groups helped one another survive the last glacial period. Then there’s Reed Flute Cave near the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region of China and Atta Cave, in Sauerland, Germany. All with remarkably different histories. I also spent a good deal of time, many years ago, exploring the Kungur Ice Cave in the Perm region of east central Russia.”

“Actually, there is another cave in Russia that interested us,” McCauley stated.

“Which?”

“Denisova.”

“Denisova,” the old explorer recalled. “Yes, Denisova. I was there when I was much younger. I know its story.”

“The complete story?” Katrina wondered.

Bovard frowned. “Considering you put it that way, perhaps I’m not certain. I was referring to Saint Denis, the hermit. Is there more?”

McCauley and Alpert looked at one another for affirmation. McCauley nodded.

“There was a large cavern within the cave that contained remarkable” —McCauley thought about how to phrase his point—“out-of-place artifacts.”

Bovard’s mind was sharp. He responded without any hesitation. “I can assure you, there was no large cavern with any such things when I explored. What are you talking about?”

Quinn passed Father Emilianov’s book to the explorer. “Look at this.”

Bovard opened the memoir and turned to the page flagged with a yellow sticky. He looked troubled. He examined the book cover and the copyright. Then he leafed through other pages in the section and read the Russian quite easily. He whispered the words as his finger trailed across the sentences.

“This isn’t the same cave I explored. Or at least it’s a different entrance to the system.

“Exactly,” McCauley said, leaning in.

Sixty-six

LONDON
THE SAME TIME

“Ms. Dunbar,” Kavanaugh said, breezing past his secretary’s desk, “book me on a flight to Rome tomorrow morning. Non-stop. Premium class.”

She didn’t show her surprise. But her response surely questioned his judgment. “Mr. Kavanaugh, this week is deadline.”

“I’m quite aware of my magazine’s deadlines and my responsibilities.”

“I understand, but sir, Mr. Gr…”

She didn’t get to complete her sentence. Kavanaugh hovered over her and proclaimed, “Reservations tomorrow. Rome.”

“Yes, Mr. Kavanaugh and Premium class.”

Kavanaugh returned to his office and slammed the door.

Sixty-seven

LYON, FRANCE

“Describe what you saw at Denisova?” McCauley requested.

Bovard considered the question with multifold interest; his own and wonder over his visitors’ interest.

“For accuracy sake, I would have to search my notes,” the Frenchman said. “It could have been a natural cave-in. I recall tunnels that should have led somewhere, but appeared to be blocked. Remember, I am not a miner. I don’t dig my way into caverns.”

“So it’s possible the hermit and the priest’s access was closed up?”

“Yes, quite possible. Or that it collapsed. That wouldn’t prevent another entrance from being discovered. But now that you raise the question, I’d like to check other incidences. It will take a while. Help yourself to some coffee in the kitchen.”

Bovard excused himself for twenty minutes. He returned with a large carton of files.

“I wanted to explore so much more.” He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the silk scarf he wore. “Natural caves and even abandoned mines. No matter what, I was always amazed,” he said nostalgically. “The real riches aren’t the minerals that can be extracted and exploited. It’s the history itself that remains there.”