Old Earth (34 page)

“Is there anything that relates to Denisova?” Katrina dared.

“No…and yes.”

The answer was intriguing.

“No, I found nothing of an unusual, shall I say,
nature.
But taking in other reports and your cryptic suggestions, perhaps yes.”

Bovard thumbed through the files in the boxes. He rejected most, but pulled a few papers. “These are principally cave-ins that I couldn’t explain or didn’t believe the explanations. An explosion at a cave in China. Another in South Africa, and the most interesting…let’s look at this one. A site I visited almost four decades ago.” He refreshed his memory with a copy of an old newspaper clipping. “In Senghenydd, Wales.”

"Where?” McCauley couldn’t quite get the Welsh name through the thick French accent.

“A mine in Wales pronounced
Sen-knee-need
.” He handed McCauley a photocopy of a newspaper clipping from 1913. “Little is known about this. It was over-shadowed by another mining accident at the same location a few months later. That one still grabs all the attention, as well it should. It remains the worst mining disaster in the British Isles. Some have speculated that they are related.”

Bovard explained both cave-ins were reportedly the result of coal gas explosions. He laughed. “Bull
sheet
.” His accent made his expletive sound cleaner.

“The first occurred far into a mine that, according to the archival reports, was not producing any coal. The likelihood of volatile coal gas coming from nowhere? You tell me, Dr. McCauley?”

“Not likely.”

“Dr. Alpert?”

“Not in my expertise.”

“So, if not an explosion caused by coal gas, which, at the time, claimed the life of the site manager, then what?”

The question begged for an answer, but the old explorer held up his hand.

“Little has been reported. To this day, only a few locals gossip about it through the unreliable filter of multiple generations. Nonetheless, rumors tell a story of a mysterious find, an unscheduled visit by an unknown mining supervisor, the deadly explosion that killed the company man, and the disappearance of the supervisor soon after. Makes for a good conspiracy, wouldn’t you say?”

“And we heard about you from a conspiracy theorist in America. Robert Greene.” Katrina softly said.

“Ah, yes, the irrepressible young Mr. Greene. We’ve done some broadcasts together. How clever. He neither told you, nor me, what he wanted you to find. Maybe this is it.”

“A theory? A feeling?” McCauley complained. “A rumor?”

“More than that, Dr. McCauley.”

It came to Quinn. “Evidence of evidence. Maybe much like”— he tapped the cover of the priest’s memoir—“what the good Father Emilianov saw.”

Sixty-eight

ROME
THE SAME DAY

The Paulist priest arrived to an empty, dark apartment.
Home,
he said to himself. Five days in Prague had been quite enough. Nobody came to any conclusions.
How could we
, he thought. But that didn’t prevent the member of STOQ and the Pontifical Academy of Sciences from being predictably exciting, inspiring and living up to his reputation as a renegade in the house of the Lord.

He dropped his suitcase in the kitchen, flicked on the overhead light and checked the refrigerator. The few take-out containers with leftovers didn’t interest him, neither did he consider the idea of washing the sink full of dirty dishes inviting. His two roommates, also priests, were at another conference in Madrid. They’d left the mess.

Since he wasn’t up for cleaning, he also didn’t want to cook. So, Father Jareth Eccleston turned off the light and went for a late supper at his local haunt, De Giovanni’s, for one of his favorite dishes,
tortelloni ricotta e spinaci
. Since he primarily spent alone time in deep thought, he wasn’t aware of the man who had followed him in and watched him throughout his dinner.

• • •

CHICAGO, IL
THE SAME TIME

Rich Tamburro hadn’t heard from Anna Chohany since he last saw her at the hospital in Glendive. He’d left so many messages on her cell that her voicemail maxed out. Considering she hadn’t posted anything new on Facebook or Instagram in the days since she left Montana, he was concerned that she hadn’t made it home safely. Even though there was no doubt now that she was somebody’s mole, he decided to drive to Ann Arbor with the hope of finding her.

• • •

MAKOSHIKA STATE PARK, MT
THE SAME TIME

“I can’t explain,” Park Director Jim Kaplan told the chief on-site National Transportation Safety Board investigator, Lee Miller. “It’s certainly a first for us.”

“And the visiting college group? They’ve all left?” asked the fifty-five-year-old officer who wore a black tee shirt with the agency’s NTSB letters prominently displayed on the back in bright yellow. “Rather quickly, wouldn’t you say?”

“They’d packed up the day before the crash.”

“A coincidence,” Miller commented, suggesting just the opposite.

“No coincidence. They’d wrapped. Dr. McCauley had just returned from some meetings and he determined it was time to call it quits. He’s an expert. If he felt it was time to go, it was.”

“I heard they had a few more weeks.”

“They did, but it wasn’t a particularly successful summer and one of the team got hurt.”

Miller, a former Navy F-18 pilot, was raising questions well beyond the scope of the crash. But there were unusual circumstances. Principally—no bodies in the wreck. Now three days into the investigation, the field of inquiry extended beyond the crash site. The NTSB team was scouring the badlands for a survivor who may have safely parachuted or a pilot whose parachute failed to open.

There were also other questions. Particularly interesting was why couldn’t he reach Dr. Quinn McCauley…anywhere?

• • •

Quinn and Katrina left Bovard without anything definitive. But the intersections of the past and the present came closer together: a Russian cave and their own discovery in Montana; the priest’s account from more than 225 years ago; and Senghenydd and other mysteries the explorer couldn’t explain. All
part of a something
rather than the
something
itself.

McCauley struggled with another troubling thought. He wasn’t able to reach Pete DeMeo on his phone.

“He probably hasn’t gotten out of bed,” Katrina said suggestively.

McCauley, too concerned, didn’t laugh.

Sixty-nine

ROME
THE NEXT MORNING

McCauley and Alpert’s flight touched down at
Fiumicino Aeroporto
, better known as Leonardo da Vinci International, sixteen miles southwest of Rome. Seconds after landing, McCauley telephoned Eccleston’s cell.

“
Pronto
.”

“Good morning. Is this Father Jareth Eccleston?”

“Yes,” said the groggy priest. His Welsh accent was evident.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“It’s okay,” the priest replied. “My stars, it’s almost noon.”

“I apologize. I can call back in a little while.”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Quinn McCauley, from Yale University. I’m a paleontologist. You spoke with my assistant the other day.”

“McCauley?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Dr. Quinn McCauley? Oh yes. You had some research questions apparently.”

“Yes. I’ve just arrived in Rome with my colleague, Dr. Katrina Alpert from Cambridge. Would you be available to meet this afternoon? I recognize it’s short notice, but…”

“It depends. Can you give me a better sense of the agenda?”

“I’d rather do that in person. Let’s just say that you were recommended based on your research and your willingness to think out of the box.”

“Out of the box, Dr. McCauley? Or between the lines in the Bible?”

“I don’t know how to answer that, Father Eccleston. All I know is that you might be very important to talk to. I think you’ll agree, it won’t be a waste of time.”

• • •

THREE HOURS LATER

Katrina re-examined a photograph of the priest on her cellphone. Now in the main Vatican library they looked for the same man, age fifty-five, who in the picture had a full beard and wore large tortoise-shell glasses.

After fifteen minutes, their anxiety abated. A larger-than-life character wearing the requisite garb, bounded into the Vatican Apostolic Library. He was, without a doubt, Father Jareth Eccleston, a man with an unmistakable quality and incredible vigor. The headshot on the Internet couldn’t have suggested his height. At six-foot-six he could very well stand closer to God than any other priest in the Vatican.

McCauley covered half the ground toward the priest. Katrina was right behind him.

“Father Eccleston?”

“Please, Jareth works fine.” His voice was as deep as his smile was wide. The priest’s Welsh accent glided from a high-to-low pitch, like a lilting folk song.

“Jareth it is. Quinn McCauley. So pleased to meet you. And this is Dr. Alpert.”

“Katrina,” she quickly corrected.

“Well, let me show you around a bit. This library is a feast for the eyes.”

Neither McCauley nor Alpert had been to the Vatican Apostolic Library before. It was a researcher’s mistake. Father Eccleston explained how the library was one of the oldest in all Europe, and for centuries, the largest. The shelves covered religion, secular history, politics, philosophy and science, and a collection of Bibles from around the world. “The library houses an immense collection of Greek and Latin classics plus compendia of maps and military history. Some were claimed in bloody conquests and
found
their way to the Vatican. Speaking of conquests, we also have Henry VIII’s love letters to Anne Boleyn. You know where that led!” He gave a hearty laugh. “Imagine such material being read under candlelight by, well, whomever might be into such
research.”

As they continued their walk through the venerable structure, the priest described the depth of the Renaissance collection and the thousands of volumes that chronicled the history of the Roman Catholic Church and Rome itself.

“Contrary to popular thought, it’s an issue-neutral facility. You’ll find books about the challenges the Church faced through the Protestant Reformation, the Catholic Counter-Reformation, and how the Vatican sided with or side-stepped dictators and despots. The resources go well beyond Catholicism. The Vatican Library is steeped in essays, letters, books and rare research covering Judaism, Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism, and likely every religion under the sun.

“This, of course, started as the pope’s library, dating back to the middle of the fifteenth century, established by Nicholas V. His goal was to create a public library for the court of Rome as well as clergy and laymen. It would be a work of art itself, rivaling St. Peter’s for attention,” the priest added. “Nicholas and his successors collected beautiful hand-written books and the earliest of print editions, displaying them in frescoed suites, lit by huge windows. But to protect them from theft, the church brought in some of its extra iron chains and locks, anchoring the most valuable editions to wooden benches. In my estimation, a much better use of the hardware than in its dreadful prisons in the bowels of the Vatican.”

McCauley and Alpert enjoyed Fr. Eccleston’s engaging delivery.

“By the mid-1400s,” Eccleston continued, “there were more than 3,500 volumes notated in the handwritten catalogue. Amazing for its time, even more incredible through the ages. The library soon became an obligatory destination for writers, theologians, philosophers and even scientists who visited Rome. I kind of cover both sides of the equation.”

“Is that difficult?” Katrina wondered.

“Not for me. Oh, sometimes I can bend a bishop’s nose out of joint. When that happens I hear about it. So far, nothing so great that it’s required serious thumping. Not like what my brethren experienced years ago.”

Eccleston stopped and thought. “Is this going to be one of those times, doctors?”

“Father Eccleston,” McCauley said aware that he was speaking completely formally, “is there a place we can talk quietly?”

“I’ve half expected you to ask. Certainly. But first we have to get you admitted.”

Eccleston took a few steps forward and spoke in Italian to the nearest librarian. Alpert followed as best she could. McCauley picked up a few words. It was all polite. The librarian made a call. Soon, a nun came through the door, marching toward them with the look of someone who was going to require serious convincing.

“Sister Cynthia Fernando,” Eccleston said softly. “We have a number of nicknames for her.”

“I can only imagine,” Katrina said noting the nun’s bulldog expression.

“Padre,” Sister Cynthia began. The rest was only understood by expression, at first troubled, then more so. Eccleston steered the gatekeeper away from them. From a few feet away they heard their formal names. “Dr. McCauley, Yale. Dr. Alpert, Cambridge.”

McCauley felt that Sister Cynthia would have made a great Inquisition jailor. It seems that’s how she saw her job.

Eccleston didn’t stop pitching. She listened. The worst thing he could do was pause and allow her time to curtly dismiss them.

The nun frowned, nodded
no
, and turned to McCauley and Alpert as if to evaluate their worthiness. They automatically straightened and looked as professional as possible. A suit would have helped McCauley, but he was still in an acceptable dark sports jacket. Fortunately, Katrina was wearing the proper length dress and covered up appropriately.

Another minute of selling and the nun finally nodded
yes
. Father Eccleston motioned for his guests to join him.

Sister Cynthia did not step aside. They had to walk around her.

“
Gracia
,” McCauley said.

“
Gracia, Sorella,”
Alpert added.

“Just walk quietly,” Fr. Eccleston recommended.

“What did you tell her?” Alpert asked.

“Later.”

The priest led them through the library to an open table. When he was certain they were out of earshot of anyone else, Eccleston answered Katrina’s question.