The Illumination (16 page)

“Do you want to find out why your sister was killed?”

She was struck for a moment by the glint of steel in his eyes as he studied her evenly.

“There has to be another way,” Natalie insisted. “One that doesn't include mutilating history.”

“Fine. So tell me where we go from here.” D'Amato rubbed his shoulder. “It'll be dawn in a couple of hours and we need a plan of action.”

Natalie spoke without hesitation. “Whoever placed something inside this pendant chose an eye symbol to protect it. That indicates that what's in here was important. Whoever concealed it used the most powerful symbol of his time, a symbol that instilled fear and awe in his contemporaries. A symbol Mesopotamians would be terrified of breaching.”

“So the eye symbol alone would scare off thieves, grave robbers, and such,” D'Amato mused.

“Absolutely.” Natalie was emphatic. “The ancient peoples of the Middle East believed eyes were windows to the heart. That whatever someone felt in their heart was projected through their eyes onto everything they looked at—people, property, children, animals, crops. They were convinced that eyes projected light from the heart—be it good light or bad light—to bless or curse the object of one's gaze.”

“I get it. The old hairy eyeball.” D'Amato folded his arms across his chest. “So even without knowing the pendant's contents, they wouldn't take a chance on unleashing an evil curse.”

“Exactly.” Ashton began collecting the printouts. “Even though the odds were fifty-fifty, they'd fear the worst.”

D'Amato shoved his hands into his pockets. “What was so precious three thousand years ago—and yet small enough to fit inside that pendant?”

“That's the bazillion-dollar question.” Natalie worried her lip between her teeth. “The inscription inside the pouch might be our best clue.” She turned to her mentor. “Do you know anyone here in Rome who's an expert in Aramaic or ancient Semitic languages?”

“Offhand . . .” Ashton shook his head. “. . . I'm afraid I don't. I could make some inquiries in the morning. Perhaps someone in the Vatican Museums could be of help.”

Natalie hesitated. “Without going to the Vatican—might there be anyone here in the Accademia who could read this tomorrow?”

“It's possible, but I'm beginning to think your next course of action should be consulting the authorities. It seems to me it's time to let them sort this out.”

Dead silence met his words.

He gestured for her to have a seat. “We've just ascertained that this is a priceless antiquity, regardless of what's inside,” he told her calmly, as she lowered herself onto a stool. “Now we have an obligation to go through the proper channels, follow the accustomed procedures, and return this to its rightful owner, if possible.”

“I realize that, Geoffrey, but this is more complicated than the discovery of a priceless object in the field.”

“Precisely my point. People are trying to kill you, Natalie! Both of you,” he added, nodding toward D'Amato. “I think you're much safer turning it over to law enforcement. Here's what I suggest. Permit me to call Colonel Lorenzo of the Vigilanza—the Vatican police—to transport it there for further study at their Museum of Pagan Antiquities—”

“No, Geoffrey.” She jumped off the stool and moved toward him, wondering how to make him understand how torn she was. She knew too well her professional obligations. But she also understood what D'Amato had told her in the car. This was personal now. “The men who killed my sister will come after me whether I turn this over or not.”

“But, my dear, if you don't have it—”

“The FBI agent didn't have it, and they killed him anyway,” D'Amato interjected, walking over to stand beside Natalie.

“Besides, Geoffrey, if I do turn this over to the Vatican, we might never learn its secrets. You know the tremendous hoard of antiquities in their possession. Who's to say they won't keep this pendant also—studying it themselves while hiding it away indefinitely? Perhaps forever.”

Ashton frowned. He seemed to be clinging to his patience. Natalie had seen him nearly lose his temper in Florence when one of the museum directors had contradicted him on a minor point during the press conference preceding the opening. His serene composure had cracked for an instant before he'd pulled himself back from the brink of an outburst, and he seemed to be exercising a similar restraint now.

“Very well, then, Natalie.” Ashton's tone held a chill she hadn't heard before. “Is there someone you
would
permit me to call? The National Museum of Oriental Art, perhaps? They have an extensive collection of Middle Eastern artifacts—”

“I'm not ready to turn it over to anyone, Geoffrey. Regardless of professional obligations.” She drew herself up straighter, forcing herself to meet the disapproval in his eyes. “I have an even more important obligation—to my sister. Dana died because of this pendant, and I owe it to her—and to myself—to find out why.”

D'Amato strode over to the scale and scooped up the pendant. He slid it into its pouch, then handed it to Natalie.

“Appreciate your time, Professor. Especially on such short notice.” He headed toward the door.

“You're leaving?” Ashton stared as Natalie tucked the pouch into her shoulder bag, gathered up her copies of their findings, and followed D'Amato toward the door of the lab.

“It's after four in the morning, Geoffrey,” she said over her shoulder. “We should let you get some sleep.”

He took a quick step forward, his face flushing. “I've upset you.”

“No.” She turned and managed a wan smile. “I truly appreciate everything you've done tonight. But if you'll just forget we dropped in on you in the middle of the night, that would be the biggest favor of all.”

“Well . . . of course, my dear.” He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, but his tone was stiff. “If you feel that strongly about it.”

He led the way back upstairs, past his office, where the lights still blazed, and into the corridor where they'd first entered. There was no sign of the roving night guard, and, for a moment, all three stood at the exit in an uncomfortable silence.

“What will you do now?” Ashton asked at last, studying his protégé with unreadable eyes.

“We'll figure it out.” Natalie leaned forward and kissed him somberly on both cheeks. “Don't worry. I'll be in touch.”

He shook the solid hand D'Amato extended, then watched as the two made their way down the pathway to the parking lot. Slowly, he retraced his steps to the lab, gathered up all of his drawings, measurements, and notes, and carried them back to his office.

He slid them into a hanging file folder and slipped it onto the rungs in his credenza drawer, and then sat back, replaying the events of this strange night. Natalie's truculence had taken him by surprise. He could not approve of her insistence on deviating from protocol. Especially since she'd come to him for help and advice. By morning, perhaps, she'd be thinking more clearly. He could only hope he'd gotten through to her.

Picking up his pen, he twiddled it thoughtfully before scratching out a note and centering it on his desk.

Ring up Colonel Lorenzo
—mezzogiorno.

Noon. It was the maximum his conscience would allow. He told himself it was for Natalie's own good. She had until noon to reconsider her ill-chosen path.

 

Washington, D.C.

 

Owen Garrett was sitting at his desk, wearing his coat and a frown of concentration as his secretary ushered Jeff Wexler into the Oval Office. The President didn't look up from the notes he was scribbling. Wexler shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to hang back near the door or to approach the desk. He decided to stay put, his arm tight around a leather portfolio bulging with hard copies of data the president had requested.

It was unusual for the President of the United States to summon NASA's administrator to the White House, and Wexler and his staff had been given less than three hours to prepare the presentation. No administrator in recent memory had been asked to brief the President personally, although such meetings had been common in the Kennedy White House. Even more unusual than this summons was the subject matter about to be addressed: photovoltaic energy conversion—the direct conversion of light to electricity. Used to power everything from calculators to power grids, PV technology had been in ongoing development worldwide since the 1950s.

The U.S. space program's initial use of solar power was on its fourth artificial satellite, Vanguard I, in 1958. While NASA had advanced the technology during the space missions of the sixties and seventies, and today used photovoltaic energy on the International Space Station and the Hubble telescope, developing PV as a renewable energy source was chiefly the domain of the Department of Energy, whose Solar America Initiative aimed to provide the United States with readily available, cost-competitive, and efficient solar power by 2015.

That's going to be a challenge,
Wexler thought, stifling the urge to clear his throat. Though advances in PV technology had been accelerating globally in the past decade, PV conversion still had its limitations. In space, PV could only power spacecraft traveling no greater distance from the sun than Mars. On Earth, solar cells or panels could only capture and convert the sun's rays during daylight hours, and the output of that energy could differ based on the composition and size of those solar cells or panels.

There was a lot of work yet to do, and Germany, Japan, Australia, the EU, and dozens of other countries were all racing to produce the most efficient and productive PV installations.

Wexler started at a sudden rap on the door behind him and turned as Dan Roderick, the tall, square-shouldered Secretary of Energy, stepped into the room. With a nod of greeting, Wexler held out his hand, and the older man shook it with a crushing grip.

“Take a seat, both of you.” The President spoke at last, capping his pen and finally looking up. “Gentlemen, I have plans for our great nation, and for the two of you. NASA and DOE personnel are going to be spending a lot of time together in the next few months and working very closely on a matter of vital importance. Everyone involved will need top security clearance.”

Both men straightened.

“What would you say if I told you that quite soon we expect to acquire a source of unlimited and incredibly powerful energy?” Garrett continued. “I'm talking about a source of energy purportedly seventy times more intense than sunlight.”

He leaned back in his chair and watched their expressions change from interest to incredulity, then hit them with Firefly's most significant attribute. “And,” he continued, “unlike the sun, this source of energy is totally accessible, twenty-four/seven.”

Roderick braced his hands on the arms of his chair. “With all due respect, Mr. President, today isn't April first,” he said with an uneasy laugh.

Owen Garrett looked over at the silent NASA chief. “And you, Mr. Wexler? Do you think this is an April Fool's joke, too?”

“No sir, but, frankly, I'd be mighty skeptical such an entity exists. Forgive me, but I'm fairly familiar with most bodies in our solar system, and I can't think of a single one with those characteristics.”

“Well, think again,” Garrett said. “I want your best minds working on this in tandem with NASA and DOE, sharing all research and information. Your people need to develop techniques
to harness this energy source, both for exploration beyond the limits of Mars and for ending our dependence on all fossil fuels. Project Firefly supersedes the Solar America initiative's target date of 2015—I'm charging you with meeting our PV energy goals within the next eight months.”

“Sir, we haven't even perfected the conversion of sunlight to electricity.” Wexler hefted his briefcase, bulging with files. “And none of the materials we've used to convert solar rays thus far has proved ideal—”

“—either used singly, or in tandem,” Roderick finished. “Mr. President, we have no idea how this power source you're talking about will react with currently available conversion materials. We'll need time—certainly more than eight months—”

“You damn well ought to be able to do it in six.” There was an uncharacteristic rumble of annoyance in Garrett's voice as he leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desk.

Stunned, Wexler groped for words, as Dan Roderick sucked in his breath.

Garrett looks as sane as ever,
Wexler thought.
Solid, smart, sanguine. But he's talking fairy tales.

“No, gentlemen, I'm not crazy.” The President glared at them. “The United States is about to acquire a remnant of the same primordial light that created the entire universe. A tiny piece of the Big Bang. The whole world is after Firefly, and we're about to make it ours.” Garrett rose from his chair, and both men also stood up.

“So the 2015 initiative—” Roderick began, his ruddy cheeks flushed brighter than usual.

“Irrelevant,” Garrett snapped. “This project is top priority. You two are in charge of putting Firefly to work powering our PV arrays and grids. In the very near future, we won't need a drop of Middle Eastern oil—and we'll be equipped to explore galaxies so distant, Hubble can't even detect them yet.”

Wexler found his voice. “Funding—”

Garrett held up a hand. “Whatever you need. Show them a PV power grid that can light up the entire country, and I guarantee
Congress will hand you a blank check.” Garrett's smile was slow and deliberate. “Gentlemen, the United States of America is about to write an entirely new Declaration of Independence.”

 

 

“Next step?” D'Amato asked, as he shifted the rental car into reverse and backed the Renault out of the parking space.