THE LAST ARK

CHAPTER 23: SACRIFICE

Chapel of the Tablets, Axum, Ethiopia Four Days Before Temple Ceremony

Nelson can’t keep his mind from pondering the words of the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu: there is no illusion greater than fear. Inside Nelson’s mind, the fear that he will die within this tunnel has become an overwhelming and paralyzing illusion. Several hours have passed since the last gunshot, followed by more shouting, and then, eventually, utter silence. Young Salem sacrifi ced his life to save an agnostic stranger on a dubious quest. Chest-constricting guilt over the death of such a spirited young man rips at Nelson’s soul before he returns to blaming Taylor. Unfortunately, the satellite signal on his glasses hasn’t worked underground. Th e vain hope that Salem would retrieve him has dissolved into terrifying despair. He will die trapped and forgotten. In the agonizing need for a diversion, Nelson explored the short tunnel between the two chapels with a fl ashlight from his smartphone until he remembered the high-powered halogen light in his backpack of goodies. Within the tunnel, two recently made ark replicas and one in progress sit alongside what appears to be a much older replica covered by an elaborately embroidered cloth. Partly deteriorated with gold leaf peeled away from the dark wood, the older ark doesn’t look at all like the Indiana Jones version of an ornately carved box of neoclassical angels glittering with gold. Each of the replicas bears a distinctly Egyptian style from the mildly tapered sides, thick carrying poles at the bottom, and etched geometric designs carved into the wood with low pharaonic-style wings over the lid. Nearly identical to the tapestries still hanging in the chapel. Nelson wonders if the Ethiopian military took the true ark or one of these replicas. If they stole a replica, could the oldest ark be the authentic Ethiopian ark, hidden here by the Guardian before his sacrifice? “Dear Lord, how many innocent lives have perished over the centuries to protect this man-made box?” While a part of his mind realizes on an abstract level that they died protecting what the box represents, he still can’t fathom the senseless loss of life. Nelson shuns those kinds of questions, perhaps in denial of his own ignorance of spiritual matters. To hold off his anxiety, Nelson did what he came to do: conduct a 3D scan of the ark from every side, choosing the oldest replica. He doesn’t know if the stolen ark was even real, but to the 750 people who gave their lives, it was authentic. Perhaps that alone makes it sacred. Either way, Nelson can’t help but question why a nonreligious government militia would m******e so many just to steal a relic they don’t even believe in. If the goal was cultural g******e, then the militia could have left the ark destroyed and photographed for the world to see. Instead, they stole it, hid it, and then covered up their theft. Not a random act of war, but an intentional, devastating blow to a thousand-year culture. Or was it something else? It only takes a few minutes for the truth to hit him. “Greed.” Nelson spits the word out as if it were a curse. Someone sold the ark on the black market, just as Salem had implied. Even if not the authentic ark, the ancient tradition behind the relic would make it extremely valuable to the right buyer. That raises the question of who. It had to be someone with substantial resources and a reason to own a holy relic from the Jewish people. If the true ark is still in the tunnel, then the government slaughtered hundreds of souls to auction off a replica. A fake. A con. “I can’t imagine why Taylor would need this scan, but I bloody well hope it was worth Salem’s life or my own,” Nelson grumbles aloud, growing tired of waiting. Not an adventurer like Taylor, Nelson is a scientist, raised as the only son of an aristocrat. He attended the most elite schools in England, writing his thesis on expert systems and neural networks. For Taylor to send him here on an obscure mission represents not only a waste of his genius but a severe risk to his very life. While Taylor can be cavalier with his own safety, his obsession with finding the SLVIA borders on the psychotic, an obsession now turned deadly. Salem was to provide Nelson with a safe passage into Asmara, Eritrea, roughly thirty miles to the north. Thirty bloody miles without an escort. Every attempt to raise WITNESS by satellite has failed. Or sometimes, WITNESS simply refuses to respond. With his scanner repacked, Nelson checks his watch for the tenth time this hour. It should be dark by now. Instead of the main chapel with the multiple layers of rugs and the heavy ebony wood stand, he goes to the temporary chapel with a stone slap flooring, and a lightweight stand that he had already dragged away. Nelson suspects they placed a stone slab over the tunnel entry in the temporary building because they would reuse that building later. A slab would more easily blend into the flooring. At the far end of the tunnel, Nelson finds steps that lead up to a square wood frame capped by a gray stone slab. An iron bolt holds the slab in place to prevent unauthorized entry from the temporary chapel. After he unlocks the bolt, he pushes up on the extremely heavy stone to no effect. On a second, grunting effort, the slab lifts a few inches, but not enough. Catching his breath, Nelson steps higher to use his back and shoulder. After a deep breath and a loud grunt, he lifts the slab enough to ease it over the edge. Taking a break to breathe, he listens carefully to the deathly silence of the night. With a final grunt, he lifts with a shoulder to slide the heavy slab to the side until he can squeeze out of the tunnel. Nelson waits to ensure no one rushes to investigate the sound of the slab scrapping. The night remains silent as death except for a distant barking dog. With another grunting effort, he pushes the slab back in place. Then he replaces the rug and the wood stand, unwilling to give away the tunnel location. The replicas must remain a secret that both the guardian and Salem died to protect. Peering outside the temporary chapel, the darkness swallows almost everything except a few exterior lights illuminating the now empty main church. Salem’s old truck remains parked on the dirt road behind the church. His eyes carefully scan the grounds but can see no evidence of the young man’s sacrifice or the army. Nelson leaps into a frantic sprint toward the truck, his heart pounding like a drum. Jumping inside, he ducks low, panting, fearful of bullets piercing the thin metal doors. None come and the silence returns except for the persistent distant canine. “Thank the heavens,” Nelson utters when he sees Salem left the key in the ignition. They only expected to be gone for a moment. Salem never expected the brief visit would end his life. Hands trembling from adrenaline, Nelson starts the engine and peels down the road before turning on his lights. Nelson taps on his glasses. “WITNESS, can you hear me,” he calls loudly, voice quivering, unsure if the device can find a satellite. Nothing. Then he remembers he had to power on the satellite relay in his bag. So used to being in a fully powered lab, he completely forgot that Zoey would keep the equipment off until needed. “Buggers,” he curses at himself, pulling over to the side of the road to fumble in the bag until he finds the relay and switches on the power. Nelson could have called for help hours ago. He taps again, and the WITNESS lens iris scan starts. “Hello, D-PA,” WITNESS answers. Nelson breaks into a huge smile at the familiar voice and yet hated moniker, a devious invention of the Jester that meant digital grandpa. “WITNESS, track my signal. Provide directions to the nearest border crossing to Asmara, Eritrea.” “Processing.” A moment later. “Downloading directions to your lens frames.” “Brilliant.” Taylor and Jester designed the frames, which Nelson did not appreciate the need for until this moment. “WITNESS, connect me to Taylor.” A moment later, a small image of Taylor appears in a corner box, and a thin voice fills his ear pod. “Hey, Doc, thrilled to hear from you. I was getting worried. Are you OK? Did you find the ark? Have you reached Asmara?” Taylor rattles off questions without waiting for answers. “I’m alive, which is more than I can say for your friend Salem,” responds Nelson, without an iota of Taylor’s glibness. T he line goes silent for several beats. “Oh no. I’m so sorry for Salem, and equally sorry you had to witness something so terrible.” Taylor’s voice suddenly saddened. “I’ll ask again, are you OK?” “I’ll repeat myself, I’m alive, which will do for the moment,” Nelson replies, silently resenting Taylor for sending him on this lethal errand over a meaningless relic scan. “Now, how do I get across the border?” he asks, hoping the answer won’t risk his life any further. “Offer them your fake NGO passport. If they give you any grief, offer an envelope of cash in the zip pocket of Zoey’s tool kit.” “Taylor, I’m deeply uncomfortable with blatant bribery,” Nelson complains. “Remember, ‘when in Rome,’” Taylor says. “There’s enough hard cash to ensure they let you through with no questions. Did you find the ark?” “I’m not sure if it was the ark you expected, but yes,” Nelson answers. “Good. Listen, there’s been a change in plans for your exit,” Taylor says. “Authorities tagged Zoey’s aircraft, so she must avoid Eritrea.” “What do you mean?” Nelson asks, suddenly more anxious. “Instead of the airport, find your way to the commercial seaport. Ask for a captain named Adri on a ship called Ramadan. I need you in Jerusalem as soon as possible.” “Why, what’s in Jerusalem?” Nelson asks. “I found the SLVIA.” “Are you sure?” he questions, a spark of excitement emerging amid the cloud of gloom. “Components hibernated on a university ancient languages server,” Taylor says. “Ironic that a linguistics espionage program should choose to hide in a linguistics lab.” T he news sounds promising, but Nelson’s excitement remains dampened by the grief of needless death and the dread of an upcoming border crossing. “I hope your flimsy corruption plan works,” he says. His hands still tremble from the shock of losing poor Salem. Taylor snorts. “Never underestimate the universal power of greed. Be careful and stay safe.” The transmission ends. Nelson huffs. “Stay safe, as if it were a choice.” As long as he’s not arrested or shot at the border, his next stop will be the Red Sea to meet another stranger. If Taylor truly found the SLVIA code, it would be nothing short of miraculous. Yet even the miraculous does not seem worth young Salem’s life—or his own. All of it for a replica already sold on the black market.