The Genesis Plague - Michael Byrnes [36]
The monk remained silent as he led Hazo through the modern corridors of the main building and out a rear door that fed into a spacious courtyard boxed in by two storeys of arcades.
The humble stone building they entered next was much, much older. They passed through a barrel vaulted corridor, redolent with incense and age, into an ancient stone nave with Arabian design elements - pointed archways, spiral columns, mosaic tile work.
The original monastery.
Hazo noticed that the inscriptions glazed into its intricate friezes and mosaics were not Arabic; they were from a language that the world outside these walls considered dead - Aramaic. There were plenty of carved rosettes adorning the archways too.
The monk ducked beneath a low archway and continued to a staircase that cut deep beneath the nave. Here Hazo noticed that the stone blocks had given way to hewn, chisel-marred stone worn smooth by passing centuries. To one side, electrical conduit had been installed along the wall to run power to sconces that lit the passage. The subterranean atmosphere was disorienting. It seemed as if the monk was leading him into the mountain itself.
Hazo’s anxiety eased when up ahead he saw bright light coming out from a formidable glass doorway fitted with steel bars.
The monk stopped at the door and entered a code on the handle’s integrated keypad. A lock snapped open. He turned the handle, pushed the door inward, and held it as Hazo stepped into a small empty foyer. The air immediately became warmer, dryer. Hazo could hear a filtration system humming overhead.
Without a word the monk shut the first door and made his way to a second door that was nothing but metal and rivets. Another code was entered and he led Hazo into a vast, window-less space divided into neat aisles by sturdy floor-to-ceiling cabinets. The air was sterile and dry. Trailing the monk past the long study tables that lined the room’s centre, he glimpsed countless spines of the ancient manuscripts lined neatly behind glass panels.
Deep in the library, they found the elderly monsignor. Wearing a black robe and hood, he was stooped over a drafting table equipped with a gooseneck LED lamp, sweeping a saucer-sized magnifying loupe horizontally across the open pages of a thick codex.
Well before they reached him, the monk turned to Hazo and motioned for him to go no further. ‘A moment, please.’
‘Of course,’ Hazo replied.
The monk quietly circled the table and bent to whisper in the monsignor’s ear. The monsignor inclined his head so that his suspicious eyes shifted over his bifocals to appraise Hazo. He dismissed the monk with a curt nod. Then he summoned Hazo with a hand gesture.
Hands crossed behind his back, Hazo approached the table and bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, Monsignor Ibrahim. I was asked to—’
‘Let me see your pictures,’ the dour monk demanded. He held out his hand, the severely arthritic fingers quivering.
Clearly the man disliked formalities, thought Hazo, as he handed Monsignor Ibrahim the photos.
The moment the monsignor laid eyes on the first picture, Hazo noticed the creases in his brow deepen.
The monsignor cleared his throat then said, ‘Where did you find these?’
‘A cave … to the east, in the Zagros Mountains. Those images were carved into a wall. There was writing too and—’
The monsignor’s hand went up to stop him. ‘I suppose you want to know who this is?’ he said, almost as an accusation. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, yes.’
The monsignor stood from the table. He eyed Hazo’s crucifix again. ‘As you wish. Come. I will show you.’ He rounded the table and set off down the aisle.
19
BOSTON
The Concorde’s frigid engine turned over with a grinding cough. The interior was so cold that Thomas Flaherty’s breath crystallized the instant it came into contact with the windshield. He clicked on the defrosters, blew into his hands a couple times, then grabbed his trusty scraper off the floor.
Hopping out, he cursed the Boston winter a few more times while he swept snow and wet ice off the windows. It took him another three gruelling minutes