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CHAPTER 1
Hidden Mystery of the Ages
(1)
Two eyes squinted through powerful binoculars.
"Still clear," their owner whispered. The female voice, however, betrayed anxiety.
Silence.
Two hundred yards away, a tall man, athletic of build, dressed entirely in black to match his face, crept along a stone wall in the darkness. He surveilled the same building. Though not meant for him, through a tiny speaker in his ear he also heard the words just spoken. No movement or sound came through the shadowy night.
Inside the edifice at the center of their attention, a third figure moved noiselessly through a maze of stone corridors. Surrounded by an iron railing and high fences, this structure was the centerpiece of a complex and highly secretive venture. It sat in the midst of what appeared a military compound. The gray granite block exterior was of recent construction, square and uninspired design, and from the center of its roof rose a green copper dome.
Everything culminated on this night here in the village of Aksum in the northern Ethiopian highlands.
At grave risk to his life, the daring adventurer had gained entrance to the Sanctuary from the roof. His reputation had been built with pick and shovel, digging back into the antiquity of human history. This night's exploration, however, had been affected not by holes bored through rock but rather through skylights, ventilation systems, and an elevator shaft.
It was the most ambitious quest of his life. If he were successful in at last laying eyes on this prize, he would henceforth be known as no mere archaeologist but as the greatest antiquarian of all time.
Beside the towers of Aksum's famous church, St. Mary's of Zion, the stone repository in which he crept had been built only three and a half decades earlier as permanent home for the sought-after, mysterious, and powerful wonder of the ancient world.
The building whose security the daredevil had cracked was called the Sanctuary of the Ark. His research confirmed that within its thick walls rested the ark of the covenant of the Hebrews.
The sacred relic had been lost to history since its disappearance from the temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, sometime approximately nine hundred or a thousand years before Christ. On this night he hoped at last to uncover evidence to solve once and for all the mystery of its location.
If he or his lookouts were discovered, however, any monk of the church or citizen of the town would not hesitate to kill them. They protected these holy precincts against sacrilege with vigor.
Nor were they opposed to bringing bullets to aid in such duty.
(2)
The guardian monk, whose lifetime responsibility was to preside over the Sanctuary, awoke. It was the middle of the night.
He was the only human allowed in the Holy Place of the chapel where the ark was kept. In his solitary chamber a presence disturbed his slumber.
It took but seconds for him to gather his wits. He rose instantly and made his way across the floor. His bare feet made not a sound.
Deep within the granite complex the adventurer did not realize he was no longer alone. Even had he known, he would not have turned back.
He was too close!
Before him, in the center of the room, atop a waist-high table of carved stone, sat ... something ... an object ... a mysterious shape.
His tiny flashlight was hardly capable of illuminating the whole. Draped over with embroidered cloth, about it clung the heavy scent of incense. The covering appeared faded blue. White and purple designs were sewn into it. Tattered fringe bordered the bottom.
The uninvited guest to the sacred chamber shone the beam back and forth. As he walked forward, he thought of the passage from Numbers 4 he knew from memory: "When the camp is to move ... take down the shielding curtain and cover the ark of the Testimony with it. Then ... spread a cloth of solid blue over that...."
The rectangular shape in front of him appeared approximately three and a half feet from end to end, and a little over two feet high and deep. The cloth draped over its top, however, was raised higher toward both ends, as if covering two pointed protrusions.
Wings ... the shape of the angels' wings!
Heart beating wildly, he paused before the cloaked object, then stretched out his hand. Was he about to make known to the world the hidden mystery of the ages?
He took hold of one end of the fabric near its fringed edge. Just uncover it and snap a quick roll of photographs and the mystery would be solved!
Slowly he began to lift it up and back.
An inexplicable compulsion arrested his motion. The moral dilemma at the root of this enterprise, that he had broken into a church like a thief, suddenly entered the brain of his newly growing spiritual consciousness.
But he did not have leisure to consider the implications further.
(3)
Outside, the glare of two automobile headlamps lit the blackness of the streets about half a mile away.
The binoculars observing the silent building immediately turned toward the light and refocused.
"Scott ... Scott, do you see that?"
"No. Still clear down here," replied the lookout at the wall of St. Mary's. "What is it?"
"A car — coming this way."
"Speed?"
"Fast."
"I hear it. Adam," he said into the tiny microphone next to his mouth, "we may have company."
Again silence fell. The sound of the automobile's engine could be heard through the night.
"Adam, did you hear me?"
"I copy," returned a whispered voice.
"The car is moving this way," came the woman's voice again. "Adam, get out of there!"
"I can't. I've just about —"
"Juliet's right, Adam," interrupted the archaeologist's assistant. "We're not alone. There's another car speeding from the opposite direction now. Break it off!"
"I've got to at least get a pic —"
"Adam," cried Juliet, "please!"
"I have to move!" said Scott. "My position's compromised — gotta go!"
The screech of tires ended further communication. A powerful searchlight from one of the car's windows probed the adjacent street and walls. Scott fell to his stomach. The beam passed over him by inches.
"Adam ... hurry!" repeated Juliet as loud as she dared. Her own vantage point was safe. But she was terrified for the others. This was her first time out in the field with the team on a project she had been in on from the beginning. Now she wasn't sure she liked this new line of work!
"I heard," came back the voice in her ear. "I'm on my way!"
(4)
A second automobile raced to the scene and skidded to a stop.
Immediately it emptied of six Ethiopian soldiers. They fanned out around the grounds of St. Mary's and the Sanctuary, automatic rifles ready to fire first and make inquiries later.
Inside, the robed and bearded guardian entered the chapel, candle in hand. He glanced about. He saw and heard nothing. Everything seemed in order. The odd-shaped tabotat, nearly uncovered only seconds earlier, sat where it had rested unmoved since construction of the Sanctuary.
Far above in the upper portions of the building, the intruder whose presence had awakened guardian, soldiers, and perhaps the power of the ark itself, scrambled hastily through the same vent by which he had gained access. As carefully guarded as was official access to information concerning this place, security for the building itself was noticeably low-tech. Getting in and out had been, not exactly a piece of cake, but a relatively uncomplicated matter for one with the right contacts and know-how.
And one with daring to go along with sophisticated gadgetry.
Two minutes later he emerged onto the roof under the cover of night. He saw his danger well enough. Below him, Sanctuary and church swarmed with soldiers and monks. However they had been alerted, they had wasted no time getting here. Lights flashed about and panned corners, side streets, and alleyways.
Escape would require even more pluck than the flight in. The roof wasn't high enough to give much maneuverability. There was but a slight breeze. He would have to hit it just right. Or else crash straight down into the search party below!
"I hope you made it out of there, Scott!" he said to himself. "But I'm not waiting around to find out!"
No time to strap himself. He'd hang on to the aluminum bar for dear life. He might have to let go before he reached the ground anyway.
He hoisted to his shoulders the custom-made lightweight hang glider by which he had arrived onto the roof an hour earlier. If only he could get some distance away before one of those spotlights from below accidently panned upward through the sky!
He tested the direction of the wind one last time. He turned into the faint current, then sprinted toward the edge of the building.
With a downward dip, he glided away from the wall and into invisibility.
Shouts, running, and lights below remained focused in the two dimensions of earth's plane. As they scanned and probed doors and windows and fences and streets, none felt the sweep of a great black wing soar past them overhead.
(5)
Eight or nine hundred yards away, beyond several high fences and alongside a run-down row of dwellings whose occupants all slept, another automobile sat next to an empty town square, its lights turned off, its engine silent.
Beside the car stood a diminutive young woman. Her long blonde hair was conspicuously out of place in this region of the world. She had tucked it up under a canvas hat of the African safari type so as to attract no attention.
Nervously she glanced about for her companions.
She had seen and heard the activity in the distance. Something must have gone wrong.
Behind her, footsteps ran up.
"Scott!" she exclaimed, spinning around. "Am I glad to see you. What happened?"
"Don't know. All of a sudden Juliet saw lights. She barely had time to warn us. I just got away."
"Is Adam ...?"
"Don't know that either. I took off. I didn't have the luxury of his means of transport. I had fences to climb!"
"And Juliet?"
"She'll be fine. She was near enough the hotel to walk back without being caught in the commotion."
Both glanced about. They were thinking the same thing — how long should they wait before giving thought to their own safety? The soldiers would no doubt soon widen their search.
Jen Swaner, the blonde Swede, and Scott Jordan, the black American, continued to probe the night for the Englishman who was their leader. No sound could be heard other than an occasional shout from the direction of the church.
Two or three minutes passed.
A great winged rush swept overhead.
They spun around and looked up as Adam Livingstone's feet landed at a run several yards away. They hurried toward him with quiet exclamations and greetings.
"I don't believe you made it this far!" said Scott. "How did you do it?"
"I hit a little updraft as I sailed over those fellows' heads," said Adam, grinning. "Help me get this thing dismantled and folded up."
"Leave it. Let's get out of here."
"I invested too much in this design to scrap it. Besides," Adam added, "after what I saw in there, nothing's going to keep me from coming back! Drat, I wish I'd pulled the camera out sooner and hadn't wasted so much time! Jen, get the motor going."
Jen ran for the car and jumped behind the wheel.
Scott and Adam stuffed the collapsed glider into the trunk. The tall men squeezed into the tiny rented Toyota. Jen shifted the car into gear. As carefully as she dared, Swaner sped toward the hotel where Adam's team, not to mention his fiancée, Juliet Halsay, was booked.
This trio had been together on some daring escapades. But if they got through tonight in one piece and safely out of Aksum, this might prove their closest brush yet.
"Given the hornet's nest we aroused," said Adam as they approached the hotel a few minutes later along a side street, "I think we ought to retrieve Figg and Crystal immediately. Where's Juliet?"
"On her way back to the hotel."
"Good. We need to head south in both cars tonight. I have the feeling they'll be searching every accommodation for miles by morning. I'm not sure it would be healthy for us to hang around."
CHAPTER 2
Private Opportunities
(1)
The ambitious eyes staring at the microfiche photograph thought for a moment, then enlarged it for closer inspection.
At first glance the face was not especially stunning. Yet it possessed an intriguing expression. One that might be worth looking into further, and, if handled cleverly, just might provide one reporter a doorway into journalistic possibilities.
It would have to be handled skillfully. It couldn't seem crass. Something more than the typical interview or story. A fresh angle.
Get the public interested in the girl.
A follow-up or two. Lots of pictures. Let interest build of itself. It was certainly worth a try to help jump-start a career that was at present going no place.
And there was the helpful element of sadness to go with the subtle enchantment of mouth and eyes ... the fatal bombing that had taken the lives of half her family. Sympathy always helped. And, with the business of Scotland Yard's subsequent investigation, the merest suggestion of mystery. The sad face brought a slight bite of conscience. But there was no time for that. This was the news business.
Plus the American private investigator snooping about, ingratiating himself into the household, making a nuisance of himself with the Yard's detectives. What was a retired, overweight PI doing in London anyway? All in all, this little entourage surrounding Adam Livingstone had lots of interesting angles.
This might prove the journalistic coup of a lifetime.
(2)
Five hours west, in the small town of Peterborough, New Hampshire, the sun was rising.
Rocky McCondy, former policeman and widower, and current private investigator, groggily closed his massive fist around the impertinent alarm clock on his nightstand as if he would crush it to powder. His goal, however, was merely to squeeze the lever back to the off position and silence the thing. After some fumbling the objective was achieved. He lay back onto his pillow and exhaled.
McCondy had a long day ahead of him.
He would not quite be able to enjoy his full morning routine — an icy shower, several strong cups of Starbucks, and a leisurely perusal of the morning's Boston Globe. The dousing of cold water would not take long. That morning ablution he performed wherever he happened to be. But the paper would not arrive on his porch today. He had cancelled delivery indefinitely. And the Yukon Blend he would drink on the road.
He would be on his way to New York within the hour. He had an afternoon flight to Yerevan, Armenia, just across Turkey's northeastern border. Two packed suitcases sat by the front door in readiness.
He was not a man prone to exaggeration. Realism and practicality had made him a good investigator, a second career he had practiced since leaving Boston's police force. The last two years had been the most exciting, working with, and at present for, English archaeologist Adam Livingstone. But Rocky McCondy knew well enough that he was bound on this day toward nothing short of making history. If they actually pulled Adam's crazy, harebrained scheme off, everyone connected with the project, including him, could well be famous before summer was out.
But he wasn't in it for that, but because it was an adventure. One of the greatest adventures of his life.
After a minute or two the big man swung his feet around, climbed out of bed, and headed for the bathroom. He found himself sustained by the aroma coming from his automatic coffeemaker, took another deep lungful of the morning, and continued toward his daily wake-up appointment under the cold showerhead.
Six minutes later, dressed and shaved, though with his rumpled graying hair no more combed than it was on any other morning, he made his way into the kitchen. There he poured himself a tall mug of the steaming black invigorating brew and probed its edges.
Fifty minutes later Rocky locked his two-story house and was on his way.
He made a brief stop for a final good-bye and word of prayer with Pastor Mark Stafford and his wife, Laurene, then headed west to Keene toward I-91.
(3)
The English reporter rose from the computer screen. It was time to do more research into this Livingstone group. A door, an opening, was always necessary to get the inside scoop, the story behind the story ... the real goods.
"Hey, Prentiss — what do you have on that fellow Livingstone and his organization?"
"The archaeologist?"
"Right."
"I didn't know he had an organization."
"I mean his staff, his family, his research team."
"Ah, right — yeah, we've a pretty decent file. I'll put something together."
"Photos, too — I want lots of photos."
"Can do. What do you want it for, Shayne?"
"Just a little background research."
"Check with Glendenning. He did double duty out at Sevenoaks back during the Noah's ark flap. Got some decent stuff."
"Does he know Livingstone?"
"I think they're on good terms. What has Livingstone got going these days? All that wandering around in Africa last year with nothing to show for it. Then the Turks pulling his plug on Ararat three months ago — not much of a story there."
"I wouldn't be so sure. I've heard there are new developments on that front."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Hidden in Time"
by .
Copyright © 2000 Michael Phillips.
Excerpted by permission of RosettaBooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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