02 The Secret on Ararat (5 page)

Of course. Talon. So Foreman wouldn’t have to brush
up on his downhill skills after all. Barrington felt a chill go through his entire body, and he quickened his step to the elevator doors. He was sure he could feel those predator’s eyes on his back all the way.

As soon as the steel doors had closed behind him, soft lighting illuminated the faces of the six men and one woman seated around the table. As one, they turned to the man in the corner, whose features were still obscured by shadow yet seemed to emanate a controlled ferocity.

“Welcome, Talon. I trust Mr. Foreman presented no problems?”

Talon sneered. “Swatting a bug would present more …
problems.”
He turned to the man occupying the central chair. “So we’re now trying the diplomatic approach with Murphy.” He spat out the last word as if getting rid of something distasteful. “You’re sure you don’t want something more direct? Since I seem to be swatting bugs, I could easily squash this one for you too.”

“Easy, Talon,” the leader of the Seven soothed. “I know you and Murphy have unfinished business. And the time to conclude that business may not be far off. You recall our informer inside the Parchments of Freedom Foundation provided some intriguing information about a newly discovered and very valuable artifact? I’m beginning to think it may be more valuable than even they know. It could be vital to the unveiling of Babylon’s dark power. And now, today, we hear from our agents in the CIA that there is something very secret going on in Turkey. I wonder if these two things are connected? What do you think, Talon?”

Talon knew he was being manipulated, skillfully
deflected from his natural murderous impulses. But the Seven paid well, and he knew they would want him to bloody his hands again before too long.

“I guess I’d better see if I can find out,” he said, rising to go. He walked to the elevator with the fluid stride of a beast of prey, then turned and grinned. “Who knows, perhaps my friend Murphy is involved. Perhaps we are fated to meet again. And this time, I think, only one of us will walk away.”

SIX

“IT MUST BE SOMETHING pretty important for an FBI agent to come and talk to me in person,” Murphy said warily. “Something you didn’t want to talk about on the phone. Let me guess—you’ve uncovered a plot to overthrow the government, and you think it’s all being planned from our little church.”

Baines frowned. “Look, Professor Murphy. I’m willing to admit the bureau made some mistakes during the investigation of the bombing.” He saw Murphy raise his eyebrows. “Okay, some
big
mistakes.”

“And you’ve come to apologize on behalf of the FBI? After all this time? How nice,” Murphy said.

Baines stopped and put his hands on his hips. They were walking on the path at the edge of the campus, where the woods began to climb up a gentle hill, and the tension between them seemed out of place in such a tranquil setting. Murphy faced him and crossed his arms.

“Professor Murphy, if there was anything I could do to make up for the pain the bureau caused you and your wife, I would. And if you want an apology from me, you got it.”

“But that’s not why you wanted to see me,” Murphy said.

“No. There’s something else I need to talk to you about. Not bureau business at all. Look,” he said, indicating the place under his jacket where a shoulder holster would normally be. “I’m not even wearing a gun.”

“So this is personal?”

“That’s right.” Baines looked down at the ground. He was tall, a couple inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a rangy physique, but at that moment he looked weighed down with cares. Murphy decided to take pity on him.

“Okay, Agent Baines. Bob Wagoner told me you had some family problems you wanted to discuss. I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time. I’m not proud of it, but I still feel a lot of bitterness about what happened. Not that it was your fault. I’m taking it out on the wrong guy.”

“That’s okay,” Baines replied, visibly relaxing. “If I was in your shoes, I’d still be churned up about a lot of things.”

“So why did you want to see me?” Murphy asked.

“That’s kind of the point,” Baines explained. “The way you dealt with all that stuff. The false accusations, when the FBI thought members of the congregation had been involved in blowing up the church, and then … what happened to your wife. However much pain was thrown at you, you seemed to have an inner stability. Something was keeping you going, stopping you from
giving in to total despair like a lot of people would have in that situation.”

“Faith,” said Murphy simply. “When everything in your life goes wrong, that’s all you’ve got. But it’s all you need.”

“Right,” said Baines, nodding. “Like I say, I was impressed. So when things started to go wrong in my life, you were the person I thought of.”

Murphy’s initial antagonism had completely evaporated now. Baines seemed sincere and was clearly willing to bare his soul. That kind of humility from a federal agent was rare enough to deserve his full attention.

“Come on,” said Murphy. “Let’s keep walking, since it’s such a beautiful morning. And you can tell me what the problem is. If I can help you, I will.”

“Thanks,” said Baines. “You don’t know how much I appreciate it. I’ve been going crazy these past months, and I just didn’t know where to turn.”

They walked on in silence for a couple minutes while Baines gathered his thoughts.

“My wife and daughter have been going to Preston Community Church for a while,” he began. “It was my wife’s idea. She thought it would be good for Tiffany, and since nothing else seems to get through to her, I thought, why not give it a try?”

“So Tiffany’s the problem?”

Baines nodded wearily. “I’ll say. The last straw was when she got arrested with some of her friends. They were riding in a car, drinking beer and tossing the empty cans at people on the sidewalk. For someone like me, who spends his time trying to catch criminals, trying to keep the streets safe for people like Tiffany and
her friends, it’s tough to deal with. And like I say, that was just the last on a long list of stuff—all sorts of misbehavior.”

Murphy looked thoughtful. “So when did all this start? When did you first think there was a problem?”

“It sounds kind of trivial,” Baines said. “But it started with her room. She wouldn’t clean up, it was always such a mess. And if my wife, Jennifer, took her to task about it, Tiffany would curse her out. Overnight she seemed to become a different person—loud, excitable, argumentative, always changing her mind, never following through with anything, and angry all the time—almost like she was possessed, like that girl in
The Exorcist.”

Murphy laughed and patted Baines on the shoulder. “I’m not a priest, I’m afraid, so I can’t help you with casting out demons. But I very much doubt things have reached that stage. It sounds like you’ve just got a somewhat strong-willed daughter on your hands.”

“Then how come I can’t get through to her? Why does everything we do just make things worse?”

“Let me ask you a question,” Murphy said. “Does your daughter do anything right?”

He could tell the question knocked Baines back a little.

“Well, yeah, sure. I mean, she’s creative, she does well in art at school. And she gets good grades in English. When she can be bothered to finish her assignments,” he added.

“And what about you?” Murphy asked. “Are you the creative type?”

Baines looked a little confused. This was supposed to be about Tiffany, not him. “No way. Why do you think I
ended up an FBI agent? I like to deal with facts, logic. Everything in its right place. Details. Structure. Artistic people seem so messy and undisciplined to me. And they let their emotions take over. I like to stay calm, be in control of myself.”

Murphy laughed. “Well, Hank, I think you just told me why you and Tiffany aren’t getting along. You’re just two totally different personality types, is all. She’s spontaneous and creative, lets her emotions run free. You’re logical and controlled. And I imagine you’re a perfectionist too. Only the best is good enough. You two are bound to rub each other the wrong way.”

Baines rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So what should I do? Is there some self-help book that’s going to tell me how to act around my daughter?”

Murphy smiled. “There’s only one book that’s guaranteed to help—whatever the problem. And that’s the Bible.”

“The Bible has stuff about parenting?”

“Sure. In the Book of Colossians, Chapter Three, it says,
Fathers, don’t aggravate your children. If you do they will become discouraged and quit trying
. Do you think Tiffany has quit trying?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“And was your father a perfectionist? Was he critical of you, nagging all the time?”

“As a matter of fact he was,” Baines admitted.

“Well, you were able to respond to your father’s perfectionism by becoming a perfectionist yourself, by beating him at his own game, I’m guessing. For Tiffany—because she’s got a different personality—it’s not so easy. Maybe she gets discouraged because your
standards are so high. When was the last time you encouraged her, told her she was doing great, that you liked her art or whatever?”

Baines looked crestfallen. “I don’t remember. Not for a while.” He turned to Murphy. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Professor Murphy.”

“Please, call me Michael. And don’t hesitate to give me a call if you want to discuss anything we talked about. Look, my assistant, Shari Nelson, she’s great at reaching out to teenagers with problems. She’s had her share and she’s wise beyond her years. Pastor Bob suggested she might introduce herself to Tiffany and your wife next time they attend church.”

“That would be great.” Baines nodded.

“And meanwhile, why not pick up the Bible and see what else you can find in it that’s relevant to your life? It’s never too late to start reading the Good Book. Start with the Book of Colossians.”

Baines shook Murphy’s hand, his spirits lifted. “I will,” he said. “Thank you. Look, I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. You’ve got classes to teach, artifacts to dig up, no doubt.”

“Actually, I do,” Murphy said. “But I’m always happy to help out if I can. You’ve got my number.”

He watched Baines walk toward the parking lot, feeling his own spirits lift. Nothing like focusing on someone else’s problems to get your own in perspective, he thought.

He didn’t hear the soft clicking of a camera from behind the trees. He had no idea a pair of dark, feral eyes were watching him.

SEVEN

IT WAS TEN MINUTES TO NINE and the Memorial Lecture Hall was beginning to fill up. Which for a Monday morning was a somewhat unusual occurrence. Preston University students tended to play hard on weekends and sleep late the next day. Hence the first lecture of the week was known among the teaching faculty as the graveyard shift. Depressing if you wanted an audience that was going to eagerly soak up your words of wisdom. A relief if you were a little tired yourself and were glad the class wasn’t too alert.

But this lecture was being given by Michael Murphy, and somehow the word had gotten out over the weekend that he wasn’t going to be speaking on the designated topic: How to map out an archaeological site.

He was going to be talking about Noah’s Ark.

As the rows continued to fill up, some of the students
laughed and joked together. But most were earnestly discussing the likely content of Murphy’s lecture.

Wasn’t Noah’s Ark just a story from the Bible? Did it really exist?

One thing was sure: Whatever Professor Murphy had to say about it would likely change the way they thought about it.

Shari Nelson had arrived early to set up the PowerPoint projector for her boss. But she was as anxious as the rest to hear what he was going to say.

Paul Wallach was in the front row, wearing his typical pressed slacks and sports shirt. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, as if he had just been to the barber, and he was wearing one shiny loafer. His left foot was still in a walking cast, the explosion at the Preston Community Church having severely damaged his leg and foot. Finishing up with the projector, Shari left the stage and came to sit next to him.

She hadn’t tied her hair back as she usually did. It was hanging long, its jet-black luster contrasting with the shining silver crucifix at her throat. The way her sparkling green eyes seemed riveted to him as he spoke, it was easy to see that she cared for him deeply. It was as if she was trying with all her being to bridge a chasm between them.

Then, at exactly nine o’clock, Murphy strode into the hall and the chattering ceased almost instantly. His magnetic presence was such that he never had to raise his voice or ask for quiet.

Murphy walked to the desk in the center of the room and placed his lecture materials down. He looked up at
the silent crowd, quickly checking to see who was there, and launched straight into the lecture.

“Noah’s Ark: Is it a fact, or is it a fable?”

For the next ten minutes Murphy talked about the Flood story and about Noah building the ark, quoting the Book of Genesis from memory and ending with the rainbow.

“The rainbow in the sky was God’s promise to Noah that He would never again destroy the world by flood waters.”

Murphy then clicked on the PowerPoint projector.

“As you can see from the following slides, there are many historians and scholars who, down through the millennia, have mentioned the ark as an actual stucture, and even talked of Noah. Keep in mind, these are all documented, non-biblical sources. So even without the Bible, there are plenty of pieces of recorded evidence in the historical record to conclude that a global flood did indeed occur on our planet more than five thousand years ago.”

The Samaritan Pentateuch
—5th century
B.C.

Talks about the landing place of the ark.

Targums
—5th century
B.C.

Talks about location of the ark.

Berossus
—275
B.C.

A Chaldean priest: “It is said, more-over, that a portion of the vessel still
survives in Armenia … and that persons carry off pieces of the bitumen, which they use as talismans.”

Nicholas of Damascus
—30
B.C.

“Relics of the timbers were long preserved.”

Josephus
—
A.D.
75

“Remains which to this day are shown to those who are curious to see them.”

Theophilus of Antioch
—
A.D.
180

“And of the ark, the remains are to this day seen in the Arabian mountain.”

Eusebius
—
A.D.
3rd century

“A small part of the ark still remained in the Gordian Mountains.”

Epiphanius
—
A.D.
4th century

“The remains are still shown and if one looks diligently he can still find the altar of Noah.”

Isidore of Seville
—
A.D.
6th century

“So even to this day wood remains of it are to be seen.”

Al Masudi
—
A.D.
10th century

“The place can still be seen.”

Ibn Haukal
—
A.D.
10th century

“Noah built a village there at the foot of the mountain.”

Benjamin of Tudela
—
A.D.
12th century

“Omar Ben Ac Khatab removed parts of the ark from the summit and made a mosque of it.”

Murphy let the words on the screen speak for themselves. The class seemed stunned that what they had thought of as a Bible story was so well documented in other sources. Murphy turned off the projector.

“Any questions so far?”

One hand went up. It was right in front of Murphy and belonged to Paul Wallach. Paul had originally come to Preston to take a business-studies course, but partly under Shari’s influence, he had become an enthusiastic archaeology student.

“I noticed on your slides, Professor Murphy, that several different mountain ranges were mentioned. There were the Gordian Mountains, the Arabian Mountains, and the Mountains of Armenia. Doesn’t
that prove that the information was made up and no one really knows?”

There was more than a touch of hostility and challenge in Paul’s question, and Shari was now looking at Paul with annoyance.

Murphy smiled, as he usually did, even when challenged in front of others. You could have heard a pin drop in the silent lecture theater as the audience waited for his response.

“That’s a good question, Paul. Thank you for drawing that to our attention. Present-day Armenia is just a few miles from Mount Ararat. Turkey is located in the continent of Asia, and this part of the world is often referred to as an Arabian area. With regard to calling it the Gordian Mountains, you have to remember that these writers each came from different areas and wrote in different time periods. The names of places change over time. Istanbul, Turkey, was once called Constantinople. Mount Ararat is also known as Agri Daugh, which means
painful mountain
. Most scholars believe that the writers were all referring to the same general area, calling it by the only names they knew at the time.”

Paul looked a little disappointed, as if the question had been designed purely to needle Murphy and it hadn’t worked.

Another hand went up in the back. It was Clayton Anderson, the class clown.

“Professor Murphy? What did Noah say to his sons while all the animals were entering the ark?”

Murphy could tell he was being set up.

“I give up, Clayton. What did he say?”

“Now I herd everything.”

Some of the class laughed, most groaned, and more hands shot in the air.

“Terry!” said Murphy as he pointed to a tall thin student.

“Professor Murphy? What did Noah say to his sons when they wanted to go fishing?”

“What, Terry?”

“Go easy with the bait, boys—there’s only two worms!”

Murphy didn’t mind a little humor, but he didn’t want to lose control totally.

“One more question. Pam, you’re the last one.”

“Was Noah’s wife called Joan of Ark?”

Murphy raised both of his hands to quiet everyone down.

“The short answer, Pam, is no. But if you’re interested in who Noah’s wife really was, I think I can answer that. In the fourth chapter of Genesis there is the story of Cain and Abel. Cain had a son by the name of Enoch. Some Jewish scholars believe that Cain was the inventor of weights and measures and some types of surveying equipment. They believe that because of a great city he built and named after his son Enoch. Enoch had a number of sons and one of them was Lamech.”

Murphy could see from the blank faces in front of him that he needed to get to his conclusion fast.

“Okay, hang on! Lamech had three sons: Jabal, known as the father of those who live in tents and deal with animals; Jubal, the father of musicians, and Tubal-cain, the father of all metallurgy. Tubal-cain had a sister by the name of Naamah, which means
beautiful
. Many ancient Jewish scholars believe that Naamah became Noah’s wife.”

It seemed like a good time to use the PowerPoint again. Murphy waited a moment or two and then turned on the projector.

“We left off looking at historical documents concerning Noah and the ark. The next slide gives you a list of a few other authors who have talked about the ark and its location.”

Other Historical Authors Writing About
Noah and the Ark

Hieronymus—30
B.C.

The Quran—
A.D.
7th century

Eutyches—
A.D.
9th century

William of Rubruck—
A.D.
1254

Odoric of Pordenone—
A.D.
12th century

Vincent of Beauvais—
A.D.
13th century

Ibn Al Mid—
A.D.
13th century

Jordanus—
A.D.
13th century

Pegolotti—
A.D.
1340

Marco Polo—
A.D.
14th century

Gonzalez De Clavijo—
A.D.
1412

John Heywood—
A.D.
1520

Adam Olearius—
A.D.
1647

Jans Janszoon Struys—
A.D.
1694

A hand was raised in the back of the room.

“Professor Murphy, I was told by someone that they have found pieces of the ark. Is that true?”

Murphy took a deep breath. For a moment he
thought Shari had told someone about his adventures in the Cave of the Waters and his amazing find there. But he knew she was the soul of discretion. Even under torture she would have kept his secret.

“Well, there have been some very interesting discoveries. Mount Ararat is about seventeen thousand feet high. Most ark sightings have been somewhere between the fourteen-thousand- and sixteen-thousand-foot elevation level. In 1876, British Viscount James Bryce climbed Mount Ararat in search of the ark. He didn’t find it, but he did find wood above the thirteen-thousand-foot level. Let me quote you what he said.”

Murphy shuffled around on his desk and came up with a piece of paper. “Bryce stated the following:

Mounting steadily along the same ridge, I saw at a height of over thirteen thousand feet, lying on the loose rocks, a piece of wood about four feet long and five inches thick, evidently cut by some tool, and so far above the limit of trees that it could by no possibility be a natural fragment of one….

“The question is, could that piece of wood have washed down from the ark, which was higher on the mountain? Along this same line, a man named E. de Markoff, a member of the Russian Imperial Geographical Society, found wood near the fourteen-thousand-foot level. Also, in 1936, a New Zealand archaeologist called Hardwicke Knight found waterlogged rectangular timbers protruding out of the snow. These pieces of wood were nine inches to a foot square. The wood was
very dark and extremely soft. He concluded that they must have been submerged in water for a long period of time.”

Murphy turned and grabbed another piece of paper off his desk.

“This represents probably the most famous wood find above the timberline. It was discovered by Fernand Navarra. In 1952, he and a search team were looking for the ark. They were walking over a clear ice field near the Ahora Gorge when suddenly they saw something.

In front of us was always the deep transparent ice. A few more paces and suddenly, as if there were an eclipse of the sun, the ice became strangely dark. Yet the sun was still there and above us the eagle still circled. We were surrounded by whiteness, stretching into the distance, yet beneath our eyes was this astonishing patch of blackness within the ice, its outlines sharply defined.

Fascinated and intrigued, we began straightaway to trace out its shape, mapping its limits foot by foot: two progressively incurving lines were revealed, which were clearly defined for a distance of three hundred cubits, before meeting in the heart of the glacier. The shape was unmistakably that of a ship’s hull; on either side the edges of the patch curved like the gunwales of a great boat. As for the central part, it merged into a black mass. The details of which were not discernible.

“Navarra made two more attempts to discover what was under the ice. One in 1953 and the other in 1955. On the last expedition they found wood. In his own words, he says:

Once on the edge of the crevasse, I lowered the equipment on a rope. Then I secured the ladder and climbed down myself, assuring Raphael I would not be long.

Attacking the ice shell with my pickax, I could feel something hard. When I had cut a hole one and one half feet square by eight inches deep, I broke through a vaulted ceiling, and cleared off as much icy dust as possible.

There, immersed in water, I saw a black piece of wood!

My throat felt tight. I felt like crying and kneeling there to thank God. After the cruelest disappointment, the greatest joy! I checked my tears of happiness to shout to Raphael, ‘I’ve found wood!’

‘Hurry up and come back—I’m cold,’ he answered.

I tried to pull out the whole beam, but couldn’t. It must have been very long, and perhaps still attached to other parts of the ship’s framework. I could only cut along the grain until I split off a piece about five feet long. Obviously, it had been hand-hewn. The wood, once out of the water, proved surprisingly heavy. Its density was remarkable after its long stay in the water,
and the fibers had not distended as much as one might expect.