The Revelation of Gabriel Adam (13 page)

“Curator?” Gabe whispered to Micah.

She nodded. “Mortan Balor is his name.”

“Professor Carlyle, please,” Balor began, his tone pompous in a way that suggested he was talking down to the Scotsman. “There’s no need to be rude. The university values very much your contributions to the field of religious history, but we are concerned about the contents of your vault and what might prompt a—what is the term? Yes, a cyberattack. As the appointed liaison to the local authorities, I feel it is imperative that we fully cooperate with each other and that, of course, means full disclosure.”

“Even if I wanted to show you what was inside, which by the way
I do not
, I lack the power. To do so would violate the conditions on which my benefactor grants this university its annual donation. I would hate to inform them that the board wishes to breach their agreement and seek donations elsewhere,” Carlyle said.

Balor snarled, curling his lip into a forced grin, and then his singular gaze turned to Gabe and Micah. “And who are you? Students? Do they have information pertinent to this inquiry?”

Gabe felt uneasy as the curator evaluated him and Micah like they were something to detest.

“Pupils of mine,” Carlyle said. “They were scheduled for tutoring this afternoon.”

Balor flipped a page in his notebook and licked the tip of his pen. “Do they not have names?”

Gabe felt suddenly accused of something as the man studied him, the one good eye staring down his beak nose, waiting for an answer.

Carlyle nodded to Micah, and she said, “Micah Pari.”

The pen went to work on the page. “And you?”

“My name is Gabriel Adam, sir.”

“An American? Interesting. A coincidence, I’m sure, that their timing is so peculiar to this incident. Surely it will please the board to know that the Head of Divinity takes such a specific interest in attending to his students,” Balor said to the professor. “Nonetheless, the university would simply like assurances that what is contained inside the vault is not a danger to the student body or the integrity of this institution.”

“It isn’t,” Carlyle snapped. “There, now. You’ve been assured.”

The curator seemed to stiffen. “Very well. I will submit a detailed report to the board and the president.”

“Please do give them my best,” Carlyle said with a patronizing smile.

Balor folded his notebook and placed it inside his coat pocket as he slinked out of the room and up the stairs.

At the vault door, the technician was stowing away his instruments. Gabe’s dad then led him to the exit and thanked him for his work. As soon as the upstairs door shut, he turned to Carlyle. “He said the network’s firewall held but could not say where the attack originated. But I think it’s safe to say it was local. Why would they attempt to deactivate the security, if they couldn’t physically enter the vault?”

“Indeed,” Carlyle said. “Is it possible you were followed from New York?”

“Anything is possible at this point. Although as vulnerable as we were on that trip, it seems logical that the advantage would have been taken. I’m not certain there is a connection between the events at the cathedral and this.”

Carlyle grumbled something that gave the impression he agreed but then said, “Unless the enemy believes there is something of greater value kept inside the vault. Something that might give the enemy absolute power over all.”

His dad caught the professor’s implication. “Certainly not. Kept here? That would suggest the enemy is as blind as we are in this ordeal.”

“I concur,” Carlyle said. “And perhaps they are.”

Gabe looked at the vault and felt, he assumed, much like Balor did. “So what
is
in the vault? What’s so important that you need”—he pointed to the huge metal door—“that?”

“The vault holds only one item that warrants such protection,” Carlyle said. “But it is useless to the enemy. What the vault doesn’t hold, and what the enemy might believe to be contained inside, is significantly more important.”

“If they do believe it’s here, they’ll stop at nothing,” his father said.

Carlyle nodded. “As they should. That book is the key to our victory.”

“Are you going to tell us, or should we start guessing?” Gabe asked.

“Carlyle thinks the enemy believes the
Apocalypse of
Solomon
is here,” his dad said. “It is a book that dates back to the Old Testament and foretells the End of Days, the same one that also predicts the second dimensional war.”

“A book? Have they never heard of a library? Or the Internet?” Gabe asked.

“You won’t find this book in either place,” Micah said. “The
Apocalypse of Solomon
suffered the same fate as the texts found in the Dead Sea Scrolls—destroyed in the fourth century because they weren’t good enough for the Roman Empire’s master plan for Christianity. A heresy, collected and burned, each and every copy.”

“You’ve been paying attention in class,” Carlyle said. “Please continue.”

“The Romans were, if anything, quite efficient,” Micah said. “Paper and the ability to write were sort of a luxury in that time, so finding and burning them all was hardly a bother. Some rebelled, though, hiding copies in clay jars in the desert or anyplace else that was outside Rome’s watchful eye. Like the Nag Hammadi Library and the Dead Sea Scrolls, the
Apocalypse of Solomon
survived in a similar way, kept in the possession of Carlyle’s people.”

“Exactly,” Carlyle said. “The Qumran Essenes and our ancestors before us were meticulous historians who recognized that the cryptic text told of the signs alluding to the End of Days and took extraordinary measures to protect that information.”

“What signs?” Gabe asked.

“There are many. Get a mirror, and you’ll find one on the back of your head,” Micah said.

Gabe looked at the vault. “If the enemy is wrong to believe it’s here, then where is it?”

“Only two exist,” Carlyle said. “The only physical copy is kept by the Vatican, and though I have not seen it, its age may render it unreadable. The other is standing right in front of you.”

“In front of me?”

“I
am
the book,” Carlyle said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

John Carlyle is a rogue
, Mortan Balor thought as he wrapped up his day in the office above the Norman Gallery. He packed his itinerary for tomorrow, already detailed down to the minute, along with several folders of inventory notes and scheduled events, all placed neatly into a leather satchel. Before he closed it, he grabbed the small framed picture of his deceased wife from the desk and secured it safely inside the bag.

Outside the window that overlooked the castle courtyard, lanterns began to burn to life in the fading light typical of northeast winters. Below, two figures exited the gallery, a male and a female. He recognized them as the American and the girl from Professor Carlyle’s office.

That man has no business influencing the minds of students
, he thought.

Frustration over the professor’s complete lack of deference to order and rule sparked anew. Balor decided that the best course of action would be to make a formal complaint to the board and perhaps draw their attention to his negligence as a school head. If they determined his errant methods were more dangerous to the reputation of the university than losing the funding provided by Carlyle’s mysterious benefactor, the professor could be removed, and along with him, the anarchy his presence caused at the college. The man kept irrational hours, coming and going from the new museum regardless of whether or not the building was open. And to deny all school officials access to lists of what was kept inside the vault? Enough to drive mad any curator who held the slightest pride in keeping an accurate inventory. Balor thought about how hard he had worked to make the Norman Gallery a respected addition to the university, and it deserved to be run with professional distinction. Professor Carlyle’s departure would be good riddance indeed.

Balor smiled at the possibility as he watched the American and girl part ways to their respective dorms.

A jingle chimed and vibrated in his jacket pocket. He removed his mobile phone to see a message—
new text
.

Text?
He’d never used this function of the device and didn’t appreciate others sending them, thinking it rude not to take the effort to make a phone call like a civilized person. With the press of a button, the message appeared.

Mr. Balor, I have information that might be useful to
police
investigation. I know what is inside vault. It is dangerous. I wish to share with you my discovery but remain anonymous. Do not wish academic retaliation. Meet me in 15 minutes at the Ice House behind the Count’s House under Prebends. Come alone. Onetime offer. Signed, Prophet.

Balor scanned the message again, focusing on the word
dangerous
.
I knew it
. Such a message was not a surprise.
Lunatics
like Professor Carlyle are never tolerated long, even by the student body. In the end, order must be maintained
, he thought
.
An excitement flourished at the prospect of returning normalcy to the Norman Gallery. Carlyle’s end might soon be in the palm of his hand.

He checked his watch. Not a minute to spare if he wanted to get to the riverside on time. Balor hoisted his satchel and fled his office.

In the cold of the night, he hurried across the cathedral grounds and then made his way down South Bailey Street until he came to Durham Gate. Passing its singular arch, he took one of the paths that led down to the trail found at the bottom of the deep gorge carved by the river. Balor knew that his anonymous source, this Prophet, had picked the perfect location to maintain anonymity. At this time of evening, it would be dark and isolated, and not another soul would be found in the area.

Near the Prebends Bridge, hidden along the path beneath a thick overhang of trees, a tetrastyle miniature Greek temple appeared, known as the Count’s House. It was a heritage site dedicated to a Polish noble who had died centuries ago in the city. The building’s A-line roof was supported by four pillars and had benefited from a recent renovation into a public garden. A black iron gate blocked the entrance into the building, and another to the side led to the rear.

It had been pushed open.

Balor stepped through the gate and walked around the small temple. In the near pitch-black, he regretted not bringing a flashlight. The steep incline of the hill formed a natural wall that enclosed the back of the building. Though he couldn’t see, he knew the area well from summers spent walking the river. Balor hoped to find the Ice House, a cave-like open structure built into the hill that tunneled into the earth, guarded only by a rusty gate. As the name suggested, it had been used to store ice before the age of modern refrigeration, but if his memory served correctly, it more closely resembled a tomb rather than a house.

Using what little light the screen of his mobile phone projected, he found the tiny Ice House nearly buried in a pile of snow-covered fallen leaves. The rubble retaining wall supporting the waist-high rock structure looked in disrepair. Money from the city’s renovation plan had apparently not reached this far off the main path.

Behind him, he heard the sound of crunching twigs and snow. There a dark figure stood, several yards away. Balor could see that the person was rather large for a student, and he could not make out any of his features because he was clothed in a dark outfit.

“Are you Prophet?” Balor asked.

“Mortan Balor?” Prophet asked in a low voice. He stepped forward and held out his hand as if to present something.

The evidence
, Balor thought. “You do a great service to your university, sir. I am indebted to you and can assure you that your involvement will never be spoken of after tonight.”

“I believe you.”

The last thing Mortan Balor saw was a focused stream of blue light erupt from the Prophet’s hand.