And the gold of that land is good: there is bdellium and the onyx stone. And the name of the second river is Gihon: the same is it that compasseth the whole land of Ethiopia. And the name of the third river is Hid’dekel: that is it which goeth toward the east of Assyria. And the fourth river is Euphra’tes.
This legendary story was actually peppered with the names of real, modern-day places: Ethiopia, Assyria, Euphrates. She had always seen the story of man’s fall as something of a parable, a metaphor for grander theological ideas. Now she read it straight, a true account of exile, a tale so rapid and terrible that man had already been banished from paradise before the end of the next chapter. Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken. So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every which way, to keep the way of the tree of life.
Liv took her notebook and turned to a new page. She wrote down all the place names mentioned in Genesis that still existed, then studied the list. She added Al-Hillah, the place the tablet had been found, then Eden. She stared at what she had just written, still having difficulty comprehending that Eden might be a place every bit as real as the others. She added several question marks next to it before reading on, looking for further clues that might point her to where her destiny might lie. But in the end, the richness of the language and her own tiredness took hold. Halfway through chapter four, shortly after Cain slew Abel, her eyes drooped and the book slipped from her hand, her head full of columns of fire and modern rivers flowing out of an ancient land that was filled with gold and onyx.
61
Badiyat al-Sham
The Ghost followed the convoy across the desert at a safe distance, wary of the M60 and the heavily armed guards in the rear truck. It was easy to track them; the three vehicles kicked up enough dust to give away their position for miles and his horse was as swift over the rough ground as they were. After nearly an hour of driving the dust cloud disappeared, indicating that the convoy had stopped. He followed their tyre tracks until he felt he was getting close, then left his horse in the shade of a berm and covered the rest of the distance on foot. He had almost reached what he thought was their position when he heard the gunshot.
He slid his AK-47 from his back, shouldering it as he hit the ground. Scanning the way ahead, he saw a wisp of dust rising like vapour in the distance. From the sound, it had been a shotgun he’d heard — a close-quarters weapon — so it seemed doubtful that it had been meant for him. Even so, the Ghost kept low as he moved closer.
The trucks were parked in the shade of another spill pile, the byproduct of more hole-digging. One of the men in white overalls was crouched on the ground, de-rigging a broad tube that had been driven into the earth. It was part of a seismic refraction kit that fired a blank cartridge into the ground and measured the echo of the waves. Solid objects would reflect the waves back differently.
The three civilians in charge were hunched over a laptop, studying the findings. They seemed agitated about something. After some discussion, they pointed at a spot close to where the Ghost was hiding and started walking towards him. The white-overalled workmen followed, bringing their picks and shovels with them. The guards remained by their jeep looking bored.
The civilians reached a patch of ground about twenty metres away from the parked jeeps and pointed to the ground. Then they stood and watched as the workmen started hacking away at it. One of the bearded men pulled a bottle of water from a cool box and drank almost half of it in a single draught. Through his field glasses the Ghost could see the condensation on the side of the bottle and licked his own dry lips in response. The sun was only a third of its way up in the sky but was already starting to dry him out like a lizard on a rock. He needed to find better cover and take a drink himself, but the digging party was too close. His only option was to stay where he was until they got tired of digging their latest hole and moved on.
But they didn’t.
After five minutes, a clear sound rang out from the hole drawing everyone’s attention. The civilians rushed forward and the fattest of the three dropped down to clear away more earth with his hand. When he stood up he had a look of near exaltation on his face.
‘Radio base and tell them to get the earth movers here right now,’ he hollered over to the security detail. ‘And tell them we’ll need to set up a compound. We’ve found it!’ He climbed out of the hole, smacking the dust from his hands. ‘Praise God, we’ve found it.’
62
The Citadel
Dragan experienced a moment of pure panic as he entered the chapel of the Sacrament and saw the door hanging open, the needles exposed, the cross empty.
He fell to his knees before it, but not in any act of worship. After the exertions of his spectacular return to the Citadel he felt mortally weak. The single thing that had driven him on was his desire to be near the Sacrament again and resume the ritual of communion that suffused all those who partook of it with its sacred force and energy. Only the Sacrament could restore health and strength to himself and the mountain — but the Sacrament was gone.
As he looked around the empty chapel he caught sight of himself reflected in one of the shining blades on the walls. How could God taunt him so? How could He ravage his body like this and offer him the chance of salvation, only to pull it away again? Then he shook his head and felt ashamed. This was not the work of God. It was the Devil’s doing he was witnessing here.
Dragan reminded himself of Saint Job and the trials he had endured after God removed his protection. Satan had taken away his prosperity, his family and his health to test his faith and make him curse the Lord’s name. But Job had refused, cursing instead the day he was born. And had not Job been rewarded for this faith and ultimately been blessed with even greater prosperity and health than before? Dragan knew this was what he must do now. He had to keep his faith strong, though his body was weak and the way ahead uncertain. Only then would the Citadel be returned to its former strength.
Bowing his head, he prayed to the empty cross, confessing the sins he had committed since last he had stood here. He asked forgiveness for his lack of faith and for the strength to do God’s bidding. Finally he said a prayer of remembrance for the departed soul of the priest who had been sent to take his life and had ended up losing his own. He believed that everything happened for a reason, that each step was preordained and each man merely an instrument of God’s greater will. As he thought now about the sequence of his own passage back to the Citadel, he began to see God’s work even in that.
First he had sent him the nervous orderly, always in such a hurry to leave that one day he had left a scalpel behind. Then he had sent the priest who had died by the edge of that same blade as he tried to smother Dragan with a pillow. These things were not accidental; they had each been purposeful and ordained.
When he had finished his prayers he bent forward, lying full length on the cold stone of the chapel floor. He stretched his arms out either side, making the sign of the Tau with his body, abasing himself before the altar in an act of total subjugation and humility. He lay like this for a long while, praying that God might show him a sign to guide him further, until his aching body could stand it no more and a coughing fit forced him upright.
He stood stiffly, using his hands to brush away the dust that had collected on his cassock. A long, thin strand of gold twisted away in the air, caught by the flickering candlelight. He reached out and caught it in his hand, the fine gold thread standing out starkly against his blackened skin. He was surprised that such a thing was present in the chapel. Unlike the high church beyond the walls of the mountain, the holy men of the Citadel wore no ceremonial gowns of gold or silk. Even the Abbot and the Prelate wore the same rough cassocks as everyone else, so it was a mystery how a gold thread could find its way in here.
He held it up to the light, stretching it out to get a better look, then realized what it was. It was not a golden thread but a long strand of blonde hair, lighter at the tip and darker at the root. Bleached hair — female hair. He
