Copyright and Publisher Information

Something Coming Book One: The Sacred Mountain

By J.M. DeBord

Copyright © 2010 by J.M. DeBord.

Published by J.M. DeBord at Smashwords.

All rights reserved by the author.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced for commercial purposes without permission of the author, except in the use of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews. However, this digital copy is free to be shared for non-commercial purposes.

For information go to GroovyWriter.com, or visit the author's Smashwords profile:

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COVER DESIGN BY ELI NEY

PRINT LAYOUT DESIGN BY BE. {be@be-what-you-are.com}

ISBN: 1442106166

EAN: 9781442106161

Dedication

A big thank you to everyone who encouraged me to write this novel. Thanks especially to the friends who said quit talking about the idea and get to work. Eleven years later, I present the finished product, dedicated to my father, keeper of my writer’s haven and #1 fan. I would also like to recognize everyone who believes that a story can change our understanding of our world and ourselves. In these pages you will find a blueprint.

1.

Akbar woke up in the dark, his heart pounding furiously, and struggled to remember the dream that startled him from sleep. In it, a towering statue sprang to life announcing great tidings that the simple villager failed to understand. He recognized the haunting face belonging to one of the monumental statues he knew well at Mt. Nemrut. The lifelike visage, solemn mouth, and eyes set in eternal observance were unforgettable, but the message of the elusive dream vanished. Gone like a ghost.

A strong feeling compelled Akbar out of bed before dawn to visit the sanctuary where the statue in his dream waited for him, high in the mountains of southeastern Turkey. Less than an hour’s hike from his village. The rest of the world forgot the sacred mountain, too scared to pay tribute near a war zone. Not Akbar. He dressed in ragged khaki trousers and a collared shirt and ignited a lantern, disturbing his younger brother Abby in the cot next to his.

“What are you doing?” Abby complained groggily. “Quench that light.”

“It’s going with me,” Akbar said softly.

“Where?”

“The mountaintop. Nemrut.”

Abby snapped open his dovish eyes. Out of habit, he rubbed his cheeks to check if his fuzzy whiskers had grown more overnight. “Good idea. I’ll join you,” he said while throwing off wool blankets, then hugged his slender brown arms to his chest against the cold. “Brr! Chilly night for mid-July, wouldn’t you say?”

“I want to be alone.” Akbar avoided eye contact as he buckled his sandals. Abby thought twice after seeing the troubled look on his face.

“More sleep sounds better, anyway.” For Abby the growing teenager, precious rest was more valuable than chasing his moody older brother on a cold night. “Before you woke me, I was dreaming that I had a pretty wife who was cooking something she promised I’d like. Maybe she’ll be waiting when I return.”

Abby fell back to sleep as Akbar slipped on a heavy windbreaker and grabbed the lantern, ready to chase his own dream. Outside in the quiet village, a dull bell clanked, wrapped around the neck of a neighbor’s alarmed goat. After recognizing the nighttime intruder, the goat chomped at a tuft of frost-covered grass, uninterested. Akbar stalked into moonlit stillness beyond the last of the village’s simple homes, following a familiar shortcut to the sanctuary left behind long ago by wise kings on the peak of Mt. Nemrut.

The villager’s many worries crowded his mind during the hike. Tourism evaporated when Turkey threatened to invade and annex northern Iraq, nearby to the southeast. His income as a tour guide dried up with the wary tourists. Even with his determination to provide for Abby, the brothers were faced with staying in their village—Karadut—and hoping against all odds for a last-minute peace deal, or journeying to the city in hope that their uncle would rehire Akbar as a livestock handler, maybe hire Abby too, now that he was old enough. After five years in their family home with only each other, orphans, both brothers wanted to stay, but the impending war in their area stole that choice.

The eastern sky warmed with hues of violet and red. After exiting the hiking trail, Akbar climbed a steep path of loose stones the rest of the way to the mountaintop. At the north terrace he greeted a processional way lined with the rubble of limestone columns and tablets. The villager circled around the humongous mountain peak shaped like a pyramid from millions of fist-sized stones piled fifteen stories tall. Once reaching the east side, he avoided peering at the statue with the face from his dream, afraid that seeing it lifeless on the ground might spoil the magic.

Instead he zipped across the wide terrace carved into the mountaintop and aimed straight for the far edge of the Fire Altar, a low, stepped pyramid once used for elaborate ceremonies, eager to pray away his many worries.

Thin clouds floated closely overhead. Akbar dropped to his knees, faced the coming sun and pressed his forehead to the ground, seeking supplication for a poor villager and his dependent brother wedged between poverty and war.

He felt sunlight strike the top of his head moments later, and lifted his eyes to catch the first rays shooting between two distant peaks. Rippling mountains sprang into view, the tops glazed reddish orange, breathtaking. Before the exploding conflict with the Kurds scared them away, tens of thousands of tourists used to flock every summer for the spectacular view of the sunrise, advertised as the best in the world. Akbar thought nothing could compare with what he beheld that moment. Planet Earth yawned and said good morning.

Blinding light suddenly whitewashed his sight. The peaks and valleys disappeared, even the rising sun blotted out. His mouth quivered and instantly dried to paste. Veins of fear clawed his scalp.

“BEHOLD!”

The mighty word skipped the villager’s heart. Not a request, he heard an order in his mind to turn around and face the light. No human mouth could have uttered it, yet the voice conveyed a distinct tone of intelligence and an absolute awareness. Trembling, he obeyed.

Akbar held up his hands to shield his eyes from the intense multicolored light. After a second glance he recognized the statue head from his dream towering disembodied overhead, possessing authority to command stars to fall from the sky. “A slumbering mountain God has awakened,” was all he could think. Nothing else could display such power. Swallowing terror, he dared to speak.

“Please, Great One, what do you wa-want from little me?”

In reply, Akbar heard two words:

You know.

The same voice had spoken to him previously. It encouraged him to follow his heart and stay in his village, messages beamed from the mountain. It tried to tell him a secret in his sleep, but his dreaming mind refused to accept the knowledge that went against everything he believed. Humans only live once and wait for Judgment Day. They do not return. Akbar had never been an important person in history.

Remember.

Before the armies of Greece and Rome marched across the ancient world, a great kingdom descended like a ram out of the high Iranian plateaus, battering down lesser foes, teaching the religion of the One God, and instituting advanced government and legal systems everywhere it went. The ram’s culture spread west into Greece and east into the Indian subcontinent. The first civilization which rose to the rank of empire, ruled by a king so proven, so wise, so ahead of his time, his epitaph demanded place above all others who had ruled previously: King of Kings. A title later applied to the Christian God-Child, Jesus.

The great King’s name announced itself to Akbar, but the unfamiliar sound slipped back under his unconscious mind, and the harder he forced himself to remember the deeper it fled. The name was his, something inside of him instantly recognized; he had been that exalted man from history! The statue knew. It told him:

The knowledge of your true Self must be earned, and even then you might fail for forgetting why you want to know.

Akbar threw himself to the ground, prostrate before the radiant statue and the voice speaking through it.

A new era begins today. An important role you can have.

“You want me?” Akbar lifted from the ground hopefully, feeling strong hands beneath his shoulders.

Bring my people here. Your reward will be great.

“We are desperate.”

Heaven appeared to answer his prayers, but Akbar hesitated. He had heard warnings against false messiahs. The all-knowing presence inside the light read his thoughts.

Remember scripture: What is called the King who rises again?

The young man thought of Moses, who received the Ten Commandments at Mt. Sinai and departed life at Mt. Nebo. Noah landed the Ark on the other sacred mountain in Turkey—Mt. Ararat—and repopulated the planet after The Flood. Jesus was a risen prophet, some say the Son of God. The Prophet Mohamed rose in body to Heaven from Mt. Moria. Many Muslims believed Mohamed and Jesus would return together, but Akbar knew little else about the intricacies of his native religion, a low priority for the orphan with many earthly responsibilities. He looked up tentatively and answered best he could, the first words with any chance of encompassing the reality confronting him.

“It is a miracle.”

You have your answer.

Urine squirted down Akbar’s leg. Could it be? The words came out of his mouth, and the truth rang in his heart. The voice from the light proclaimed:

A ruler returns to fulfill the prophecies. No war will consume this land. Today dawns a new kingdom, risen from the old. My kingdom. The world!

Akbar could hardly begin to grasp what he witnessed. He suddenly had to know, “Why me? I’m just a villager.”

The insistent light illuminated the homestead of his soul. Right before begging to be forgiven for asking such a stupid question, he received the answer.

Because you too are a king, you have this honor. But learn from the blind man whose eyes were healed, and only speak after the miracle is recognized.

Akbar felt his bowels warm, his trousers wet, his knees knocking. A simple villager chosen to witness. Chosen to serve. And he hoped, chosen to be richly rewarded! A one-named man, ragged determination his only virtue, appreciated in his own little world but of no importance beyond Karadut. Until now.

“No one would believe me anyway,” he said glumly.

His answer pleased the light. It lowered the wattage to a sparkling afterglow. Carved in stone, the statue from his dream stood there, lording. Its expressive eyes watched over the entire expanse of the spacious terrace from a commanding location in the middle of five massive limestone thrones lined side by side. Risen again. It told Akbar:

Hurry home now. Someone is coming and the time is short!

The supernatural light winked off, but a hint of watchfulness and residue of power remained in the majestic face.

Akbar suspected that he might be experiencing a dream within a dream, lying on his cot about to wake up and begin another normal morning with only the usual troubles to occupy his mind. The miraculous event he witnessed was too big to comprehend. “Move,” he told himself. “Go. Do as told. Don’t think.”

He staggered back toward the north terrace, back the way he came, atop the sacred heights of Nemrut Dag on the morning of the Festival of Lights, which dawned bright and promising for a desperately poor Turkish villager named Akbar.

Chapter 2

Peter Vandermill stroked his gray-flecked beard while studying the statue head balanced on the middle throne high above him. The mid-morning sun bronzed the few patches of white skin left uncovered by his standard field outfit: loose flannel shirt and utility vest over several light layers, enlarging his already jovial girth, cargo shorts, and what he liked to call his Indiana Jones hat.

Peter had outgrown the possibility of grand adventure. Or so he thought until recently. The hat felt more snug as all sorts of possibilities teased his mind. The archaeologist in him tended to be a rationalist who believed only in chance, science and diligence, but coincidences piled up, he had to admit. The date happened to be the most important day of the year in Mt. Nemrut mythology, the Festival of Lights. An interesting discovery was made under the mountain. And the Turkish government suddenly got involved, all within a few days. None of which took into account, the statue weighed ten tons, and the loose rocks and debris scattered around the east terrace made the job of lifting it high off the ground in the middle of the night and balancing it a feat almost too difficult to fathom.

Standing beside him, Peter’s wife Darianna had a knowing look on her face like she could explain the moving head as the cosmic flow or The Force, terminology foreign to Peter’s mind. He left the mystical stuff to her. That dawn, Darianna shot awake and cried a name that raised goosebumps. Despite the circumstantial evidence, he still had his doubts, confirmed when he noticed the flaw.

“What’s wrong with this picture? You should see it by now.”

Darianna locked eyes on the statue staring over them, reminding Peter of how effortlessly mysterious she could be, with raven-colored hair and olive skin like a Mediterranean princess—his way of describing the lucky feeling of having such a beautiful woman at his ordinary, expansive side. Darianna saw herself as middle age, no longer sexy or concerned about appearance. She wore tan jeans with scuffed hiking boots and a men’s button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her attention focused inside on what she felt rather than what she saw.

“...The head of King Antiochus is on the body of Zeus. Whoever pulled this prank fouled up,” said Peter, amused by the irony.

Darianna finally noticed, and her expression lit similar to the first time they visited the mountain deep in Turkey, not as researchers but as tourists. The fallen head spoke to her from a place she had to find. Her life changed that moment, and Peter’s, who found a pursuit worthy of his academic training. Wherever in the world they happened to be after summers of research at Nemrut Dag—anywhere their vagabond lifestyles took them—a part of her communicated with the presence at the mountain that she felt closer to as her psychic abilities improved. She explained as best she could to her traditional, older husband that some spirits are fiendishly clever and like nothing more than to pull along an unsuspecting psychic for amusement or worse. Her guiding spirit, though, had proven itself in so many ways. The mystery only deepened.

“Could be deliberate,” Darianna proposed. “The head of the divine King on the throne of the father God?” Just the way she expected this spirit to proclaim itself.

Peter caught a secretive hint in his wife’s voice and asked, “Got a better explanation?”

“I don’t see how this could have been done in such a short time. We were here yesterday afternoon,” Darianna dodged, unable to say what she really thought. Her husband had to understand rationally, and what she sensed presented no rational explanation.

Peter peered toward the sun. “Sixteen hours ago. You’d think the pranksters would have left behind a clue.”

From the far side of Peter and Darianna sneaked a brown-haired, clean-cut man dressed in khaki shorts and a white-striped golf shirt that accented his summer tan. Creeping closer, he carefully watched his targets.

Peter spotted Akbar’s lantern the other direction on the Fire Altar, thought it could be a clue, but quickly realized a lot more than a lantern would be needed to light the terrace well enough at night to set up pulleys and ladders and hoist the gargantuan head of King Antiochus. Heavy equipment was out of the question at that altitude on treacherous roads. A prank to draw attention? Nothing else made sense.

The previous night, Darianna sat for hours by the hotel room window, her face bathed in moonlight and deep contemplation. Peter tried to read a book in bed, but tension stuffed the air so he went for a long swim. Darianna was asleep in the chair by the window when he returned. At dawn she bolted upright and startled him from a sound slumber with her cry of “Antiochus!” Peter figured weirder things had happened lately. Much weirder.

“Give it up,” he said. “I know you too well.”

Darianna held back her true thoughts. Even after all their time together, and all that Peter knew and accepted about his enigmatic spouse, he would second guess her. “Some things aren’t explainable with equations or theories,” she finally answered, “but I do feel His hand at work.”

His. Peter distinguished Darianna’s use of the strong pronoun to describe the spirit that guided her in their pursuit to answer one of archeology’s great remaining questions: Who was buried beneath Nemrut Dag? They had opened the burial chamber, found the father and son kings from the ancient Seleucid dynasty as expected, and documented everything for an initial report. Then they discovered an odd astrological mechanism that could unlock lost secrets, or could be an elaborate decoration. Too many coincidences. Peter anticipated more to find; Darianna was sure of it. Rarely was the husband-wife team wrong when they agreed. Peter hinted at disappointment.

“Your choice ... if you want to keep it to yourself.”

Darianna, surrounded by dark waters of unknown, had to wait. She’d been distant from Peter romantically as strong feelings and intuitions increasingly consumed her attention. Something earth-shaking was building to a climax, but the rumbles were undetectable with the feet and inaudible to the ears. She knew that her reticence made Peter—who only asked difficult question when needed—curious to the point of concern. But no matter what, she could not serve her thoughts half-baked. She knew why the statue head stood high above them: A sign. A proclamation. A beacon for the world to seek there for answers. Peter needed proof.

“People will call it a miracle,” predicted Darianna.

“Only if you believe in such nonsense,” said the sneaky man, right behind Peter and Darianna. Professor Marc Reynolds stood there triumphantly, his hands on his hips and a cocky grin on his face reminiscent of a late-night comedy show host. Husband and wife both jumped at the sudden sound and cried out “Marc!” His presence broke the moment.

“Science is my miracle. You guys seen the roads? Twice I was stopped at checkpoints, and the military goons were curious about a Westerner in a rented car. I got your message at the hotel. Sorry I didn’t call.” Marc kept talking, attention short as usual. “Can you believe no tourist buses are running out here? War, man, what’s it for? My parents chanted that stuff in the ‘60s.”

Peter and Darianna cracked up laughing. They loved their energetic companion, Marc, a welcome counterpoint to the couple’s mostly predictable existence. The young professor had a way of lightening any mood. He ignored whatever they found so amusing.

“What the heck were you staring at, anyway? You two should be ashamed for letting me surprise you like that.”

Peter lifted a hand toward the risen statue. “Don’t you see it?”

Marc saw everything but the obvious, then crowed, “Oh my god! Who put that up there?”

“Good question. We were just discussing it,” Peter said with a glance toward Darianna.

“I can see calling it interesting, explainable of course,” Marc waved with a flick of his hand, “but a miracle? Come on.”

Darianna said, “Expect to see it on the front page real soon. You explain. Did a group of people come out here in the middle of the night and somehow lift it up there?”

“It can be done,” Marc asserted. “Let’s see, the statue weighs about as much as a semi without a trailer. Has to be moved twenty meters up over rocky ground. Lowered into place. Your average crane could handle it, or a winch on a really big truck. Would be a tough job though, all of the way up here.”

“We found no tell-tale signs,” Peter informed the professor, “no tracks, chains, ropes, just a lone lantern. You’d think the pranksters would betray their presence somehow. A small army would be needed. The Kurds, maybe?”

“There’s no such thing as miracles.” Marc felt that Peter secretly supported Darianna’s hypothesis. Miracles, huh. Marc could tell by the look on her face what Darianna really thought.

“It’s explainable, we just haven’t explained it yet,” agreed Peter.

“I’ll include that in my letter to the Nobel Committee,” Marc dead-panned.

“Oh Marc,” said Darianna, “one day you’ll learn to see the world with something other than the eyes on your handsome face.”

“What else are eyes good for? Miracles imply a God that intervenes in human affairs, and I don’t believe in God.” Marc ran his fingers through his always-perfect black hair, signifying the finality of his statement.

“There are other powers in the universe.”

“Show me and I’ll bow down on my knees,” Marc challenged Darianna, then turned on the risen statue. As a successful academic blessed with looks, brains and charm, Marc thought he had the world by the tail. And as a Jersey boy, his hen house cock jumped at every opportunity to strut through the barnyard.

The soaring face carved in limestone remained mute to the challenge, but Darianna sensed watchfulness, more so than ever. Marc looked impatient. “That’s what I thought. We can get moving.”

“We’re waiting for a Turkish colonel. The government insisted that he accompany us,” Peter explained.

“This date requires a chaperon?”

“We got a last-minute call from the Interior Ministry, claiming our permits are expired. Which they aren’t.”

The professor kept his eyes on both Peter and Darianna as he asked, “Does it have something to do with why I’m here? You know how much I hate dealing with bureaucratic pinheads.”

Peter answered, “Beats me. I didn’t expect to draw this kind of interest from the government.”

“You were rather mysterious on the phone.”

“You’ll see,” said Peter, looking to Darianna for confirmation of their shared feeling. “If you’d already flown back, I would have just emailed you the video. I’ll explain what we think after you see for yourself. It’s quite exciting.”

Darianna squinted and saw dust rising in the distance from the main road, stirred by a fast-approaching caravan. “That must be our colonel,” she murmured. “Or some kind of wind devil.”

Three jeeps labored up the incline to the parking area and fanned out into defensive positions. Watchful soldiers armed with AK-47 rifles scanned the surroundings, backed by mounted machine guns in the rear two jeeps. A dark, compact man hopped out of the passenger side of the front jeep, his face half consumed by Wayfarer sunglasses, lips pressed hard together, back perfectly straight. He moved crisply. Peter, Darianna, and Marc approached him from the path leading to the mountaintop sanctuary as the commander surveyed the terrain. Peter extended his hand; it was dismissed.

“I am Colonel Muhammed,” said the commander, addressing them in clipped English. “You are Peter Vandermill, archaeologist and leader of the Nemrut Project. With you is Marc Reynolds, professor of geophysics, listed as a consultant. Never found them very useful, but always expensive. And then your wife, Mrs. Vandermill, said to be a psychic. Never found them useful, either.”

“Perhaps not to you. Call me Darianna.” Darianna opened her inner senses to Colonel Muhammed and registered only darkness.

“Mrs. Vandermill will do. Be clear about this: I am in charge here. Nothing happens from now on without my order. Questions?”

“I have one.” Marc lifted his hand like a schoolboy. “Do I need a hall pass to take a tinkle?”

Peter discerned from the colonel’s flat face that he probably did not understand exactly what Marc meant, but the tone was clear. The high-ranking officer could instantly shut down their research and kick them out of the country, the military being uniquely powerful in the Turkish system of governance. Peter quickly intervened.

“Colonel, we understand, but why come with all these soldiers? We’ve seen nothing up here lately except mountain goats and tribesman.”

While the colonel faced Peter, behind the sunglasses his eyes locked on Marc as he answered, “Kurds are in this territory, I know it. They’ve infiltrated everywhere.”

“Further to the southeast, and you’re not at war. Not officially,” added Peter.

“Not yet.” Colonel Muhammed switched to Turkish and barked, “Sergeant!” A barrel-chested officer lumbered forward. “Secure a perimeter. This area is off-limits.”

“Yes sir.” The sergeant waited for more orders, then with a booming voice he propelled the squad of soldiers into motion.

Colonel Muhammed returned his attention to the Westerners. Scowling, he already appeared to dislike his assignment.

“Now you will lead me to your discovery.”

Chapter 3

The sanctuary of Nemrut Dag sits well over a mile high on the peak of Mt. Nemrut, topped by a 150 meter-tall funerary mound—a tumulus—shaped like a pyramid. The north terrace splits east and west, connected by walking paths around the tumulus. The terraces on the east and west faces are almost identically decorated with magnificent statues, columns, tablets and reliefs, all weathered mercilessly by the wind-swept environment. A grand, ancient culture left behind Nemrut Dag for the West to rediscover in 1875, when German surveyor Karl Sester stumbled upon it, and the spot was forever after marked on the map when the first expedition team reached the mountaintop sanctuary in 1881.

Around the corner from the Fire Altar, below the furthest southern edge of the east terrace, the entrance to beneath the mountain awaited: a round titanium door, strong as a bank vault and painted tan to blend with the landscape. Darianna and Peter removed keys from around their necks and released the locking mechanism. Heavy thuds sounded deep inside the rock. Peter heaved on the handle and opened the door to reveal a roughly circular tunnel bored straight into the mountain.

“You first, Mr. Reynolds, then Mr. Vandermill. I follow Mrs. Vandermill,” said Colonel Muhammed. “Now you will give me those keys.”

Darianna shot Peter a warning glance that stopped an objection in his throat. They complied.

One at a time the maw enveloped the group as they hunched over to leave the bright sunlight and noises of the upper world for stifling darkness. Their flashlight beams reflected off fine dust hanging blissfully in the air until disturbed into eddies. Only their deadened footfalls and breathing made any sound.

Darianna felt lighter with each step into the mountain. She had a sense of being watched, the spirit stronger than ever leading the way. A whisper beckoned. It carried her along by a tickle on her inner senses, taken away from awareness of the moment into dreamy reflection. Then she touched the sides of the tunnel with both hands to get her balance and recoiled. Her knees buckled; she yelped.

Out of the solid rock flashed into her mind the image of a king on a balcony, proudly overlooking an assembly of citizens gathered in his name. A ruler worshiped as divine. He sent Darianna a reminder of why she was there.

Peter bent down to help. While concerned, strange things tended to happen around his wife. Besides, whatever had pained her was something he probably wouldn’t understand, even if she could explain. Colonel Muhammed removed his sunglasses—finally, considering the dark of the tunnel. His hostile brown eyes reminded Marc of the bad colonel in the movie Romancing the Stone.

“Honey?” Peter questioned as he reached for Darianna.

“Give me a moment, please,” she said, her hands clutched to her chest.

Marc figured he’d help by filling the moment, his voice sounding hollow in the tight confines.

“Here’s where my consulting paid off, Colonel. Right now we’re beneath the tumulus. That’s the big pile of rocks you might have noticed at the surface. The burial chamber is at the bottom in the middle. It remained undisturbed for more than 2,000 years, because getting through those rocks would be like emptying a lake with a spoon. People have tried. One of the researchers in the early days even used explosives that created a slump on one side. I figured, why go through when we can go beneath? We needed the exact location of the chamber, and Darianna solved that problem when she had one of those visions. Correct me if I'm wrong.”

Darianna regained a hold on herself, the inner pressure of the past few days loosed, freeing her to tackle whatever lay ahead. “Vision is accurate enough,” she said.

“Is that what just happened to you,” Colonel Muhammed demanded.

“I broke a nail. We can keep moving, thank you.”

Be ready for anything, Darianna told herself.

They approached the end of the tunnel with a ladder bolted onto the back wall. Marc grabbed a rung, pointed above and spoke toward Colonel Muhammed.

“I got it on the first try; drilled a test hole right here, snaked a camera through. Wouldn’t you know, we were right beneath the burial chamber, near an outer wall. Hot damn I’m a good consultant. And what did I cost, Peter? That’s right, I’m here for academic research; grants pay for my time. As I’ve said before, I want the fame. The fortune comes later.”

Marc caught Peter’s eye before ascending the ladder. The Turkish colonel appeared oblivious to the professor’s goad, but he certainly stored it away somewhere.

The ladder led to a long rectangular room with a low ceiling made of gigantic stone blocks supported by pillars, a marble platform located in the middle where two elaborately decorated sarcophagi lay side by side. Darianna flipped on a chain of work lights. Five life-sized statues on the back wall—smaller replicas of the ones above—burst into view. Their shiny silver surfaces reflected the light, beautiful colors exposed in the cool metal. The august faces stared forward at the visitors, presenting a formidable defensive line. Solemn silence stuffed the chamber.

Marc, eyes glinting mischievously, approached a tablet etched with ancient Greek writing that fronted the center platform. “Hey Pete, what’s that say again?” he asked.

“Taken a sudden interest in history?” Peter asked in reply.

“It’s more for the colonel’s sake.”

Of the seemingly endless proclamations, dedications, and ruminations left behind by the ancient kings, Peter knew this favorite by heart. He pretended to read in a deep voice but actually recited from memory:

“Whoever in the long time to come takes over this reign as king or dynast, may he, if he observes our law and guards my honor, enjoy, through our intercession, the favor of the deified ancestors and all the Gods. But if he, in folly of mind, undertakes measures contrary to the honor of the Gods, may he suffer my full wrath. And says here, valet service is available after five.”

Marc burst out laughing; Peter grinned at himself and chuckled.

Darianna got chills. She sensed a premonition rising from her gut. The spell cast by the words still had meaning—and power. She relaxed to open a channel. Colonel Muhammed spied the strange look on her face. Marc said, “Isn’t there a warning to all who enter this place that they’d better be right with the gods, or else they’ll be struck dead?”

“That’s on another inscription,” replied Peter.

“How ‘bout you?” Marc baited the colonel. “You right with the gods? Better be careful: Zeus might have a lightning bolt with your name on it.”

A tense and prolonged silence stopped the conversation. When Colonel Muhammed finally spoke, his words came out of nowhere.

“It sounds like whoever these people were, they give their blessing to the Kurds. Kurds try to claim this land as theirs, but it is not. They are no better than Gypsies. That is why we must stop them.”

Darianna felt the colonel’s dark presence fit the unfolding scene as a balance to the three researchers, but Peter and Marc appeared stunned.

“This was written a long time ago,” Peter tried to explain. “They’re saying to respect this place, be good citizens, honor your ancestors. You know: recognize that larger powers are at work.”

“Pete, your mind is turning to mush,” joked Marc, sorry he’d mentioned it in the first place.

“I’ve been learning from my wife. I can no longer deny the supernatural.”

Darianna channeled a voice deeper than hers, more authoritative, with a distinctly prophetic undercurrent. “Nor can the supernatural deny you, Peter Vandermill.”

Marc shuddered from a jolt of raw electricity running down his spine. What a witchy woman, he thought, like a cult priestess with a Ouija Board. Darianna could have ranked an 8.5 on the professor’s Hot-or-Not meter, especially for a woman older than him, but Peter grounded her with wry humor and sober analysis, diverting a more exotic potential. Something lurked beneath the surface though, and since Marc’s mind revolved around sex, he thought he saw a hint of fantasy potential in Darianna, who was a decade younger than Peter and perfectly matched, domestically. Marc respected Peter’s diligence and ability to deal with Byzantine Turkish regulations. But the man approaching retirement age seemed totally out of his league with her at his side.

The small muscle beneath Colonel Muhammed’s left eye twitched. Something struck him as out of place. Investigation of the researchers' discovery conveniently dovetailed with his true purpose: tracking down whatever created the enormous burst of light centered over Mt. Nemrut that dawn—not nuclear but similar intensity, he was told. He thought about the otherworldly voice he’d heard from Darianna’s mouth that almost gave him chills and decided to leave it unacknowledged, to stay a step ahead at their expense. He had a job to do. “Quit wasting my time,” he menaced.

“Over here.”

Peter squeezed around back of the row of statues into a cramped space against the outer wall. He shined a flashlight onto the middle statue of Zeus. Embedded into the flat surface below his eye level, a fist-sized, round blue sapphire sparkled. Four smaller round gems of different colors pointed downward in a straight line, each occupying the bottom of a concentric circle carved into the surface. Peter pushed the outer gem, a yellow sapphire; it moved like a planet in orbit. Marc whistled appreciatively. “What the heck is it?”

“A horoscope,” answered Peter. “That’s our hypothesis.”

“The gems all point south.”

“We think they move into place to correspond with a date.”

“Then what?”

“Darianna has a feeling,” Peter deflected to his wife.

“Oh great,” Marc rolled his eyes, “I get the feeling I’m not going to like this.”

Darianna hardly noticed the sarcasm, her attention focused inward on a flow of subtle perceptions. Between the colonel emanating hotly, the professor slyly checking out her ass and Peter showing signs of paternal protectiveness, she had a lot to process while remaining connected to the whisper calling her forward. To make it to the end, she sensed, required constant awareness, and more from herself than she’d ever dreamed possible. Once she spoke the words, their course was set.

“If we pick the right date, something will be revealed.”

“Quit being so mysterious. You’ve got that look in your eyes,” said Marc. “Ease off the magic mushrooms. Even my students know better these days.”

Peter stifled a guffaw. Darianna feigned insouciance.

“You too, eh? Well then, I’ll just keep my mouth shut from now on and let you walk into this like three blind mice.”

Colonel Muhammed eyed her closely. “Walk into what, Mrs. Vandermill?”

Darianna stumbled over his pressure and her inability to articulate. “I...I’m not sure, but I think it’s good. Not only for the Turks, or the Kurds—good for all of us. Look around. Open your inner vision. Doesn’t it make sense to you that the people who built this place might have left behind something extra special?”

“Tell me exactly what to expect.” The colonel did not blink.

“It’s only a feeling. If we pick the right date, things are going to get interesting.”

Marc began to get annoyed. “Could you be more vague?”

“That’s the way these things work,” Darianna answered tentatively. “I don’t know where I’m going until I get there.”

Colonel Muhammed reached a decisive moment. The mystical talk, the inside jokes, the allusions to something beyond his control all made him uneasy. The mission stunk of a setup. His name topped the list for the next opening at the Big Table, and he had an opportunity to prove himself worthy in war with the hated Kurds. He agreed with Darianna on one point, though: There was more going on than met the eye, but he viewed the situation from an entirely different perspective: eyes forward, not on the side.

“You think your discovery is important but don’t say why, or how it works. Mr. Vandermill, your name is on the permits. You tell me if this is worth my time.”

“I’m sorry if we made you uneasy,” said Peter. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his bushy, graying hair. “We had no idea our find would be a big deal to your government. It was part of the regular paperwork. We really have no idea if we’re correct in our assumptions. We’re feeling our way in the dark.”

“What do you expect to find?” Colonel Muhammed’s tone demanded complete honesty.

“My suspicions go back to the kings who built Nemrut Dag. They would not waste the time and expense on an elaborate mechanism when something simpler would do. Plus, they were big on dates like births, coronations, deaths, victorious battles. And they tended to make grand gestures. We have a lot of hints.”

“Hints. You people are supposed to be experts, but you are sure of nothing,” the colonel insinuated. “At least tell me why the kings you speak of used a horoscope.”

“There is a famous relief on the surface, the oldest known use of a horoscope to commemorate a date. See?” Peter pushed a large milky pearl. “This is the moon.” He nudged the last gem, the brilliant yellow sapphire. “This one represents Jupiter. The emerald is Venus and the diamond is Mercury. Put the gems in the right positions and our mystery is solved, presuming there’s a mystery in the first place. I’m sorry that you feel like you’re wasting time, Colonel, but we never asked for company. We document everything and report it, as we have all along.”

Peter abruptly quit talking. Darianna shifted toward him.

Marc pawed at the ground, ready as usual to get started, his imagination captured by the mystery. “I assume you have some ideas on picking the date?”

“Already made a list,” Peter said, touching his vest pocket. “We start with dates associated with Antiochus I Theos and Mithradates, the two kings buried here. If that doesn’t work, I guess we work through the whole dynasty.”

“How will we know when we’ve picked the correct date?” Marc asked the next obvious question. All eyes turned to Darianna.

“A cute little rabbit will come along and take us to the Queen for tea.”

“Stop it,” said Marc, “you’re starting to scare me. Actually, you scared me a minute ago with that crazy voice. What you said about Peter was a joke, right?” He wanted to know for sure.

Darianna ignored him as she felt Colonel Muhammed attune to her, creating a high-pitched ring in her left ear. He psychically felt her over, searching for information, for clues to her intentions or reasons to be suspicious. No subtlety; the military man used only authority and rough force to get his way.

“This is our discovery,” Peter presented to him. “Do we have your permission to move forward with our research?”

The colonel swept their faces. An uneasy feeling nagged. He was an Intuitive of sorts like Darianna, but his abilities had been honed for his profession as an iron hand serving dark masters. He was no closer to accomplishing his mission. No further, either. Setting the researchers into motion provided time to confer with his superiors and check the results of his interrogation teams presently sweeping the countryside. The regular soldiers along with him were for show—his real business operated in the black. He inflected his imperfect English with a stern warning:

“I do not play games.”

“No games,” Peter affirmed.

“Report to me when you have something worthy. I will tell you this only once: no surprises,” the colonel said tersely. “Surprise me and you will pay for it.”

Chapter 4

Marc’s nemesis had disappeared for hours, but the very shadows hinted at Colonel Muhammed’s hardened eyes ringed by bruised smudges. The memory gave chills.

Peter entered a date on a notebook computer and charted the planetary positions. He and the professor had worked through dozens of dates in a few hours, time’s meaning lost in the underground chamber. Marc’s attention began to wander while waiting for something to happen. He returned to Colonel Muhammed, who had almost gotten under his skin earlier. Professor Reynolds had faced down his share of bullies in the academic world, but they did not carry a sidearm and travel with a contingent of soldiers. To keep his mind occupied he asked, “What do you make of the colonel?”

“I’m beginning to wonder why he’s really here,” Peter replied, voice hushed.

“Me too. The government had left us alone until now. I thought you had their trust.”

“Something has changed,” Peter said as he surveyed the statue and waited expectantly after sliding the final gem into position. “I could see them sending along a scientist, even a bureaucrat, but a military guy?”

Marc glanced around nervously. “What do you think they suspect? We’re scientists, not insurgents.”

“We know that, but apparently they don’t.” Peter looked at the floor without really seeing it. “I’ve got to tell you, this whole situation keeps getting deeper.”

“I don’t really want to talk about this.”

“You were the first person we brought in,” Peter reminded him.

“I could laugh off the weird stuff until people with guns started watching over us. I'm starting to get a bad feeling.”

“And my wife is turning into someone I do not know,” said Peter, voicing the thought unintentionally, but he had to explain himself. Ten meters away, seated in lotus posture on the edge of the center platform, Darianna meditated.

“She spends hours in trance, and sometimes has these long, lucid conversations in her sleep. I can hardly explain—like she’s talking to a Burning Bush or something. Really high-level stuff about afterlife, reincarnation, the cosmos. I know you don’t believe, but I’m not so certain anymore.”

Marc, captivated, also wished he was deaf to all of it. Hear no evil.

Peter continued, “The night after we opened the burial chamber, I woke from a dead sleep and a man stood at the foot of the bed. At first I thought he’d broken into our room so I reached for the phone. But I stopped. He said nothing, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just looked straight at me. He was something Biblical. Jewish, I think. Don’t know exactly why. He smelled of oil and spice, and his dark eyes smoldered with ancient hatreds. Incredibly vivid. He seemed to warn me of something. Then he vanished. I thought it must be a dream, but I was awake. I even did the clock test.”

“Clock test?” Marc could only imagine.

“Something Darianna taught me. If you think you might be dreaming, look at a clock, look away, and look back. If it’s a dream, the time will be different, or the clock itself, or the room. How I wanted something to be different,” wished Peter.

“So who was in your room?”

“Well, I’ve been reading Carl Jung lately, and he reported a similar experience to mine.”

“Isn’t he regarded as something of a quack?” Marc asked a little too loudly for the hushed chamber, where every sound was magnified.

“It’s not as far out as people think—especially us scientists.” Peter searched his mind for the right word. “...Apparitions, whether real or not, usually indicate the time is ripe with importance; larger forces are at work; Synchronicity. Look at what’s going on in the world. Nearby is the epicenter of a brewing war that will likely pull in all of the players, big and small. Something has to intervene.”

“Don’t tell me you are starting to believe in God.” Marc heard the sound of a scientist on the brink of apostasy.

Peter flicked his gaze toward Darianna across the room. “Not God in the traditional sense, but I have to admit there’s so much that we collectively don’t know. Darianna has demonstrated to us both that she’s tapped into something potent. And real.”

“Speaking of really potent,” Marc changed subjects, “I think our immediate concern is to watch out for that colonel.” “Quit antagonizing him,” warned Peter.

“He asked for it. What an asshole.”

“He’s a tool of war.”

“I’ll play nice, but I won’t kiss his ass.”

Peter watched the statue, suspense faded. Nothing happened. He exhaled wearily, saying, “We’ve tried every date on my list, and I’m going to have to really think to come up with more. What do you say we take a lunch break?”

While monitoring the situation from the shadows, Colonel Muhammed focused on Darianna as he crept along the outer wall behind the work lights. She sat serenely on the marble platform, eyes closed, spine straight, arms relaxed. She did not appear to even breathe. Normally, he would assess the men as the greater potential threat, but the woman had secrets. As a man who had many secrets of his own, the colonel could smell them in others.

He watched Peter and Marc walk to the other side of the room, and thought he saw Darianna barely crack open an eye. Then she rose silently and strolled the other direction.

The pieces of the story moved around the chessboard of the colonel’s mind as he tracked her. He’d found nothing to explain the burst of light that dawn. On the phone earlier, the prime minister’s chief of staff counseled to remain patient: everything would become clear. A strange pronouncement from the star political man in Ankara. Made the colonel suspect that his superior withheld knowledge. In his opinion, Turkey’s generals needed to depose the peace-loving Islamists in the executive branch as soon as possible, but for now at least he had no choice. Orders were orders.

Darianna used the computer, rearranged the gems and stepped back. Colonel Muhammed scrutinized her body language: calm, resolute, with a touch of anxiety in the lift of her shoulders. She mumbled under her breath, “If this is the correct date, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

She stretched her arms above her head and down to her sides in a long sweeping movement. Without looking his direction, she pointed at Colonel Muhammed in the shadows.

He thrust forward and demanded, “What are you doing?” The sudden disruption of silence alerted Peter and Marc.

Darianna whiffed the colonel’s acrid breath, her attention locked on the base of the statue. He curiously followed her gaze and saw the big silver statue inching forward to reveal the dark outline of a passage beneath.

“Darianna?” Peter noticed her absent from the platform. He set aside a sandwich and hurried back toward the work area, followed by Marc.

Colonel Muhammed’s question lingered. Darianna met his hot stare by pulling him in, shaping herself around his agitated presence, and picturing herself as a pool of calm water to absorb any tossed stone. Even earlier that day she might have withered under the colonel’s intense scrutiny; however, a deeper sense of herself came alive during her meditation to meet any challenge, led the way by her guiding spirit.

“All is as it should be,” she replied.

“That is no answer.” The colonel appeared ready to lash out.

Peter and Marc arrived behind the statue, questions dying on their faces as Darianna stared far into the colonel and blasted him with her absolute conviction. She no longer cared who believed her. How could she explain that she followed a path of her soul’s choosing? As it is above, so it is below.

“Your answer,” insisted the colonel. “Now!”

“You have eyes. You see.”

Peter asked, “See what?”

Marc noticed the new position of the gems. He checked the computer. The date on the screen puzzled him. Could it be? For the second time that day, he finally noticed the obvious: the passage opening at the base of the statue, the date on the computer.

“Will someone please tell me what is going on,” pleaded Peter.

“Look,” Marc tugged.

Peter saw the statue inching forward, the dark passage revealed in fractions beneath its base.

“What date?” he asked Darianna. His professional and personal life culminated before his eyes. “I tried everything.”

“I remembered a dream from a few months ago, all but lost to memory until reminded,” Darianna answered, still locked in a battle of wills with Colonel Muhammed. “You and I were walking down an underground hallway, and all of a sudden a gnarled old man blocked our path. We could not pass until answering his riddle. I stepped forward to answer, but going further meant leaving you behind.” She regretted having to tell Peter that detail, knowing his unspoken fear.

“What’s the riddle?”

“What is the day after the day after the day before yesterday?”

Peter quickly followed the logic in his head. “That’s today,” he snorted. “No way! I could have answered that.”

“Impossible as it seems,” Marc pointed to the computer screen, “the planetary positions match.”

Peering at the screen, Peter confirmed for himself but said, “That’s not possible.”

“Someone long ago knew we were going to be here today. It was meant to be,” said Darianna.

“What’s down there?” The colonel pointed to the square hole coming gradually into full view. A part of his mind insisted that the Westerners could be faking. That side of the argument was losing to acceptance of something extraordinary. Perhaps he was the right man for the job after all.

“The spirit in this mountain,” Darianna answered. “Waiting for us.”

Marc recalled when Darianna conducted a psychic ritual asking the spirit to reveal the location of the burial chamber, a feat he unfortunately missed but heard about the details. She solved a problem which baffled the best science. Made sense now, sort of. The spirit gave her the vision in order to find the spirit. Professor Reynolds had pegged Darianna as the psychic detective-type who falls out of a tree as a kid and starts hearing voices. No rational person could deny that some people possess unique abilities, but proof stood before his eyes, opening a whole new dimension, and his comfort zone receded as his atheism wore away. He did not have to believe in God. Spirits he might have to accept.

“Spirit?” Colonel Muhammed said skeptically.

“This is a burial chamber,” Darianna reminded him. “Makes sense to me.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

Their relationship subtly shifted as the colonel backed off.

“I have no foresight of what is to come.” Not quite true, but neither could Darianna explain the feeling that thousands of years of silence waited for them in the deep. Silence so old it’s alive.

The statue rolled all of the way forward, the square opening fully revealed. After a short drop, a narrow passage slanted down to a treacherous 45-degree angle toward the heart of the mountain.

“You first, Mr. Reynolds,” the colonel shifted back to order-giving mode. “Mrs. Vandermill, you stick close to me. Wait for my permission to act, and make no noise.”

He drew his sidearm, thumbed off the safety, and noticed a look flash across Darianna’s face.

“What is it?” His question, as usual, carried the tone of a demand. Darianna hesitated to say what she found amusing, but spoke anyway to avoid raising more suspicion.

“You tell us to be quiet, presuming that spirits are like humans, but do you think they listen with ears? There are no shadows to hide in down there, Colonel.”

Chapter 5

Darianna’s moment fast approached at the end of the steep passage into the heart of Mt. Nemrut. She heard wisps of a voice, and felt a soft touch of awareness beckon during the long descent. Vague impressions flitted through her mind of brown people working in the cold and dark, the passage built with their labor. She harnessed the visions and fed them into her sense of purpose, instead of overwhelming her like earlier in the upper passage. She felt strong, ready for anything. Anticipation filled her with energy.

Peter glanced back and saw that look again: Darianna’s face half light, half dark—two presences inhabiting the same body. He recognized the light half from nearly twenty years of marriage. The dark half, previously only a hint in her personality, came into focus. What he saw seemed less like his wife and more like a master leading initiates into the secret depths of a mystery religion.

“The passage levels off ahead,” Marc said from the front of the line, then more excitedly: “It gets bigger. The ceiling opens out!”

They walked into a long, expansive chamber hewn from rough rock. The sound of their shuffling footfalls abruptly shifted to scratchy echoes off high walls. Colonel Muhammed took the lead, drawn forward by a glint at the end of his flashlight beam, where white marble steps stacked up against the far wall. Wide and semicircular at the bottom, the steps narrowed to a point at the top.

To get there, they had to pass the monstrous figure blocking the path.

A few steps from the top, cleverly sculpted from one mass of smoky black quartz, a demonic-looking statue stood on goat legs, topped by the rippling torso of a male lion, eagle wings furled under, humanoid arms overstuffed with bulging muscles, and a grotesque head of a Hell Hound. It shared one snout sprouting two faces, sharp canine teeth bared. One face stretched back mockingly. The other face sneered savagely from beneath, both emerging from a central point as if frozen in a moment of vicious assault. Its talons thrust forward from skull-crushing hands to challenge all who dared approach.

Peter turned on a powerful battery-powered lantern and set it down at the base of the steps.

Colonel Muhammed charged up until unwillingly slowed, stopped cold, and with a mighty effort of will and raw strength climbed one more step. No matter how hard he tried though, further progress was denied. “What is this?” he demanded of the Westerners while pushing against the invisible force. “What holds me back!”

Darianna shut everything out of her mind to listen with her inner senses. A high-pitched buzz tickled the edge of her hearing. She felt two distinct personae behind the raw fear cast by the nightmarish Mesopotamian figure guarding the top of the steps.

“It’s like a forcefield or something,” Marc awed, “only it works from within. There’s no hard barrier, but I can go no further. My legs just won’t move forward. Incredible. How?”

“You’re the geophysicist, you tell us,” said Peter. “Does this sort of technology even exist?”

“Not to my knowledge. A colleague of mine who contracted for a secret program in the U.S. hinted that they’re pretty advanced with application of electromagnetic force, but this is way beyond a simple forcefield. Notice that the harder you push against it, the harder it pushes back? And do you hear a strange sound? Seems to be coming from that thing.”

“Impossible,” Colonel Muhammed said, but he also heard the buzzing just beyond recognition.

“Shh.” Darianna held a finger to her lips, concentrating with her eyes shut. She heard voices beneath the buzz, and thought out loud, “Two voices in perpetual argument.”

After a moment of total silence, everyone heard fragments of angry discourse bouncing down long tunnels into their minds. The fury stirred the dark muck of human existence—probing, seeking, demanding. The colonel did not like it at all. The natural reaction: block out, turn away, deny the challenge.

Darianna turned cold. “It’s a Guardian: a statue infused with spirit. Two spirits. Demons.”

“Please tell me you are kidding,” said Marc.

“How do you know?” Peter wondered, but was already convinced.

“I’ve heard of such power. Binding two is beyond anything I’ve ever encountered. Smoky quartz is usually a healing stone.”

Darianna saw their incomprehension. Her answer was important. Colonel Muhammed walked a razor’s edge, and might do something drastic if he objected to what she had to say. Like all Muslims, one way or the other he would have heard the story of Moses.

“You remember when Moses went to Pharaoh and performed miracles? Everything Moses could do, the Egyptian magicians could do. So you know magic was common, and some magicians were quite powerful. They used the Power of Command to bind a demon to an object, usually to guard a tomb or sacred place. Once bound, it remained until released or its task fulfilled. That’s my understanding. The knowledge is long lost.”

“Seems kind of weird to guard the church door with something evil,” said Marc. “Demons are bad, right?”

Darianna felt as sure about the subject as Marc did geophysics, Peter archeology, or Colonel Muhammed counterinsurgency. “Back then, evil and good were understood as two sides of the same coin. The power is neutral; depends upon the purpose for which it is used. For instance, God used Satan for a sort of good in Job’s story. Evil creatures can be used for godly purposes.”

Peter asked, “How do we get beyond it? I see a hint of another passageway.” “I will bind them under my power.” Darianna had encountered demonic forces during her soul journeys and avoided them. Here she was about to confront two of the most potent.

Marc wondered who would be first to say “Gotcha!” He harbored the hope, otherwise, he might witness something unfathomable until that moment. Darianna really believed what she said, and the professor had no better explanation for the force confronting them.

“It’s dangerous, isn’t it?” Peter asked, concerned.

“There is danger anytime dealing with these sorts of entities,” Darianna answered.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could be possessed, but wouldn’t attempt it if I really thought so. Demons uncover the dark places inside that we try to avoid. No easy weakness will they find in me. I’ve already experienced in my life the worst they can do.”

Only once had Darianna detailed for Peter the emotional and sexual abuse in her foster home; only once had been needed to understand the horror. “You’re determined to do this,” he said, seeing her resolute body language.

“I’ve been subconsciously preparing for weeks now.”

Colonel Muhammed scanned Darianna for any sign of deception. His instincts were to stop everything, bring down explosives and blast the hell out of the crystal statue. Which gave him an idea. He pulled his sidearm from its holster.

“Cover your ears.” The colonel sighted the military pistol dead-center between the two faces.

“Colonel,” Peter said, about to object to harming a priceless artifact.

Too late. The roar of the gun shattered thousands of years of silence. Another roar quickly followed the first and the same result: no damage, no spray of dark crystal shards from impact. The hellish mouth seemed to swallow the projectiles. Colonel Muhammed holstered the pistol, a slight tremor in his hand. Acrid smoke drifted through the air.

“Try it your way, Mrs. Vandermill,” he conceded.

Darianna turned to Peter and said, “It is important for me to know that I have you behind me, no matter what. You are all I have in this world that I can actually touch.”

“I don’t always understand, but I believe in you,” Peter replied sincerely.

A gnawing feeling told him that he tacitly accepted unknown ramifications. He truly believed in Darianna, admired her uncanny abilities, her intelligence. The first hints sprouted when he spotted his future wife as a student in his class. The semester continued and the most confident male students made their advances on her. One at a time they were all considered and passed over, Darianna smoothly accepting their charms without revealing much about herself.

She was exotic, comfortable in her flawless skin, yet had hints of secret sadness. Male students were intimidated, females for different reasons. In the presence of a woman so beautiful and mature, ordinary people tripped over themselves. She aced the course, Archeology of the Near East. Peter assumed he might see her in passing, perhaps never again. She was a Classics major taking his class for an elective. He kidded himself to think the beauty queen might be attracted to him—neither magnetic nor charming nor edgy like other men, just a thoughtful professor with a great interest in the subject he taught. He was a decade older, a fact that became apparent when he hit his 40s, grew in a beard and expanded his waistline.

Darianna appeared one day to ask for help fulfilling an independent study requirement for graduation, so Peter arranged for her to assist with an archaeological dig in Israel. What began as a summer in the desert turned into a marriage blessed by his family and all who knew them. Some aspersions were cast about Peter’s plainness compared to his young bride. Distant relatives with the gallows humor of a dead pool bet a bottle of Cheval Blanc that Darianna would take another lover before gracing the Dutch Vandermill clan with a second child. The bet was never settled; Darianna could not conceive. The wedding was informal, or else the bride’s side of the aisle would have sat embarrassingly empty. She had no family other than Peter.

“Whatever happens, don’t come near me,” Darianna warned before taking on the demons. “If I don’t act like myself, possessed by another intelligence, leave quickly. Pay no attention to the voices; they might try to use you as a disruption. Don’t ask questions or answer questions. Demons use deception. They’ll twist anything you say, understand?”

Darianna directed her question at Colonel Muhammed, the hot-headed Aries. From late childhood onward she could accurately guess the astrological signs of four out of five people, and the ones she got wrong were usually born on the cusp. Astrology provided Darianna’s first taste of the supernatural. It also opened her mind to the endless possibilities of mental and spiritual development. She had advanced a long way since her childhood home full of little magic. Far from the foster home where deep betrayal forced her within to heal, the damage all but unnoticeable by the time she reached college.

With a slight sag of the shoulders, Colonel Muhammed relented. “I remind you of who is in charge here,” he said, ushering Peter and Marc to the bottom of the marble steps.

That’s unnecessary, thought Darianna. She tested the force resisting her. It stripped away pretension, uncovered deception, demanded utmost authenticity, and asked pointed questions. After listening closely for several minutes, she gradually discerned a way of joining the argument.

First, create a circle of power: a psychic space with breech-proof boundaries. She pictured a bubble of light surrounding her body, and aroused the inner warriors to protect the four entrances to her Garden: the inner space where her spiritual authority originated. She imagined herself as a magician of the lost ages, master of the subtle forces, and felt it to be true. She only had to reach back through time and allow a wiser, more potent personality to emerge. One who possessed the knowledge she needed.

To the observer, Darianna appeared to be nothing more than a woman with her eyes closed talking under her breath. To the demons: a threat. Their rambling quarrel became decipherable.

“Isn’t she cute?” The high demon said contemptuously, its face stretched back in superiority.

“She thinks she can command us,” slunk the low one from beneath protruding brows.

Attuned to the demons, Darianna knew to be direct. They had to recognize her authority. She shut everything else out and projected herself forth.

“Obey me!” The words sprang from between her clenched teeth. “Obey my command!”

Two voices chuckled in her mind, one mockingly, the other humorlessly. The latter, low voice said, “The bitch thinks she can bind us.” The other mocked, “She doesn’t even use our names. We should teach her a lesson.”

Darianna envisioned the inspiring king on the balcony overlooking a grand assembly, next to him a queen, and behind them a striking, gray-eyed priest. The queen is me, part of Darianna thought, but another voice vehemently rejected the idea: Pride before the fall, a demonic trick. They’d been listening to her thoughts.

“I am not so blessed,” said Darianna. “I know who I am.”

The twin awarenesses of the demons surrounded her circle and tried to sliver inside. The high demon prodded her intellect with insinuating questions about her knowledge. The other demon probed her emotions. “An orphan. Life’s so unfair. Pity the poor child raised by a wacky grandmother who soon became worm food. She put these grandiose ideas in your head. Poor girl. Oh wait, what do we have here? The memory you hide from everyone, a dirty deed done unto you. What was his name?”

The low demon is the most dangerous, thought Darianna. It attacks from behind, rips into memory searching for easy kill. The demons tried to pull more from her reservoir, but she pushed them out. Her moment among them bore fruit as she discovered an essential fact of their nature: they were diametric opposites. The dynamic tension created by their polarities bound them together to wait for challengers. To wait for her! Powerful magic; very clever.

Darianna quickly put aside a twinge of doubt about her ability to subdue the demons. Hesitation might destroy her. She reached out for her guiding spirit but dialed a cold connection, her challenge alone to succeed or fail. Her circle held. The demons backed off.

Silence. Confusion. Revulsion.

“You have no real power in this realm, you know that,” Darianna reminded the twin underworld beings. “You only have the power to destroy yourselves.”

She circled her arms in front of her to reinforce her boundaries, and traced out symbols in the air that flashed into her mind. The last one, a triangle overlaying a circle, triggered a rush of raw energy up from her hips to fill her chest and head with a feeling of power. Time to use it.

She stepped closer, only a meter from the outstretched arms of the jet-black statue. Raw malice felt hot on her skin. It tried to send panic all of the way into the cells of her body, but she would not succumb.

While the demons probed Darianna, she found an opening and instantly slipped into their midst, hovering over an infinite chasm outside of space-time. A shadow detached from the dark. It swirled around her, reeking insolence.

“I will tear your soul apart, sorceress,” warned the high demon, seen by Darianna in its true, terrible form. “You know not what you do.”

It was right; Darianna explored new territory, but something inside of her felt confident to lead the way. To become this deeper person she would have to let go, allow her real identity to emerge. All creatures want to achieve their highest potential—wholeness, or “holiness”—and will do so by the end. Even demons. For Darianna, the moment was now.

“You want released from this twilight,” she said, feeling the demon’s innermost desire.

“Release me,” it hissed, “and I will carry you to the feet of your master.”

“Allowing you directly into the physical realm? That would be a horrendous mistake.”

“Then I will rejoin my kind. It is tiring here on the fringes, only my deepest hatred as company, and humans are so boring.”

Darianna felt the low demon behind her searching for a weakness, and sensed its desperate struggle of all-consuming love and utter hate with its fraternal twin. Such was life in the underworld.

“I don’t think so.”

The high demon’s swirling intensified into a vortex. Shadow upon shadow filled Darianna’s inner eye. One misstep and she was lost forever, so she summoned all of her focus and fortitude to hold the gateways of her inner center. Innumerable points of awareness focused on her from high and low, Heaven and Earth and all points between, reminding her of faces crowding over a coffin. Tension rose higher. But attempting the battle on demonic terms opened her to defeat.

“Your delicious body will experience such pleasure and pain,” relished the high demon. “The things we will do....”

A winged tower of blackness loomed over. It enfolded down upon Darianna.

“I dispel your illusion,” she commanded. “Stand before me!”

Peter, Marc, and Colonel Muhammed watched fascinated from the bottom step, close as they dared. They saw no demons except the repulsive statue, heard only fragments of discord and an occasional outburst from Darianna. However, the chamber felt ready to explode.

The air pressure dipped, making the men’s ears pop. Darianna plopped limp onto the steps at the feet of the Guardian. Peter started to march up until Marc pulled him back. Colonel Muhammed saw no violence, but he sure felt it.

The low demon dragged Darianna’s soul into an endless cave to feast on the bones of her existence. She concentrated on picturing herself as a bright light, a star in the vast void.

“You should never have come into this realm,” the demon rumbled. “Never will you leave.”

Terror tried to penetrate Darianna as she realized that the Pit was bottomless, a point coming soon when finding her way back to her body would be impossible. She tightened her hold on herself. Pure light flooded from her soul, the descent slowed but not halted.

“Embrace the dark. You will be comfortable down here with us,” the demon tempted. It waited. Darianna tried to pay no attention.

“He’ll betray you. A deranged egomaniac who should have been handed over to us long ago,” the demon insinuated against her guiding spirit.

“He used everyone for his mad schemes. This time will be interesting to see if he succeeds, but in the end we foresee one tyrant replacing another. Let go. Stop resisting. We are also enlightened beings. We will teach you to be a most potent queen of shadows.”

Demonic power is founded upon lies. Darianna would not listen. She had to succeed!

“You have already lost, you know that,” the demon disclosed. “You are outside of your protective circle, where we play by our rules.”

In a fit of savagery, the low demon crashed down upon Darianna. She felt herself slip, plunge rapidly, and fought back with all her might. Her best effort was not enough.

Down she tumbled with no way to turn around the match of wills. Her last thought was a vision of her body possessed by the high demon, let loose upon poor Peter.

Let loose upon the world!

The vision of the king on the balcony returned. A distant echo of hope tried to reach Darianna. The queen next to him was Laodice. She was Laodice. As queen, Darianna had authority over the demons. Xahmot was the name of the one dragging her into the Pit, and its twin waiting to possess her lovely flesh was Tomhax—a single being split in two, which helped explain the endless depths of love and hate toward each other.

The crushing pressure melted away. With knowledge of her deepest Self, Darianna instantly shot up out of the Pit and reentered her body.

Lying lifeless at the Guardian’s cloven feet, she suddenly gasped. Flashed open her eyes. Struggled to her knees, her feet. A super-intense charge built in her palms. It spread a pins-and-needles feeling up her arms, but without any pain.

The demons knew what she was about to do. They cried “No!!!” as Darianna lunged forward and slapped her hands squarely on the center of the two-faced terror.

A shock wave jolted the chamber. The disturbed air swirled with convulsions. Darianna felt stretched infinitely between the two demons like light falling into a black hole. The tension felt unbearable.

Marc turned away protectively. Peter spied the colonel’s face growing pained, hands opening and closing at his sides. A sudden release of energy knocked the three men off their feet.

Darianna slowly peeled her hands away from the statue. Nothing had changed physically, but the swirling had stopped, the perpetual argument silenced. Placid. A peaceful voice spoke in her mind. “I am XahmoTomhaX. Two are made one. Now gather yourself: You too will be reunited. This realm is about to undergo a great change.”

Exhausted, she willed energy into her body and said, “I release you.”

“As tempting as that is, I stay in appreciation of your great deed. Only the enlightened shall pass inside while I protect the entrance to the Throne. Your time has come,” the Guardian trumpeted. “Hail Queen Laodice!”

Darianna saw her companions rising to their feet. She wanted to run and embrace her husband, Peter, but she had to go on alone. She would make any sacrifice.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and disappeared into the sliver of passageway behind the statue.

Chapter 6

Peter watched Darianna vanish, dashed up the steps to follow her, but the Guardian repelled him. Close behind, the colonel yelled, “Return here right now, Mrs. Vandermill!”

His eye ticked. His hands clenched. “You have 5 seconds.”

He yanked Peter down on the marble steps, baring yellow teeth as he screamed, “What just happened?!”

Losing balance, Peter tried to prop himself on the colonel’s muscular forearm and instead got ensnared in a rough wrist lock. Marc darted forward to help Peter, then collapsed when the butt of the colonel’s pistol collided with the professor’s head. Marc flopped down the steps. Colonel Muhammed shoved Peter flat and pressed cold steel to his nape, knocking off his hat.

“Speak truly or die! Who do you really work for?”

Peter cried out, “Do I look like a spy!”

“You have received donations from Kurds, I know, so do not dare lie. This mighty power will not fall into their dirty hands!” The colonel bent Peter’s arm for emphasis.

“How else could we work up here for five years? We took donations from hundreds of sources to support our research. Please,” Peter grimaced,

“I’m no threat to you.”

Colonel Muhammed released him and aimed the gun. Peter almost wet himself, his bowels quaking at the sight of death pointed his direction.

“Answers!” demanded the colonel. “How long have you known about what is down here?”

“Think about it: we contacted the government and reported what we found above,” Peter replied while testing his sore arm for damage.

“What about the spirit your wife talks to? You say it led you here,” the colonel interrogated. “Why?”

“I’m not really the right person to ask.”

“THE WOMAN IS NOT HERE TO ASK!”

“Please,” Peter held up his hands and talked as fast as he could, “I’m a scientist; I never knew for sure if Darianna’s experiences were real, or if she somehow misled herself. We first visited Mt. Nemrut as tourists during a difficult time, while trying to start a family. Then we tired of trying and traveled randomly to see the world. We came here, she laid eyes on that statue, and we’ve been back every summer. We found a reason to be, understand, Colonel? A reason to live, for me professionally and her personally. We love this place. We would never betray that trust.”

Colonel Muhammed mulled the information. “A lot of talk for no answer.”

“You want to know what I think, here it is,” said Peter, looking helplessly at Marc’s limp body. “A king from long ago really wants to be found. He led us here, and now he has my wife. I had no idea until today that such an event could possibly happen, although I’ve had some funny feelings. Cryptic writings refer to another king interred here. That’s the only verifiable clue I had, and it’s called the Legend of the Third King for a reason: it’s a legend.”

The colonel searched his mind, following the story. Peter asked, “Do you believe in God?”

“My religion makes no difference.”

“Start considering the possibility. Something very powerful is going on here, I just don’t know what. I wish I knew.”

A shadow of doubt flashed across Colonel Muhammed’s angry countenance, quickly hidden behind menace. “Did you report any of this to my government? Anything!” He had to know if he’d been led into a trap. His line of work, where the retirement plan was a shallow grave, required constant awareness of which rivals might be trying to usurp him.

“We are not hiding anything!” Peter jabbed his finger at the air for emphasis. “Imagine how much harder obtaining permits would have been if we’d started talking about spirits of dead kings. The early publicity about Pharaoh’s treasure was bad enough. You never know what crazy idea a person could cook up. Next thing, we’d have fanatics swarming the mountain trying to take a piece home with them.”

Colonel Muhammed had read Peter’s permit applications and reports on the excavation. Dry and official. A background briefing speculated on Darianna’s psychic abilities, gleaned from an old news account of the effort to open the upper burial chamber. The colonel made little of it at the time. Peter kept talking to fill the silence.

“My motivation is as an archaeologist and a husband. I’m not a conspirator. Neither are Darianna and Marc. We’re just doing the best we can under extraordinary circumstances. I’m going to help him now. Ask anything and I will tell the truth, as I have all along.”

Peter knelt next to Marc’s crumpled body on the cold marble steps, turned the young professor over and pushed back his hair to reveal a sickly purple lump at the hairline. The gashed scalp oozed thick blood.

“Marc? Can you hear me?” Peter tapped Marc’s face, spoke in his ear. Out cold. He checked for a pulse—light and fast—and felt his clammy hands. “He needs medical attention,” Peter said while propping Marc’s head with his vest. “He’s in shock.”

“We stay here until the woman comes back,” the colonel ordered.

“We don’t know where Darianna has gone, or what is beyond that passage.”

“She is your wife.”

Colonel Muhammed thought he had Peter cornered. Gun holstered, he sat down a comfortable distance below the Guardian and waited—and waited longer, through the rumbles and flashes coming from beyond his eager reach.

****

The Guardian’s Challenge behind her, Darianna was ready for a new reality as a vessel to be filled, a new wineskin awaiting fresh wine.

“I’m here,” she announced. Finally.

Her innermost senses registered a powerful presence above her in the dark. Him. Her eyes adjusted to the faint glow of the room and discerned a cone-shaped monolith thrusting upward from the floor, reaching toward an unseen peak. Tendrils of silvery energy outlined high triangular walls.

Darianna flicked a Zippo lighter to see better, a handy tool never left behind when exploring underground. On either side of her stood two waist-high silver pyramids with thick, rope-like wicks sticking a few inches out of the top. She felt the wick of the one to the right, expecting it to be dry and coarse. Her fingers returned oily, with a pleasant smell of sandalwood. A tall orange and blue flame sprang to life a moment after she applied flame.

Brilliant colors charged to life when Darianna lit the other wick, light reflected back and forth off walls covered with pure silver. The dark crystal cone in the center of the chamber rose halfway to the peak, steps wound counterclockwise around from bottom to top. Above the top, stuffed into the peak of the pyramid, a shadowy mass disturbed the air, weaving and churning: Darianna’s guiding spirit.

“I have learned my true name,” she said, her voice cracking but quickly growing firm. “Now who are you?”

The answer flashed into her mind: the king on the balcony overlooking an assembly of high-ranking soldiers and important citizens all dressed in fine, colorful clothing. His sandy hair flowed across his head in waves, cut short in a Roman style, and his sly face captured all attention, his demeanor expressing supreme confidence. The citizenry had absolute faith in his leadership.

You see the past, the spirit transmitted to her mind. Now see today.

A vision of vast cosmos appeared before her inner eye: an immense machine of light, energy, motion. She saw it all swirl, congeal, and take form, order rising out of chaos, shaped and multiplied to fill a universe. And behind it all, a question: what rules? Look deeper, what is ultimately there? The nameless All, the fearsome God, the loving Creator, or nothing? No pat answer seemed satisfactory, but Darianna knew a better one to be forthcoming. Feeling like a fresh convert responding to an altar call, she climbed the first steps leading to her guiding spirit, which told her:

Come closer, up here where we can commune as one mind.

Seductive sweetness lifted Darianna higher. She saw empires rise and fall in the often bloody progression of humankind. The spirit understood all history, all people. It saw them not as flesh but as points of light on a universal grid.

Come to my Throne and see the whole world at once. Then you will understand. You will transform, and we can join together.

Darianna spiraled upward in mind and body, the connection to her guide growing ever stronger. “I enter the unconscious now,” she said, feeling calm while simultaneously elated, “transcending time and space to go where all are connected, all is known.”

Pathways opened into Darianna’s depths, hints revealed of her true potential, her inner power. Whatever doubts she might have had about her abilities were discarded in the face of revelation. Energy licked her face, the dark half fully realized in equal balance with the light. She’d never felt so present, aware. Alive!

“Here is where I belong; where I’ve always belonged.”

We will create a new kingdom from the old, to unite all people. My subjects everywhere hear my call. They join in this great endeavor. All that has ever been, has been in preparation for my Second Coming.

Darianna stepped to the top of the crystal tower and witnessed the most beautiful sight yet: an ornate, high-backed ivory throne. Arms carved to form lion’s paws, back shaped like eagle wings, the seat itself big enough to fit three people:

The Throne. His Throne.

The incomprehensible hovered close overhead. She saw what he had tried to accomplish in his life; saw herself at his side, dutiful; saw the awe of everyone who crossed his path, whether as subject or opponent. In what some call madness he found genius, and in genius: Immortality.

The hollow pyramid focused energy to the peak, controlled by the mind on the Throne. Knowing only that she had come too far to turn back, trusting intuition to lead deeper into her full potential, she loosed her voice to proclaim, “I am Laodice, forever your queen. And you are my King, Antiochus, the Epiphany. Show me how to serve you again.”

Darianna sat on the Throne like she’d been a queen all along, her body movements more deliberate and elegant, her face alight from the rush of energy produced by a mere thought. In front of her eyes appeared the most precious pearl contained within the tastiest oyster: the world in all its complexity. She viewed anything she wanted—the organic mass of humanity exposed, even the inner tickingof the universe revealed—prepared to launch into the cosmos with her awakener on a journey of discovery into the depths of mind. The countdown began.

First, she used the power at her command Peter feeling alone and frightened in the next room and sent him light; sensed Marc weakening and sent him light. The Guardian played with Colonel Muhammed’s memories, softening him up for transformation. She ached with loss for her old life.

To be reborn as Laodice, Darianna had to pass away. The intensity level of the chamber increased as Earth’s roots supplied pure energy, molded by mind. Antiochus tugged at her to set free, but a part of her resisted. He transmitted a vision: the bottomless Pit the demon tried to trap her in, compared with the infinite cosmos. She could go anywhere and return safely. Only one more step to take before the first day of her new life.

Darianna let go and finally understood.

...Everything.

Chapter 7

For the tenth time that hour, Abby paced the small stretch of dirt between the front door and the side of the mud-brick house, where his older brother Akbar sat staring down the road. Abby had no idea what to think. Akbar’s anxious face betrayed that something had happened at Mt. Nemrut; he returned home looking like he’d seen a ghost. At first attempting to give Abby a brusque explanation, Akbar shut up altogether and took his post on a small stool against the side wall, his spindly legs splayed to either side, tussled black bangs covering his eyes as he stared at his feet.

Once in a while he muttered a word or partial sentence, not enough to reveal his mind. Wasn’t like Akbar to keep secrets. Abby considered the possibility of insanity—a family disease—and quickly set aside the thought. Akbar just needed to talk; Abby needed to know, and blurted the first thought in his head.

“Are the soldiers after you?”

Abby’s main concern centered around the caravan of military jeeps carrying Colonel Muhammed that blew through Karadut in a swirl of dust and whir of revved engines an hour after Akbar returned from Nemrut Dag. Tired villagers watched the cadre roar by, a strange sight to their simple eyes but a message of force easily understood. Soon after, a dark blue sedan full of secretive men stopped in the village to ask if Kurdish insurgents had been spotted in the area, or bright lights in the sky. Akbar hid in the house with feigned illness until the men left.

Abby first observed his older brother curiously, then wondered if the sudden silence was somehow related. If Akbar had stolen something, it could be returned. The brothers would weather the storm together. Sitting against the wall, Akbar shot an annoyed glance at Abby, his mouth trying to form a word, then nothing. Abby would not accept slack-faced silence for an answer.

“Whatever you did, we’ll work through it. Don’t make them come drag you away.” He paused for a reaction. Time to pull out the big ammunition.

“I saw what you did in your pants....”

Akbar visually traced the ground to Abby’s feet, back down to his fresh trousers, back to Abby, and he rose from the stool with clenched fists. How he wanted to stuff something into that mouth! Instead of sharing the good news of that dawn, he raged, “Shut your fucking mouth or I will!”

Too shocked to react, Abby froze.

Akbar threw himself at the stool and resumed his dour vigil, faced down the dirt road leading to the village. Part of himself wanted to believe he’d been the victim of his imagination; maybe he’d sleepwalked or hallucinated that dawn when the statue spoke. The mind will cling to anything when confronted by the supernatural. Dream-like, yes—fantastical, yes—seemingly impossible, yes—but the statue had actually talked to him. It entered his dreams, woke him and compelled him to the mountain to announce itself—to him! Just a simple villager in way over his head.

A thunderhead built in the distance, coalescing over Nemrut Dag, and it reached out to find Akbar back home. Abby’s questioning forced him to confront the unnerving reality of having no idea what really happened on the mountaintop, or what he was supposed to do except keep the secret and wait. Feeling bad for cursing, he apologized to his mortified younger brother.

“I’m sorry, but you can be such a puppy sometimes. I can’t tell you what happened. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the soldiers.”

Abby reported excitedly, “Some of the neighbors say the sky over Nemrut turned bright as midday, right at dawn.”

“Brightest light you’ve ever seen,” confirmed Akbar. Abby’s eyes widened.

“What was it?”

“This is why I didn’t want to start answering questions: You always have more. Do you realize how many of your questions I’ve answered without mom and dad around? Half of the words out of your mouth are to ask something.”

“Sorry,” Abby said sheepishly.

“It’s just you—and everything. Give me time to think.” Now his feet were on the ground, Akbar told himself. What had come over him a moment ago? The ugliness just popped out.

Abby came closer, a little warily, and asked, “You aren’t going to be arrested and disappear into a secret police prison?”

“I think this is the day everyone has been waiting for.” Akbar looked away from the road to meet Abby’s quizzical gaze.

“Waiting for what?” Akbar opened his mouth and took too long to make a sound.

“I have to see for myself.”

Before Abby landed his second step, Akbar landed a hand on his upper arm. “Promise me you won’t sneak off.”

Already with the thought in mind, Abby could not tell a lie, and at age seventeen, lacked the gumption to openly defy the brother who had raised him since late childhood.

“I promise you I’ll be madder than I’ve ever been.” Akbar held up his forefinger, the sign that he was serious. “Don’t make me.”

“I’ll do as you say,” Abby agreed, “but you have to tell me what we’re waiting for.”

“Something is coming.” Akbar looked away to monitor the road.

“But the war.”

“No more war, I was promised.” Still shaken, Akbar remembered that his prayers were answered. In a sudden rush of emotion, he embraced his startled brother and said, “This is it!”

Abby could only wonder what.

****

International news correspondent Cameron Starr wondered what the bloody hell was going on, lost in the middle of nowhere.

Sometime after leaving paved roads for potholed goat paths, the GPS navigator tried to tell Cameron with its pleasant voice to speed off the next cliff. The map he’d bought in Ankara came with English instructions but Turkish identifications. And to top it all off, his satellite phone signal played a frustrating game of Peek-a-Boo. He wondered if the Turkish military was jamming the signal. That annoyance, combined with the gaping holes in the dirt road he traveled somewhere in southeast Turkey and the ridiculousness of his assignment, made the star journalist wonder what he really sought out in the middle of no-man’s land.

Cameron had found himself in some real backwaters while combing the world for the next big story, but Mt. Nemrut was what people from a backwater call a backwater. Some Eighth Wonder of the World. None of the Turkish locals he’d encountered—one actually rode in a mule-drawn cart!—spoke English or any other language of which he knew a smattering. He would say “Mount Nemrut,” and they would stare back ignorantly. Or point toward the next cliff. Some locals were fearful of the striking black man in the tan Land Rover, even ran at the sight of him stepping out to ask a question. He wanted to say, “But I grew up in England, went to Columbia School of Journalism.”

Cameron laughed at the situation, the spacious cabin filled with his television-perfect baritone. The end of the world must be right around the next bend when the damn satellite phone fails!

The story that lured the news correspondent deep into the Turkish mountains was probably no better than bleeding Virgin Mary statues or other distractions for lesser journalists. The night before, he was covering the buildup to war in northern Iraq that appeared—he heard from many sources except official ones—all but inevitable. All other avenues had been exhausted. Positions ossified. Conversations stopped. Battle stations.

The world held its breath, ears strained for the first booms of a broader war. “It’s World War III!” the war hawks exulted, eager to get the ball rolling toward their Armageddon. The Turkish prime minister’s only choice was to heed the call to conflict despite being an innately peaceful man, Cameron assumed by his reputation. The country’s generals, empowered by its Constitution to defend the secular state, could depose the elected government at will, and they had cause, just or not: Kurdish insurgency in southeast Turkey, plus the Kurds' push for full nationhood in northern Iraq.

Cameron needed to be on the scene for developments. A day later he followed a road to nowhere, covering a story that probably originated with the natives smoking some good shit. Curse his luck for being in Ankara and drawing the assignment.

On the upside, legendary BCC executive producer Alistaire Campbell personally phoned early that morning to brief Cameron. The tip to investigate: a monstrous flash of light akin to a small nuke. Mr. Campbell, known for an extravagant career as an intelligence officer before taking on the media world, informed Cameron that the information came through a source in British Intelligence. The journalist had to work backwards as if he had no inside knowledge. Mr. Campbell then mentioned, Turkish locals reported a strange light seen in the area of a mountain monument site called Nemrut Dag.

Cameron caught the vibe: a pretense to infiltrate the hotspot. Restrictions prevented journalists from gaining access to confirm the story of rebels preparing for all-out war by spreading insurrection among the ten-or-so million Kurds in southeastern Turkey. His real purpose had to remain unacknowledged, even by the news executive, Mr. Campbell, but he’d bet a month’s salary that the British Communications Corporation hadn’t fought the Turkish government for permission to send him after nothing.

The journalist was cranky after hours of driving and the early wake-up call. The strange way the assignment fell to him made a clandestine sort of sense. He could look any Turkish official in the eye and honestly say he was only doing his job by investigating what the locals reported. He would figure out how as he went.

“You’re the best, Cameron,” Mr. Campbell dropped like a carrot at the end of their conversation. “There could be some nuts to this one. Land me the Big Story and I’ll make sure you get behind the desk more often.”

To dangle an anchor slot ... damn right Cameron would do his best! He itched to spend less time on the road and more time in London with his wife and young daughters. Instead he hopscotched the world in pursuit of the next headline.

Plenty of headlines were easy to grab as the quandary of the major powers deepened. The Kurds had maneuvered wisely by helping the Americans against Saddam, then organizing to grab power in the Iraqi government. Kurdistan, their traditional homeland in the north, was a de facto state that Turkey had made real clear it would not tolerate as an actual one. Rather than back down, the Kurds prepared to seek a seat in the United Nations, while the mountainous border filled with well-trained militia running insurgent strikes across the border into Turkey.

Forcing the issue caught world powers in an awful pickle. Only the European Union stood a chance of persuading Turkey away from a new war where another still raged, but the eurocrats had offered then cruelly pulled away the possibility of full membership, the date of acceptance further delayed for one lame reason or another. They earned Turkish animosity, European hands empty as their economies shrank in the financial meltdown. The Americans had their own problems, and could not prevent Turkey from defending itself against “terrorists”.

Another blowback from the disaster to the south in Iraq.

Everyone knew what was about to happen. Nothing except a miracle could halt the inevitable carnage. If Turkey invaded and annexed the mountainous border, the splintered region would fully fracture, releasing the demon of ethnic cleansing, threatening oil supplies and leading to world conflict.

Cameron guessed that the Turks would act before the U.N. ever formally took up the matter. Kurdish populations in Turkey, Iran, Syria, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia were rising in support of their brethren in Iraq, instigating harsh responses from governments under siege. The long-abused people of the Near East would persist until everyone knew very clearly that they are some tough bastards who can dish out punishment as well as take. It had to happen; the status quo could no longer be maintained.

In a simplistic phrase Cameron liked to use privately, “World about to go BOOM.”

Up the dirt road he spotted a grouping of squat homes better described as huts. The village appeared desolate, but the journalist caught sight of two young native men reclined against a wall: Akbar and Abby. He noticed their trousers and button-down shirts, bad imitations of western style. A good sign. A few other villagers milled about, old men in flowing robes and weary women scrubbing clothes by hand. The most depressing-looking place Cameron had ever encountered outside of a war zone. Then again, war was not far away—in time or distance.

The journalist eased the rented Land Rover to the side of the road. He knew well his visual impact. Tall and stoutly muscled, gleaming head crowned by ridges worthy of a phrenologist’s fantasy, Cameron was the blackest man one could expect to encounter away from the equator. Add expensive clothes, deep voice and easy smile packed with perfect white teeth, and a billion viewers of the BCC—the world’s most popular news service—recognized him as the face on the television who delivered bad news with a hopeful spin.

He would pull a Walter Cronkite and tell the bald, honest truth if he could: world leaders had maneuvered themselves into a painfully tight box, and no great ones like times past had emerged—or were likely to emerge—to lead humanity out of the trap of its own making. A pound of flesh fell short of balancing the accumulated weight of years of shortsighted decisions. More like ten billion pounds were needed.

The BCC would never accept such dispatches. Cameron knew who paid his salary and what that pack of sheep wanted. Even his venerable news organization had bowed to the pressure to dumb down.

The public was so gullible.

Cameron hoped that the natives outside of his door were as naïve as they looked. The younger one, Abby, certainly looked it with his thin facial hair and earnest eyes. Akbar, the older one, glared like a nervous animal despite attempting to paste over a courteous smile. They both appeared a bit thin even for people in that part of the world. Cameron stepped out of the shiny new vehicle and said, “Excuse me, do either of you speak English?”

Akbar’s insides bottomed out. When a few seconds elapsed and he sat speechlessly, Abby answered.

“We speak English. You go to Nemrut, see the statues? We can guide you.”

Finally, someone to lead Cameron to his destination—and, he hoped, to his story. “You’re right. I’ll pay nicely if you show me the way.”

“How much?” Akbar broke his silence.

“Go with me for the rest of the day and I’ll pay you twenty euros. The conversion rate will triple your money.”

“If only the Europeans would accept us, so we wouldn’t have to walk all day to exchange it, or pay for a neighbor’s petrol to get a ride,” countered Akbar. “Sixty. Half up front.”

Abby’s jaw dropped: Their usual rate equaled around ten euros, often haggled down and paid in liras. Darn foreigners knew bargaining to be the norm.

Cameron noticed Abby’s shock at the audacious price. The village brothers looked like they could use the money, but the journalist had to make clear who was in charge by setting conditions.

“Forty,” Cameron offered generously, “and I choose my guide.”

“I’m the only one available,” said Akbar, “for fifty. No less.”

“You’re not the one I want.”

Abby appeared more pliable to the worldly-wise traveler. Plus, Cameron’s assignments in Iraq had made him leery of suspicious, peripheral glances like Akbar’s, the sign of someone either conflicted or murderous.

“You need the most experienced guide,” insisted Akbar. “This area can be dangerous.”

“How do you know what I need? I’m the one paying.” When Akbar didn’t answer right away, Cameron pressed harder. “Take it or leave it.”

Abby recognized the English saying. Any money would help survive the coming winter, a harsh and approaching reality to think about even during midsummer—especially a summer bereft of tourists. He itched to see the excitement for himself, and the appearance of the well-spoken foreigner, Cameron, along with everything else happening made him as curious as a cat.

“We leave it,” replied Akbar, testing his luck and the promise made to him that dawn by the mountain God that appeared in a burst of light. “Don’t get lost.”

Cameron knew when to pick his fights, and this wasn’t it. “Very well, but you’d better be worth it. I might need you to interpret.”

Akbar pointed to himself. “My English is better than my brother’s. We walk from here. Bring water and a jacket for the wind.”

Cameron stepped toward his vehicle, the engine still running. “Let’s just drive.”

“Landslide blocked the road up ahead. The hiking trail is faster—if you can keep up.”

Akbar thought about the caravan of soldiers that roared through the village earlier, and remembered that even small lies are lies. Cameron could hold back the rest of his payment if they were stopped along the road and turned back. But if Akbar delivered the journalist to the mountain, their contract was fulfilled. Payment in full.

Akbar’s goad and Cameron’s desire to stretch his legs convinced him to leave behind the vehicle. Keep up—huh! Cameron would show the little native man who could keep up.

Abby watched them leaving the village. His heart sank more with every step. At the last moment, Akbar jogged back and slipped money into Abby’s palm. He instructed his teenage sibling to buy supplies in town. Use the money wisely, and think of their neighbors.

“Contact Yousef, our cousin the photographer,” Akbar told him. “You know who I mean.”

Abby nodded rapidly.

“Find a telephone in town; call his father for the number. You were young but you must remember uncle Hassan. It’s the number for emergencies.”

“I don’t know how to use a phone for long-distance calls,” Abby complained.

“Listen!” Akbar said, exasperated. “Ask someone for help.” “Where do I get liras? How much should I spend?”

Akbar clasped Abby’s shoulders. “Figure it out. Time for you to stop being a boy. Tell Yousef that the biggest story of our lifetimes is happening right now, and he should get here with his camera as soon as possible. Understand?”

“What story?” Abby pouted.

“You’ll find out later.”

Akbar glanced behind and saw Cameron Starr fiddling impatiently with his satellite phone.

“I was told he was coming. The tourists are coming, too, and we reap the reward. Money in the palm, brother. Don’t question. Go. Hurry!”

Akbar took off up the hiking trail at the side of the star journalist, leaving Abby with a handful of money and a head full of unanswered questions.

Chapter 8

Cameron, a born athlete and self-professed gym rat, stumbled over loose stones and irregular surfaces while following Akbar along the rocky, winding trail. The mountains were Akbar’s element, his place of greatest comfort and familiarity. The thin hiking trail cut a long ascent around a mountainside, seemingly a rubber running track for the villager. But Cameron—wearing designer boots bought for the assignment, his powerful physique built by years of weightlifting—might as well have tiptoed on the moon.

His personal trainer hadn’t prepared him for the challenge of balance and coordination; however, his ego pushed to keep pace. Trickles of sweat dripped from his furrowed forehead. He got what he asked for: The journalist said he was on a deadline, and Akbar bolted.

The triangular peak of Mount Nemrut came into view, appearing deceptively close, so obviously a construct of human hands compared to the other, lower peaks stretched into the distance. For a moment the sight impressed Cameron. He swigged at a water bottle, wiped his face, then pressed forward with his real objective. Swallowing some pride, he asked Akbar to slow down. He slipped in a question.

“How are people doing up here these days? Surely the Kurdish rebellion reaches you.”

“The conflict has hurt us,” Akbar admitted as they hiked. “Tourists stayed away this season, afraid. The Kurds are not our business. Up here on top of the world it makes no difference.”

“Do you think the Kurds deserve a homeland?”

Akbar considered the question. A light wind and the crunch of stones under their soles were the only other noticeable sounds except sporadic bird calls. As the skin overheated from the intense sun, the cool mountain breeze provided relief.

“Everyone deserves a homeland,” opined Akbar. “The Jews got theirs. Let the Kurds have one.”

Good point. The Kurds were the other Diaspora of the Near East, largely ignored by Western media, but millions spread throughout the Arab world and beyond made the Kurds the most important ethnic group in the region. Critical to peace—or war.

Cameron thought of background for the story he would file later. Forbidden by the Turkish military from bringing a camera crew, he knew that his airtime would likely consist of a brief phone interview attached to a main piece about the latest buildup to war on the border. A first-person account through the perspective of a local would pass muster. He had to find an angle, something interesting, informative or important—the 3 I’s of journalistic canon—to use as a vehicle for conveying the story to the public.

“Tell me, then,” he inquired with an easy-going interviewer’s voice, using softball questions to get the villager talking, “how long have you been coming up here?”

The peak of Nemrut Dag loomed nearer, ahead on the horizon. Akbar briefly thought about the soldiers and wondered if they were going to be a problem. Everything would work out fine, he wanted to believe.

“I was born in Karadut, our village. My first memory is of my father bringing me to the sacred mountain and teaching the stories about the ancient kings. He taught me English, to be a tour guide like him. He said great spirits live in the mountain. He was right.”

“How about lately,” Cameron asked, “have you seen anything different?”

“Yes,” the villager replied, he had seen a lot different, though the man from the city had no idea. Akbar obeyed the command to stay silent about the miracle, unclear what exactly he should do under the circumstance. He had to trust that the right words would come to him at the right time; otherwise, on his own, he felt lost.

Cameron felt like a prosecutor unexpectedly hearing a witness open a new line of query in court. “Tell me about it, please.” Akbar thought of his great aunt, the only relative he’d known well from his mother’s side of the family, who had died some years earlier. She came to him in a dream, during a time of terrible headaches following the untimely passing of his parents. She touched his head and the throbbing pains went away. Miracles can happen. Soon the journalist would see for himself.

“Mr. Starr, there is something up here you will want to tell the world about. Not much further.”

Akbar pulled ahead to step off the trail onto the last stretch of road near the parking area. A jeep blocked the way. The soldier manning the mounted machine gun swung it their direction.

“Turkish soldiers,” Akbar informed the journalist.

“I can see that.” Cameron heard a difference in Akbar’s tone. “You knew. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“No problem, right?” Akbar shrugged.

“Telling me earlier would have been better,” Cameron said testily, worried that his government permits and press credentials would mean little in the wild—might even work against him. At least he was not currently in Iraq, where the next checkpoint could be your last. He had nothing as yet to report. He could not be turned away.

Akbar felt a twinge of reproach. His little lie had caught up with him, and the consequence paid off quickly. “Please forgive me. The situation will work out. I know my countrymen.”

“You’d better hope so.” Cameron pursed his lipped in disappointment. His expression changed to all smiles as they approached the soldiers, one standing in front of the jeep with an AK-47 across his chest: the burly sergeant who reported to Colonel Muhammed.

The sergeant confronted them. “Park is closed. Come back tomorrow.”

“He’s a big newsman,” Akbar insisted.

“Not today. Military orders.” The sergeant waved them away. Akbar interpreted for Cameron, “It doesn’t look good. He says the military has closed the park.”

“How much should I offer him?” Cameron said under his breath.

“A bribe? I don’t know.” The sergeant heard enough. “You think I’m a stupid peasant? I should arrest you!” he said in English.

Cameron held forth his papers apologetically. “No disrespect intended, sir. This is really important, and my organization will pay for access if it has to.”

The sergeant ignored the papers. “The mountaintop is ordered clear of everyone, except with approval of my commander. He is busy. If you want to wait until he gets back, you go out of sight with no comment from me. I like my skin the way it is.”

Cameron kept pestering like a good journalist until he heard an absolute no.

Akbar locked stares with a tall, tanned man wearing purple-trimmed robes of pure white, who appeared beside the jeep. Calm as a stone, a light smile curling the corners of his mouth, the man grabbed Akbar with his gray eyes, who was unable to look away. Or blink. Or open his mouth to speak. The edges of his vision dissolved and a tunnel opened, connected to the older man with stylish salt-and-pepper hair. All other sounds, sights, and sensations muted; only the two of them existed.

Akbar was a book flung open, pages flipping, his life story read with intense interest. The moment could have lasted five seconds or an hour. The contact abruptly broke. The stranger spoke to the soldier manning the jeep’s machine gun.

“You know the interpreter. What is his name?”

The soldier shook off a funny feeling, insisting, “I don’t know him.”

The stranger slipped a suggestion into the soldier’s train of thought. “See a sad boy who was your friend. Remember,” he whispered, squeezing his lungs independently to modulate the next words at slightly different pitches, two voices in one. “Be there.”

The young soldier—Temel—envisioned a lost boy he once knew, a friend who was sad, heartbroken by family tragedy, separated from his older brother, and shipped off to the Islamic school where they met.

“Abdullah,” Temel remembered.

“You should say hello to his brother. No big gun needed for these two—they’re on our side.”

Temel hopped out of the jeep, followed by the man with the eyes that captivated.

The sergeant grabbed Cameron’s papers with hairy hands, papers signed by some office puke. The sergeant’s orders came from a higher source. Colonel Muhammed spoke with absolute authority. Even generals feared the famous assassin, because he seemed to relish his work.

"Come back tomorrow if you will not wait.”

Cameron refused to back down. He knew the routine: keep insisting as long as someone listened. “The BCC is the world’s most-viewed news organization. You are denying our right to know.”

Conversation ceased as the man in robes approached with Temel, the unarmed soldier. “I believe you know each other,” the man said to Akbar.

“He says I know the soldier with him,” Akbar interpreted for Cameron, then replied in Turkish. “You must be mistaken.”

“You’re an orphan,” the man observed, “as am I in a way, though I voluntarily left my family home for my calling. Your name?”

“Akbar.”

“Are you named after the great Mughal Emperor?”

“Who?”

“It’s not important. You’ve met this soldier before. Temel, you remember Akbar.”

Timid under the glare of the sergeant, Temel blurted, “Your younger brother is Abdullah. He said you call him Abby. We invented our own language from blinking. In the madras, we couldn’t do much else than pray and recite scripture. He was nice, though very sad. They kicked him out when he refused to study.”

“You do know my brother.” Akbar switched to English for Cameron, who would have interrupted already except he heard opportunity knocking.

“He knows my brother.”

“Hurry along,” said Cameron. “You can catch up another time.”

“I saw you only once. You were with a short, stocky man,” recalled Temel.

“Our uncle was unhappy about the long drive to take us back home,” said Akbar, ignoring the journalist’s misunderstanding of Turkish custom. Familiarity breeds trust, and trust was needed to accomplish Cameron’s assignment, not hurry. “You’ll be glad to know, Abby instantly improved when we got home. He was lonely, and thought we’d never see each other again. Just a kid at the time. He’s 17 now.”

“The school was very strict, quick with the lashes. The military is only a little better, but I’m just a private and my job is to know nothing but what I’m told.”

Temel cringed under the sergeant’s unkind look. The man in white watched the exchange closely, corners of his lips curled up with mild amusement.

“It’s the truth. We’re out here when we could be defending our homeland, that’s all I’m saying,” Temel said to his sergeant.

An extra furrow rankled Cameron’s hairless head. He elbowed Akbar. “Ask the fellow in the robes if he can help us.”

“I speak English, and I recognize you, Mr. Starr. I am Demetrius,” the mysterious man introduced himself. “Whatever I can do to be of service, ask.”

“Last name?”

“Just one,” Demetrius said, gray eyes locked on target. “It’s all I was given, like my friend Akbar.”

“Time is getting short, and I have a story to cover,” Cameron explained vaguely.

Demetrius waited for the journalist to state his need, quite aware of his predicament. Servants and aides predict needs. Better to render favor upon request, a lesson learned as a boy when one day, a grandfatherly teacher took young Demetrius out of the ancient monastery for a walk through the busy Cyprus streets. Along the way a beggar approached to ask the teacher for a handout, a very small sum, equivalent to a dime. The teacher asked if the beggar really meant that amount. To which the beggar, seeing that his target might fulfill the request, said yes, that was all he needed. The teacher pulled out a purse stuffed with change, fished through the big coins, found the tiny coin and placed it in the beggar’s palm with the words:

“God always gives us exactly what we need.”

Demetrius further learned as he perfected his craft that, whether prince or pauper, nearly everyone revealed even their innermost thoughts when given time to talk.

“This soldier is not listening,” Cameron continued to talk, not listen, after Demetrius did not reply as expected, and instead waited patiently. “I have the proper permits, signed by an Undersecretary. I traveled a very long way.”

“Why do you think I can help you?” Demetrius folded his hands together over his sternum—and was that a hint of playfulness in his steady gaze?

“Because you’re here, aren’t you? I don’t mean to be rude, but will you help me or not?” Cameron meant here as in allowed at the mountaintop, when he, the big newsman, was denied. He presumed Demetrius came with the soldiers.

Demetrius followed the subtle currents of spirit to a place where he was needed, that’s all he knew. He was a holy man after all, even wore a decorative robe to prove it.

“You arrived early for tonight’s Festival of Lights. How fortunate that I have two spaces open on the guest list,” Demetrius offered his solution to Cameron’s need, emphasizing who was doing the favor.

“You’re a god-send,” said Cameron. “I owe you one.”

The journalist had no idea how right he was.

“May you have good things to say about us before the night is over.” Demetrius then addressed the sergeant. “These two are my guests. The others will arrive near sundown.”

“On your head,” grunted the officer.

“Consider them in my care,” said Demetrius. The gruff sergeant reluctantly acquiesced. After Demetrius appeared in their midst earlier, somehow slipping through the perimeter, Colonel Muhammed modified his initial orders making the mountain park completely off-limits. No one noticed the man in white before he reached the mountaintop. He just appeared in their midst. After a tense conversation, the colonel made a brief phone call to his superior.

Afterward, displeased, he gave brusque orders to accommodate the robed man. Then he left again, back under the mountain, and hadn’t been seen since. The change of tone let the sergeant know everything needed about the mountain priest.

“Come,” Demetrius welcomed, “the sacred mountain always has room for two more special souls like you.”

Akbar felt the risen statue, a beacon signaling its presence on the other side of the triangular mound crowning Mt. Nemrut. The closer he came, the more he dreaded returning. He imagined how the Prophet Mohamed might have felt, called once again to the holy mouth to receive revelation one aching note at a time. The shock and submission he felt earlier still fluttered in his bowels.

Akbar’s answered prayer in the striking figure of journalist Cameron Starr walked two paces ahead, deep in conversation with the equally striking mountain priest, Demetrius. The afternoon sun slid halfway to the horizon; wind whipped in bursts. Demetrius led them to the west terrace, away from the beacon, and took over Akbar’s job by giving a thorough description and history of the monument, broader and deeper knowledge than the villager’s rehearsed lines.

The founders erected statues facing east and west at the center of the world, high atop the sacred mountain, and dedicated Nemrut Dag as a union of Eastern and Western ways. Each statue has two names; think of a hyphenated married name, said Demetrius. King Antiochus traced his duel lineage to the royal lines of both Greece and Persia. Reliefs and tablets hailing Antiochus as a true uniter surround the mountaintop sanctuary. By showing that all people worship the same God—or Gods—he avoided the usual strife accompanying conquest. His people, in fact, revered him.

Demetrius pointed Cameron’s attention to a youthful face carved in stone, taller than a full grown man and forever preserved in a moment of alert observation. A tall headpiece rose off the back like a shark fin. Cracks webbed the surface.

“That’s Apollo, known as Mithras in the Eastern tradition. Two names, one idea. Antiochus wanted all people to enjoy the benefits of the holy law. No sense in fighting over the name of your deity when the meaning is the same.”

Another statue caught Cameron’s eye with a masterful blend of Greek and Persian styles. He asked, “What about that one’s name?”

Demetrius smiled knowingly. “King Antiochus was known only as Theos, which has the same meaning in both traditions: basically, God incarnate. Kings took lofty titles back then, believing themselves to be conduits of the divine. I assume you are familiar with Joseph Campbell—King as Godhead?”

“Saw the Moyer’s report. I get the idea. Fascinating. Can we get moving?” Cameron urged politely, intrigued but unable to pay attention any longer. The germ of the story still eluded him.

“Of course.” Demetrius led the way.

Akbar wanted to continue on to the east terrace for his own reason: to see the statue from that dawn in full daylight with other people around, from behind a blast shield if he could. The statue of Antiochus they viewed on the west terrace, while a duplicate, did not channel the living spirit of the mountain.

The statues are made of limestone, Demetrius explained during the walk, and in their prime reflected multicolored light seen at certain times of day from every corner of Commagene, the small but mighty kingdom splintered off the larger Seleucid kingdom that once ruled the land. The people used the sacred mountain for celebrations mandated by the king, to honor him and the Covenant he established with the gods. “In fact, tonight’s Festival of Lights is to celebrate the day of his coronation,” said the priest. “But I know what you really came for.”

Demetrius rounded the massive tumulus mound with Cameron by his side, trailed by Akbar. The platform of stacked rectangular stone slabs sprang into view, five thrones supported on top but only one occupied by the risen statue, all backdropped by an azure sky. Mountaintops spread into the distance toward the Caspian sea and beyond to the Indian subcontinent.

“It is a sign to us who know,” Demetrius announced while standing under the watchful gaze of Antiochus’s statue. Akbar walked gingerly closer.

“East meets West once again. Right now the proverbial brothers are in conflict, but the message of reconciliation resonates. We remember how it is done. I tell you, the world will respond to our way, rooted in the past and also farseeing. People remember deep inside who they really are—and who they were far back in time.”

Demetrius placed his hand on the middle of Cameron’s back. Akbar struggled to hear as the men strolled away.

“Looking at it from your shoes, this story has many ways of being interpreted,” Demetrius said to the journalist. “I’m sure you’ll be balanced, as you should be. But of this be sure: The time is now for the world to receive the wisdom recorded here. Your profession takes you everywhere. You see war, inevitable. It will not happen.”

Akbar needed no more proof that the statuesque priest served the same power which called him to the mountain and forewarned of Cameron’s arrival. The villager shivered, disbelieving the events that entangled him.

“I’ll quote you on that if I get the chance.” Cameron’s smile could be misinterpreted for amusement at the priest’s bold prediction.

“When peace breaks out instead of war, which will happen as people learn and practice our ways, my words will ring true,” Demetrius predicted confidently. “I am not an egomaniac or deluded. Our teachings don’t ask anyone to open their wallets or give up anything. To the contrary, we open minds. Antiochus meant for his religion to be for the people of this land especially, but also for the world. Similar to the message of Jesus beginning with the Jews, then spreading to all nations.”

Demetrius appeared absolutely sure of himself. Akbar felt the pressure of the priest’s charismatic presence to believe anything he said. Cameron replied to the assertion with a touch of Mr. Spock.

“Interesting comparison.”

Demetrius clapped the journalist on the shoulder and said, “I like you, Mr. Starr. A touch of humor is appreciated during dire times. I’m sure you’d like to tell a better story than your keepers allow. I hope you take the opportunity. Your viewers will be receptive to the message, I know in my heart.”

Demetrius studied Cameron. The journalist looked off into the distance to avoid capture by the riptide of persuasive power. “I hope you are correct,” he said to move on. “Now tell me again, who are you exactly?”

“My title is unimportant. For your broadcast you can quote me as the High Priest of Nemrut Dag.”

“And who gave you this title?”

“I act as high priest because I am the middle in age among three masters of the old knowledge. We are the Order of Three. Not very creative, I know, but 3 is a magical number. We reveal ourselves now that the mountain awakens to our call.”

Demetrius flashed his eyes to the risen statue and back to Cameron’s pupils in a split second. The journalist forgot what he was about to ask.

“The Order of Three was created to keep the Covenant after Antiochus brought it down from the mountain. Like Moses on Mount Sinai, except the king was less a scribe and more the message. He sealed the deal. In return for right conduct and respectful observance, the people would be forever blessed. Call upon the power and it responds, two years later, or two thousand.”

“Sounds to me like the deal had an expiration date,” said Cameron. “I’ve never heard of the kingdom you mention, and everything for hundreds of kilometers around is desolate.”

“After centuries, people forgot. They’ll remember,” promised Demetrius. “The blessings flow again. We prepare the way. Literally: The Way, words being insufficient to explain the great mystery. It is no mystery at all, just uncommon these days. The Covenant I serve asks for an attitude of reverence and a willingness to play your part whether mighty or humble. We have kept the flame burning all these centuries for this time. Now. Today.”

“So then,” Cameron followed along, “what you’re saying in so many words is, by reviving this ancient religion on the biggest day of your year, you’ll soon bring about peace when no one else on earth has the power?”

Sounded about right to Akbar, and he was ready to get his due.

“Allow me to be the first to speak so boldly,” Demetrius requested. “We build a piece at a time, beginning with these lands. I promise to keep you informed, presuming you keep the spirit of the invitation and stay for the sunset Festival.”

The steady look of the priest conveyed that the courtesy was expected, but the people back home pulling Cameron’s strings would make that decision. He talked over the implication.

“Tell me more about your Order. If there are three, where are the other two?” “You’ll meet them later. There’s no short answer,” said Demetrius.

Cameron checked his watch. He always hurried—kept him ahead of the competition. Time he had, but not a steady satellite signal, or an angle for his report.

“Go ahead.”

“Our visionary leader foresaw that his kingdom would eventually succumb, Rome at the time little more than a collection of militaristic merchants, but rising. So we prepared for what would happen by founding the Order and preserving our knowledge.”

“You talk like you were there.” Cameron found the tone curious.

“In a sense, I was,” the priest subtly shifted the subject because he really was there, in another incarnation almost identical to his present one. “We remember the promise made long ago right where we stand, that the mighty power would reawaken when called upon by those who know it best. I intend to make the words true.”

A reverberation shuddered the mountain. Demetrius focused inward. Everything proceeded as ordained. On Cameron’s face dawned a hint of comprehension as the rumble faded away, the ‘ah-ha’ moment when the author’s first card is revealed. He needed to be brought along gently.

“There are lots of small quakes in these mountains,” Demetrius soothed. “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Starr.”

“And there are any number of ways to explain how the statue got up there.” Though they all seemed implausible to Cameron, seeing for himself how high off the ground stood the royal face. Nothing he’d seen so far explained the mysterious burst of light, unless it had something to do with the big hunk of beautifully carved limestone overhead on its throne overlooking the east terrace. He had no evidence for that, either. He saw the best headline as: 'In the Shadow of War, Locals Find Hope in Statue Mystery.' Interesting and informative for sure, but below the standards of a star journalist seeking the important story. Until knowing more, he thought like Peter Vandermill that someone had most likely pulled a stunt to get attention. And gee, who would be looking for attention but a new—albeit ancient—religion?

“Look at the statue,” the priest compelled. “Do you sense that Antiochus knows you are here? Consider the time we live in and the state of the world. This is the first miracle. The next are peace and the spread of enlightenment.”

Demetrius turned his gaze on Akbar.

The villager did not sense the awe-inspiring presence in the statue same as that dawn, but still felt like he stared into the cosmic eye of the Helix nebula. “Miracle,” he repeated absently. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered why, if Demetrius was some kind of Mountain Messiah, he’d never seen the man before—or had he? During their magnetic contact earlier, Akbar sensed that they’d encountered each other previously, long ago.

Cameron saw the pensive look on Akbar’s face; prime opportunity to pop the question.

“Do you know anyone who was up here this morning around dawn? Maybe they saw a flash of light?”

“Maybe,” Akbar mumbled.

“Quit messing around,” said Cameron, irritated. “Do you want the other half of your fee?”

Akbar waited for the voice from that dawn, not forthcoming.

“It’s just us here,” said Demetrius. “Everything is going to be fine, Akbar. Keep repeating that to yourself.”

Akbar heard many layers of meaning. His stomach trembled, and words were like frogs trying to escape his throat as soon as it opened. “At dawn I saw the brightest light, and it was not the sun.”

Cameron’s ears perked. He asked, “What sort of light?”

“Like a star of many colors,” Akbar answered.

“What was it?”

About to learn what he’d come so far to find out, Cameron saw the possibilities unfold. Akbar officially became the vehicle to tell the story.

“People say they saw a glow in the sky. It came from here,” said Akbar, pointing toward the risen statue. “It sat near us on the ground only yesterday, no life in it.”

“Could it be that the light was a reflection? The moon or the sunrise?” Cameron could believe coincidences; a divine statue stretched any imagination.

“You think I’m crazy, but that is what I saw.”

Cameron knew when someone said what was expected, but Akbar’s face was incapable of hiding whatever percolated beneath it. The implications boggled the mind. He said, “I don’t think you’re crazy, but what did you do?”

“Fell on my face until the light went away. What would you do?” Akbar knew what would happen if he revealed more: Cameron would pester until he spilled his guts, and the villager could not keep a big secret for long. The same message had already been spoken from the mouth of Demetrius, anyway, with more detail and eloquence.

Cameron whirled on the priest observing his mark patiently. “Are you telling me that this a magic statue or something, watching us right now?” he asked incredulously.

“The statue is only stone,” Demetrius answered. “The power behind it watches over us.”

Akbar knew how true that was. Always watching.

Chapter 9

Darianna emerged from union with Antiochus like a baby departing dreamland to awaken after a long nap. Sitting comfortably on the ivory seat of the Throne, in the pyramid chamber, she absorbed her surroundings and readjusted to the “real” world. Three tall fingers of flame far below her created a dance of soft light on the silver walls. Silver that is moon metal, goddess power, conduit for manipulating the underlying creative forces of the universe and changing energy from one state to another. Alchemists working with gold sought transformation down another road.

She observed everything with newborn awe. The air smelled lightly sweet of burning oil infused with sandalwood. The spirit of Antiochus above her remained withdrawn, recuperating from the tremendous expenditure of energy to heal her womb and prepare her body for the challenges to come.

Darianna’s amazing guide had carried her away on a journey around the world. They saw everything: all people, all nations, all knowledge, at times overwhelming her. Antiochus knew when to push and when to hold back—but mostly push!

They visited some of the many souls from the old kingdom already responding to the touch of their king’s awareness, the dust in their noses brushed off the shelves of history. Darianna saw them scattered to the four corners of the globe. Some old souls like Demetrius the priest recognized the touch. Other souls were still to be awakened.

Awakened to her true identity, Darianna readied for the next step, the fulfillment of a wish she deeply desired in life. A blessing until then denied: motherhood. Antiochus would again inhabit the flesh, his power and genius retaking human form. The great Uniter returns. She foresaw a God-Child.

All religions promise a savior. The Savior, as far as Darianna was concerned, had arrived. Did not matter whence he came. He hibernated close overhead, and taught her the meaning of the scripture, Job 5:18: For he wounds, but he also sooths; he injures, but his hands also heal.

Life or death, harm or heal, intention determines result.

The new knowledge pulled her deeper into what she’d learned from her battle with the demons, to a place inside from which she could wield the Healing Hand. Or unleash its opposite: the Black Hand, a shamanic tool she accepted with reluctance and honor of being chosen as worthy.

Not even Antiochus could bestow the psychic gift; revelation emerges spontaneously when the psychonaut is ready. It appears as one’s own hand, and the heart determines the form taken—light or dark, healing or injurious, dealt from the unlimited depths of mind. She’d broken down previously, when high-level revelation tried to penetrate her life as Darianna, overwhelmed by the end, limit reached. She would retreat back into the stability of daily life with Peter and work up the courage to try again.

No more constraints; Darianna reborn as Laodice opened to the deepest teachings.

Antiochus wove together observations, ideas, notions, feelings and insights originating from Darianna’s childhood home, where small magic to sweeten daily life was practiced same as some households say prayers. Better to send precious messages inside, rather than away to an amorphous—or even distinct—conception of God. The universe produces precious few humans strong enough to swim in the deepest waters, where it is cold and dark and terribly lonely. Darianna had traveled so far down with Antiochus, they popped out the other side.

He showed her the depth and breadth of his knowledge. Even after the many centuries waiting for his opportunity to return, he retained enthusiasm, hunger. In life he stopped short of creating his vision for an ideal kingdom of One Earth. In the meantime, his idea perfected. He remained in the human realm as spirit to evolve and become what he’d always been, but failed to achieve the first time. Previous mistakes would be avoided. The road led straight, moves planned ahead to the day he presented himself in full glory to the world.

Darianna would free Antiochus to rescue the planet. Knowing the day would come when humanity faced extinction at the end of the Age, he defied death to return at the hour of greatest need, possessing the wisdom of an observer of civilization’s rise. From before the Roman empire to the crystallization of the twenty-first century order. He prepared all that time.

“I leave now,” Darianna bid barely louder than a whisper, getting reacquainted with her voice, “but you go with me. You have shown me so much. I don’t know what to say.”

Into her mind came a soothing reply:

To here were you called and you came. Leave reborn, to return again a Holy Mother. Angels trumpet your song, an army always around you, and me within....

Darianna’s visualization of the great spirit above her as a shadowy blanket she recognized to be a product of her mind processing the fact of his direct presence. The physical senses struggled to grasp what actually inhabited the space at the peak of the room, an enigma as well as an epiphany.

Queen Laodice descended the spiral steps of the Throne to reenter the realm of flesh and clocks, the old Darianna a cocoon discarded, returning to a life lived as another person for 43 years.

Professor Marc Reynolds lay on the white marble steps, out cold. Peter Vandermill avoided looking at the oozing lump imprinted on Marc’s head, shaped to the butt of Colonel Muhammed’s gun. Peter worried about the fading professor, but could do nothing else to help than hold him.

The colonel, gazing down between his legs, ignored the two men. His world based on fact and inference might as well have been a wad of confetti tossed in the air. He normally avoided his conscience and its link to the supernatural. No God equals no guilt. But for reasons unknown to him, his inner eye glued open to the facts of his existence, questioning the hardened rationale of a hit-man who commits violence and inflicts suffering in the name of an earthly order. He questioned life choices sustained by ignoring the existence of anything greater than the voracious gods of human power. The ghosts of the colonel’s past gathered before him....

...And scattered when Darianna emerged next to the Guardian statue. Colonel Muhammed did not see her at first, his back turned, but damn did he feel her. Her presence sent out waves.

“Bow to your queen!”

Danger oozed from his skin. Darianna’s new eyes saw the nature of the colonel’s inner conflict. She pet the Guardian’s gnarled, outstretched arm before descending the semicircular steps that progressively fanned out to the bottom.

Peter rubbed his eyes to check if 15 years had really melted from his wife’s appearance. For a second he wondered who she was. He wanted to call out, but nothing familiar was there in her to welcome back. Darianna wore the same clothes, inhabited the same flesh, but she was not the same wife. The realization seared into his bones.

“Two have become one!” hailed the Guardian, heard not with the ears but with the mind.

Darianna stood over Colonel Muhammed and said, “To forget what we were, and be what we really are, is difficult. Truly your sins are great, but you can atone.”

The colonel wrestled dual impulses. While he had to accomplish his murkier-by-the-minute mission, Darianna’s words found holes in his armor. His hands shook, her head so close he could easily snap the tender neck. Opening, closing, his hands prepared to rend and crush and tear like the talons of the Guardian.

Darianna focused pure light of soul to smooth out the edges of the colonel’s jagged aura. He turned on her and snarled.

“How do you know!”

“All is revealed, Arslan. There is nowhere for you to hide.”

Accustomed to seeing into others (and was that his first name she just used?), the colonel uncharacteristically squirmed, struggling with the table turned. Memories paraded before his mind, reminding of when, as a teenage boy, he informed the Turkish secret police about the conspirators in his mountain village on the border of Iraq, believing that the good Kurds—his picks—would be spared. No one had been spared. Death visited all the men except the very young and very old, and grief called upon everyone else. Fleeing into the night, an outcast, to the only arms that would take him—his enemy’s—Colonel Muhammed was twisted by time and grueling fate into the very thing he once hated.

Darianna lay hands on the crown of his head. He tore back and forth, snarling, frothing, eyes rolling wildly. The last of his resistance put up an Alamo-like stand. Darianna anticipated the movements and latched her hands in place. He finally collapsed upon the steps, a wild horse broken and saddled.

Darianna turned to Marc, her focus immediately on the wounded man in Peter’s lap. She projected her mind into the professor’s body, felt the compression of his brain swelling, the blood flow diverting to his core to maintain life. Peter stared back helplessly.

“The colonel wouldn’t let us leave until you came back. We have to get Marc to a hospital.”

With one look at Peter, Darianna said everything would be all right. She became a mirror of Marc, herself on the other side, and took on his wounds—felt her head throb, her brain swell, her body chill. Once the wounds were hers too, she healed them by affirming that the wounded state exists alongside the healed, the difference a matter of perception. Two states of being—one in the material, one in the spiritual—requiring a conscious bridge. If the world only understood the teachings of Mary Baker Eddy, physicians would be relegated to emergency rooms, Darianna thought as she saw herself whole, felt it to be true, gave thanks and removed her hands.

Peter watched Marc’s sickly lump shrink, the nasty bruise disappear, face improve from ashen to waking. Eyeballs fluttered beneath their lids. Marc’s chest rose and fell, demanding oxygen. Then he looked up bewilderedly at Peter.

“How’d I get here?”

Realizing that his head was inexplicably cradled in another man’s lap, the professor sat up in a hurry. “Did you pick the date for the horoscope?” He locked eyes on Darianna. “Who...?” The question caught in his throat. “Holy shit, you look a dozen years younger! Darianna?”

“You may still call me that.” Her voice captivated, her demeanor placid.

“Fucking hell, Pete,” Marc snapped his head around, confused. “What’s going on? I feel weird. What happened to her, and me, and you? And him?!”

Marc finished with his eyes on Colonel Muhammed lying in a fetal position on the steps leading up to...

No, he would not look at the nightmarish statue. In the professor’s mind, it did not exist.

Peter had rarely heard Marc swear, only after a few beers when his New Jersey accent crept into his voice, telling some tawdry tale from his fraternity days. Peter explained, “You took a hit to the head. You were unconscious for a couple of hours.”

Marc looked around for the offending party. “What hit me?”

“The colonel’s gun.”

“Why the hell did he do that?”

“He thought you were attacking him, I guess. My arm was being twisted off at the time.” Peter looked toward Darianna and saw no readiness in her to take responsibility for leaving them in a lurch. No sorry, nothing.

Marc felt his head for damage. “Then why don’t I feel a lump?”

Peter was stumped.

“He must remain a skeptic,” said Darianna. “His purpose will be revealed in due time. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“How am I supposed to explain this?” griped Peter.

“The best you can.”

Marc couldn’t take his eyes off Darianna’s refreshed appearance. “Did you take a swim in the Fountain of Youth or something? I mean, look at you!” declared the younger man who looked older than her. Darianna appeared to be in her feminine prime.

She moved closer and Marc leaned away, but she swiftly took his hand and tried to explain his challenge she saw forthcoming.

“A mind enamored of itself is the most difficult to free. You are brilliant but not yet wise. Wisdom is what you do with your knowledge. There is a deeper reality to the universe, powers beyond your current comprehension—but not far. You can learn. Keep your skepticism; it will help you explain the mysteries of this place with the language of science.”

“Who are you?” Marc felt relaxing energy flow from Darianna, which unnerved him. “You’re not the same person I knew this morning.”

“When you discover your true name, I’ll share mine. You have the opportunity to become great.”

The heated thoughts of Marc’s cerebral cortex broke a sweat on his brow despite the cool underground air. “Why should I believe you?” He started looking for the exit but forgot the way—forgot everything since descending into the mountain.

“It was revealed,” said Darianna.

“Revealed?”

“Yes. It is a possibility, but you must want to walk the path.” She reevaluated the cocky young professor, trusting Antiochus to judge his fitness.

“You could decide to remain in the box,” she added.

“What box?”

Darianna squeezed Marc’s hand. All at once he felt like he would stop a bullet for her. She was a fantasy come to life, a woman beautiful and potent, hinting of witchery and arcane knowledge.

“The box of your mind. You do your best to understand, and when the time comes, the rest will be revealed by one who knows far better than I,” she said.

“Who’s that?” Marc asked.

“Keep your mind on other questions.”

“I’m confused. Pete?”

“Just be thankful we’re all in one piece,” said Peter.

At first sight of Darianna, he knew that she’d dropped into the dark, wet unknown hidden inside. No matter how far she’d gone “out there,” Peter’s wife had always found her way back and resumed their relatively normal lives. This time she remained in her other realm, the place foreign to him. He had always harbored a feeling deep down that the day would come. Somehow or another the most precious part of his life would be taken, something so fine he sometimes doubted whether he deserved her in the first place.

She should be married to a king instead of to me, Peter used to think. He had no rational reason for believing she would ever leave him, not after almost two decades together. For the first few years, the jealousy of other men secretly angered Peter. But the time had passed since he felt like Uriah the Hittite, defending himself from advances on his exotic and beautiful wife.

Peter tried to take Darianna’s hand; she avoided the contact.

“I’m electric. You might tap something,” she said, trying to explain. Her husband thought he understood, but his feelings overruled his head, and his face flashed the pain of the man behind it.

“This is how it must be. I am a soul reborn many times to fulfill my purpose. The destiny is written, still to be carried out.”

“What happened in there?” Peter asked, retreating to his rational mind to escape his feelings.

“You want to know, and I wish I could tell you, but you must personally acquire the knowledge—like the Guardian’s Challenge. Even if I told you the name XahmoTomhaX requires to allow your entry, you lack the inner structure to withstand the scrutiny.” Darianna looked appreciatively at the horrifying statue.

“Zahmotto-what?” Marc attempted pronouncing the name.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Naming is empowering. You’ll learn for yourselves soon enough, these mysteries and more,” Darianna presaged.

Marc’s puzzlement deepened. He no longer tried to understand.

“The Legend of the Third King is true,” said Peter. “That’s who it is, right?”

Another secret to keep. The world had to know Antiochus as what he would become, not what he once was.

“Many names have been used, and the essence comprises more than any one can encompass,” answered Darianna. “But yes, his last incarnation placed him in the dynastic line.”

“You know how crazy this sounds.” Peter tried bringing her back to his realm of the verifiable. “Most husbands would suggest a psychiatric exam and immediate dose of sedatives.”

Marc nodded in agreement. Darianna allowed no compromise.

“You have been my partner in this life to come this far, or go further. You must accept my first devotion, even if you don’t understand it.”

“Just answer something,” Peter tried again to reach her. “How does a spirit remain after death?”

“Immortality isn’t explained by time or concept,” said Darianna. “He is here, waiting for this time to resurrect his body.”

“His body?” The new information charged Peter’s professional interest. “Where is it?”

Darianna turned to Colonel Muhammed, who was conscious but discombobulated and about to find out the real reason why he was there at that time to have that experience. His real mission. Unlike Darianna, the colonel was not an old soul of the kingdom, just one badly in need of saving. He’d only be convinced when personally confronted by Antiochus.

“Pull yourself together,” she ordered. “The path to redemption is along with us.”

Darianna looked beyond the colonel to the chamber of secrets. He knew what she meant. “Now?” he asked.

“To right your wrongs, and at the same time accomplish your deepest desire to bring your people peace. You bore a cross few could carry. He knows. Come with me. There’s a name in your mind to allow your passage inside.” Darianna offered her hand.

Colonel Muhammed shooed it away. Without waiting he stalked up the steps one at a time, eyes locked on the prize, the answer. Despite how everything made no sense and defied every instinct, it all made perfect sense once he passed the Guardian’s Challenge and faced the spirit above the Throne.

He walked out a changed man.

Chapter 10

For the second time that day, a traveler drove up the dirt road to the village of Karadut, high in the mountains of Turkey. The battered Toyota Corolla parked next to Cameron’s Land Rover, journalist inside yakking on his satellite phone. The diminutive, thin-mustached driver of the Toyota only knew that his cousin Abby had called and implored for his presence, and Yousef could not refuse a family member.

His schedule was clear of freelance photography jobs for a few days. Quite an impulsive adventure, considering the looming threat of war, but fortunately the armed conflict raged further southeast in the far corner of the country. The photographer explained at military checkpoints that a family emergency demanded his presence—partly true. He just didn’t know for what.

Akbar, home for less than twenty minutes after taking Cameron to the mountaintop, emerged from the house happy to greet Yousef. The cousins kissed cheeks and heartily embraced. Taken aback at first, Yousef was immediately glad to be there.

“It’s been a long time,” he noted.

Akbar clasped his cousin’s narrow shoulders.

“How is your father?”

“Working his fingers off as usual, but he has taken to afternoon naps, and doesn’t spring up the stairs two at a time,” related Yousef. “Thank you for asking.”

“I hope you don’t hate me for leaving you with all of the work.” Gazing past Yousef, Akbar traveled back in time to the difficult days after his parents died.

The family shipped Abby off to a madras for religious schooling, and foisted Akbar—15 years young and tender as a dandelion—on the nearest relative, Yousef’s father, to work as a livestock handler in the markets of the city, Elazig. Akbar felt like an indentured servant from day one, uncle Hassan getting every ounce of labor out of the orphan in return for the “inconvenience.” Akbar grew morose, disliked the city and the other workers, who considered him primitive. The smell of penned animals was repulsive. Dung caked his shoes no matter how often he cleaned them, and he didn’t appreciate his uncle’s harangues about how he’d never get anywhere in life if he didn’t pick up his pace.

The only bright spot was Yousef. The cousins goofed around together in the bustling streets, bonding as friends until one day, uncle Hassan told Akbar to grab his few belongings, drove to the madras and picked up Abby, drove them to their parental home, gave them some money, and said good luck. Losing his parents and brother at the same time had shattered Abby; he became inconsolable until finally expelled. The elder Hassan was having marriage difficulties, and another mouth to feed in addition to Akbar's was two too many.

Yousef smiled whimsically, remembering:

“Father tried to heap some of your old duties on me, but there was nothing he could do to suck me back in once I stepped out on my own. And of course I don’t hate you, though you never write. Neither do I. So what’s happening? Abby was vague on the phone. He said you needed me. I made it here in record time.”

Akbar revved to go like their old city adventures. “I couldn’t tell him before, but now the world can see. You brought your camera?”

“Of course.”

“Get it.”

Abby, seeing his chance, asked, “Can I come?”

Akbar remembered meeting Abby’s friend from the madras school, Temel the soldier. Tempting as it was to mercilessly tease by mentioning it before leaving, Akbar thought his younger brother might decide the day had come to disobey.

“You did well getting to town and back on your own,” older brother said, unintentionally sounding patronizing. “Soon you will know for yourself.”

Akbar compared Yousef’s beat up Corolla with Cameron’s Land Rover, and decided time had come to enjoy the perks.

“Let’s drive.”

The journalist lowered his window, rotated the satellite phone away from his mouth, eyed the professional camera slung around Yousef’s neck and asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

“My cousin is a photographer,” said Akbar. “Very good.”

“I’d give you a bonus if you hadn’t already wrung it out of me,” Cameron gibed.

“Save it for Yousef.” Akbar felt proud of his clever reply.

A voice on the other end of the phone distracted Cameron.

“Ask for twice your normal price,” Akbar hissed, “even three times. He’ll pay it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Yousef.

“He’s with the BCC and needs a photographer. Remember when we used to stay up and watch the international news on the television upstairs? It was the only channel on that late.”

Yousef took a second look at Cameron. “I thought he looked familiar.”

“He’s here to make us rich.”

“Rich?”

Akbar saw the journalist’s attention return and pasted on his friendly Turk smile, saying under his breath in Turkish, “Just take my advice.”

“My producers back home in London will bump me up to the lead after the first break, but only if I produce visuals,” said Cameron. “Yousef, you ready to play with the big dogs?”

They filed into the boxy SUV and sped away up the road in a cloud of dust. Excited to see his story come together, Cameron forgot that, earlier, Akbar told him the road was blocked by a landslide. Akbar, caught up in the excitement, also forgot his fib.

Abby felt forgotten, watching them drive away, once again left out of the fun.

When Cameron’s three-minute report broadcast later that evening, it followed, as promised, the lead story about Turkey’s imminent invasion of northern Iraq.

Yousef’s photos were beamed by satellite to London in time for the broadcast. His sharp eye for landscapes, plus the spectacular vistas and artifacts of Nemrut Dag, produced dramatic imagery. He emphasized Cameron’s features with the shadows cast by the tall tumulus mound. Perfect phone reception, flawless production, and within hours the report was rebroadcast dozens of times around the world.

Yousef hurried home and posted more photos to the AP Wire later that night. USA Today paid triple his usual rate for a shot of Akbar gesturing toward the risen statue. The villager's look of wonder spoke a thousand words.

The soldiers eased restrictions after Colonel Muhammed appeared from under the mountain. The burly sergeant registered nothing different about the colonel, but the alluring foreign woman riveted his attention. The direct contact of Darianna’s lagoon-green eyes felt like staring into deep waters and seeing spectacular creatures at the bottom. The older man—Peter—appeared haggard after a long day. He left in a military helicopter with the colonel and Darianna.

With the keys to the security door obtained from Colonel Muhammed without a fuss or even a grunt, Marc Reynolds went back to the hotel that night, and the next morning immediately got to work. Only a few weeks remained before fall semester for the geophysics professor to explain how a life-sized statue cast from silver rolled forward seemingly on its own by entering a date on a Classical-era horoscope mechanism. He heard odd sounds echo out of the depths while working at the top of the rabbit hole, and a name just beyond hearing that sent shivers. He ignored it and focused on other mysteries.

A ripple spread out from the sacred mountain, Nemrut, calling all ships home to harbor.

Chapter 11

Demetrius crackled with energy while standing tall and chanting softly over a large white pillar candle. His sharp gray eyes crinkled to acknowledge passers-by.

Guests small and large, male and female of many nationalities took smaller pillar candles lit by two priests from the master cradled in the hands of Demetrius. One priest with half-open eyes looked to be the very embodiment of the wise old man; the other priest’s ruddy cheeks and straight blond hair made him appear barely teenage, but already he acted as serenely as his brothers. They wore tall Persian headdresses, dressed in elaborate white robes trimmed with purple. Around their necks hung prominent silver medallions, shape of a triangle and circle entwined in a snake dance.

In seamless harmony, using a long-lost magical language, the three priests chanted a song of the night invoking ancient forces, creating a holy atmosphere conducive for the sunset Festival of Lights at Nemrut Dag, Seat of the Gods.

The special guests chatted in knots on the north terrace, the sun slowly disappearing into the western horizon. Last minute invitees—the final two expected before festivities could begin—arrived right on cue.

Cameron raced Akbar up the last of the ascent from the parking area to the north terrace, immediately after filing his report. Huffing from the uphill dash, journalist and local guide received the last two candles. The guests hushed and glanced toward Demetrius. The Festival could start; first to plant a seed. Demetrius took Cameron aside to speak in his ear. Akbar listened like a hound catching whiffs.

“Convincing people that one is spiritually guided can be tricky, as you can imagine. Take off these elaborate decorations and what am I? Naked like everyone else. I can only offer proof that spirit works in its own way, in some ways predictable, but always purposeful. For instance, these candles will not extinguish until snuffed, because they were lit ceremonially and infused with our energy.”

Demetrius’s light accent lent a buoyant, easy-to-listen quality to his English. Cameron made a mental note that the charismatic priest would look great on camera. Taller the claim, greater the fame.

“You sure? In this wind? I wouldn’t take that bet,” said the journalist.

“Not one will extinguish before it should,” Demetrius ensured. “Time will render witness to the fulfillment of my words. So will the two of you, and everyone else here for this special night.”

The priest took his place between his brothers and raised a hand, the other occupied by the master candle lighting his face, enhancing the captivation of his eyes. The festival-goers drew forward to his summons.

“Imagine Nemrut Dag 2,000 years ago. Majestic stone columns lining the procession way, statues pristine and awesome. Imagine the many people of the kingdom gathered from all corners. Fires on top of every rise far as the eye can see; revelers all dressed in their finest; nobles and commoners intermingled. All prepared to be joyous, and to celebrate the coronation of King Antiochus, who forged a holy Covenant of East and West. Imagine Antiochus blessing us with his august presence, raising his glass with ours. On this night we commemorate the King and his Covenant. We gather at the Seat of the Gods to say we remember. And we carry out our sacred duty: to celebrate!”

Polite cheers rose from the diverse assembly of guests, most of them already a bit buzzed from the atmosphere and free cocktails. By kingly decree, drink should be plentiful on the biggest night of the year, so the resort and the tour buses were stocked. A quartet of hired musicians broke into song.

A Latino man with a thick black mustache, wearing an equally dark suit, held his candle aloft and danced to the rhythm spreading through the crowd. Clapping hands joined in. Smiles spread like laughing gas. A motherly Indian woman in a silky blue sari sashayed out front and joined in an impromptu swirl of candlelight under twilight. The spontaneous eruption of dance brought together strangers and friends, while a few guests stood off to the side, content to observe. Akbar bounced up and down with the festive mood.

Cameron spied Demetrius raise his hands to the sky in unison with the two other priests, raising also the energy level. The young one—blue-eyed, healthy looking—worked seamlessly with his older brothers. The eyes of the oldest priest were turned inward on something holy, surmised the journalist. Demetrius called them the Order of Three who teach The Way. The marketability and striking contrast of the priestly trio were inarguable, but Cameron needed to prove they weren’t phonies. If they were for real, he sensed a huge story, no other news outlets in sight. He danced right into an exclusive.

After several minutes of impressive concentration, the priests dropped their arms together. The revelers deflated into mellow bliss.

“Follow us to the ceremonial ground of the east terrace,” Demetrius beckoned.

At the head of a snaking procession of lights, he led the way with a candle raised against the deepening dark, picturing seeds spill from the master candle and lodge in the soles of passing feet. Many of the guests were a sort of fan club, imaginations already captured by the majesty of the mountaintop monument site. Whether they knew it or not, they were ready to take the next step to becoming partisans, chosen specially for their places in the web of humanity and the ripples created by their opinions. Marketers recognize them as trendsetters. Most of the guests were not aware of their previous lives in the old kingdom, or of the true source that tugged them to Turkey. They had never met Demetrius, though all had previously visited the sacred mountain and registered to win a return trip. Even with war on the horizon, who could turn down a free vacation?

The guests had an inclination, but only the priests knew the true purpose of the night.

Demetrius called out into the deepening dark of night, master candle illuminating the depths of his steady eyes, holding the attention of the semicircle of guests facing the center of the Fire Altar, where he stood:

“Friends, this night we renew a ritual that was last performed publicly more than 2,000 years ago. The Festival of Lights celebrates a great ruler and his Covenant uniting the Eastern and Western worlds. When Antiochus sealed the deal in the name of his people, he intended for everyone to enjoy peace, prosperity. But despite the ease of preserving our blessings, we allowed the best deal ever made between heaven and earth to fall into disuse.

“Tonight, we blow off the dust, crack open the pages, and once again hear the Word. We reaffirm the Covenant by following the decree to honor, celebrate, and commemorate, with reverential minds and devoted hearts.”

Akbar saw the faint outline of the risen statue against the dark backdrop of the mountain’s peak. As he watched, the haunting face glowed faintly in the twilight. Would it come alive again, he wondered?

He felt something building, more subtle than the great burst that dawn. Either a slow, inexorable raising of sacred energy, or a boiling kettle building to a shrill scream, he couldn’t tell which. Cameron at his side noticed that every candle remained lit, the flames struggling at times in the gusty wind.

The enticing voice of Demetrius bounced down into the valleys and invited the shadows to gather around and listen.

“The Festival was originally conducted on the west terrace during the final moments of sunset. Tonight, and forever after, the east face of the sacred mountain will play host. A miracle occurred here this morning. Shrouded in darkness behind me, returned to glory in its rightful place, is the first of many proofs that the Covenant of the old kingdom is alive today. You are among the first to see the sign of our reemergence!”

The young and old priests tossed lit matches into black metal bowls, wide as hoop skirts and supported on tripods. Flames of burning oil sprang up, the added light fully revealing the stone face of Antiochus overseeing the Fire Altar.

“Behold!”

Demetrius roused his audience, rattling Akbar with the similarity to the thunderous voice of that dawn.

“The ancient King has told us to remember the Covenant! Remember how peace was created between East and West. Respect all religions by seeing the divinity in each and every one of us. We invite prosperity into our lives by doing so. We spread peace into our communities, and we help prepare our planet to unite in common cause. Take this Good News with you. Practice it in your lives and you will know that Antiochus’s Covenant is still very much alive today.”

Demetrius folded within himself, focused on the master candle in his hands. He pictured energy surging clockwise around the circle of candlelights—swirling, building, rising as each one added to the collective. Connected by mind with his brothers, he gathered the energy into his solar plexus, compressed it to a pinpoint, and rocketed it to the sky with the mental command: “Our Will Be Done!”

When the moment became long, Demetrius, withdrawn despite the intensity of his internal process, breathed deeply and leveled his eyes wet with emotion. He pictured spirals of light dance forth from the mother candle in his hand, playful sprites that bounced onto the shoulders of the guests and whispered in their ears.

Heads nodded. Languid dreaminess floated over the terrace high on the mountain, the air spiced with pleasing aromas. The band played a soft, meandering melody.

Demetrius said, “Destiny is understood in the old stories as a mechanism of the universe, a god with its own place in the heavenly order. Modern kind says the world is whimsical, the result of nature’s caprice. People believe there is nothing greater than what is seen, because we’ve been taught to believe in a holographic universe.

“A destiny of your own choosing brought you here this night to see through that illusion, and to know the meaning of the events coming. Friends, peace begins here and spreads. The king sees we are lost, and The Way leads out of the seemingly impossible situation humanity finds itself in. I, Demetrius, high priest of the sacred mountain, Nemk-Ru in the old tongue, will lead, guided in turn by the principles that once united the civilized world. With the Covenant over us we can accomplish together the great vision of world harmony symbolized here. Rejoice: the blessed time we’ve all been waiting for has arrived!”

A strong gust ripped at the master candle. The flame stretched, and the audience sensed a climax. Silvery wisps of light seeped from the risen statue. The ground vibrated like a big motor idled in a hollow space beneath it.

Demetrius concentrated on maintaining his flame against the wind, his spell working on the minds connected through the other candles—seeds planted and taking root. The young and old priests joined to stare into the heart of the flame and unleash the energy concentrated there.

It blew out.

A gust of wind swirled out of the night to circulate the smoke around to all noses for a deep breath. Seconds passed. Hearts lost sense of rhythm. The teetering magic threatened to collapse on itself. Cameron Starr felt letdown. Maybe he didn’t have the Big Story after all.

Demetrius confidently curled the corners of his mouth and whispered a few words over the master candle. The flame reemerged.

“Know for yourselves; don’t believe,” he taught his people. “The Way leads to personal experience of the divine. The power here is accessible for one and all. Seek and you shall find. Knock and doors will open. Ask anything of the sacred mountain with a heart willing to serve, and you will be answered.”

Akbar made a list. He wanted new shoes and some updated clothes, nothing overly fancy. He wanted a vehicle, and a little business to run like the millions of his industrious countrymen hustling to make a living. Then he wanted a wife, children. But for now he’d be happy with more paying visitors like Cameron to help fund his little kingdom.

Chapter 12

Life-changing phone calls often ring when least expected. For fraternal twins Ruth and Shiri Hasmon, the call came right after finishing a business presentation in their West Jerusalem loft office. The darker-and-shorter-haired sister Ruth answered her phone and switched to a more subdued tone.

Must be a family member, assumed Shiri, who appeared opposite of her fraternal twin Ruth, with lighter, longer hair that bounced like her friendly demeanor, while Ruth projected detachment. Her solid frame contrasted with Shiri’s litheness, skin and hair hued auburn instead of almond. The sisters were an anomaly of Old Testament caliber, like a pure white calf or a talking infant.

Their births had similarly shocked their Orthodox Jewish community. Shiri’s smile died. She grabbed the remote, urged by Ruth to turn on the news and watch a live report from Jerusalem’s Old City. Images of a smoldering storefront, emergency personnel milling in and out, white sheets covering five bodies. The announcer reported a suicide bombing, presumed to be a Palestinian terrorist. The caller regretfully informed the Hasmon sisters, the dead included their father and three older brothers.

A fog of incomprehension descended upon Ruth and Shiri; a long wait at the hospital to find out the only survivor’s prospects, their uncle Benny. For hours they knew only that he was in surgery, time to think about what would be different.

A recent falling out with their family—father in particular—hung over the sterile waiting room. Mattathias bar Hasmon disapproved of the lifestyles his daughters chose and their disdain for the family’s Orthodox ways. He objected to their disinterest in seeking husbands, and averted his eyes from their short dresses and designer hair styles, ignored their jingling phones, dangling earrings and belly piercings.

Ruth and Shiri evolved into thoroughly modern Jewish women, but their family lived in the Stone Age, in their opinions. Father Mattathias succeeded in turning three older brothers into zombie clones in black hats and coats, but the two youngest—a complete surprise: fraternal sisters to complete the historic family line?—refused to be made subservient. Their mother died of breast cancer while they were schoolgirls, and in her absence, the passing of tradition missed a couple of branches on the family tree.

The brave new world beckoned, one denied by their upbringing.

The sisters were doing well professionally, combining strengths and compensating for weaknesses as only twins can. When family tradition conflicted, tradition lost. They started a graphic design shop, Ruth handling the business side and Shiri the creative, and needed their family less as success followed. It showed in longer absences. They dated regularly, nothing serious. Shared a spacious apartment adjacent to their office. Socialized most nights. No pangs of guilt about their decisions—until they were forced to stop long enough and really think about it.

In the hospital waiting room, the muted television switched to world news. It showed the image of a towering, solemn statue on top of a mountain in Turkey. Ruth’s gut stirred as she stared at its eyes and struggled to read the caption. A male doctor wearing pale blue scrubs—average height, early 30s in age, light skin from a waking life devoted to putting bodies back together under florescent lights—found them.

“I’m Doctor Ayalon.”

He extended a soft, clean hand. Ruth, her attention pulled away from the television, felt like she vaguely recognized him from somewhere, but her mind was too preoccupied to give more thought.

“Benjamin is stable,” he informed the sisters. “We removed several dozen shards of glass. One in his eye requires a specialist. He also has some burns, pretty bad I’m afraid. It’ll be a month or more before he can leave. I’m sorry about the loss of your relatives. They would have died instantly. At least, they were in no extended pain. I know that’s little consolation.”

“Thank you,” Shiri spoke softly. “It helps.”

“He asked for you. Follow me.”

The doctor led them down a brightly lit corridor lined with curtained beds, the beeps and buzzes of vital signs monitors attesting to the ill-but-surviving patients in the Intensive Care Unit. He paused near the end of the row and asked, “Will this war with the Palestinians never end?”

“Is that who did it?” Shiri posed the question both sisters were thinking.

“Who else could it be?” The doctor pulled the curtain and said, “Benjamin has some powerful painkiller in him. You won’t have long to talk.”

Benny lay on a bed with his right arm in a plastic cast, half his head wrapped in bandages and his left eye taped over with gauze. A sheet covered the worst of the damage.

The sisters came to either side of his bed, looking for some place undamaged to touch. A crocodile tear pooled in the corner of Benny’s good eye and dripped down his cheek. Too shocked until that moment, Ruth and Shiri finally experienced their own grief.

After a long cry, Benny moaned, “It’s a tragedy. I saw the boy enter the shop, had a funny feeling about him. When I tried to follow....” Ruth produced tissues for the three of them from her purse, and placed a soothing hand on Benny’s shoulder.

“Start at the beginning. Why were you in Jerusalem?”

“Your father didn’t tell you?” Benny’s scanned across the bed to Shiri. Neither of his nieces had an inkling of the dark possibility facing them. “Well, that was his prerogative.”

“A consequence of being female in this family,” Ruth retorted a bit too sharply. She immediately regretted it.

“You know the tradition: approach your elders when ready.”

“We’re here now,” Shiri redirected. “Tell us what happened.”

Benny fought the medication as he related the story. “Your father located a document that might have finally answered on old mystery. Took weeks to gain the trust of the shopkeeper. Last night, finally, he agreed to a meeting.”

“What document would bring them to the city?”

“The last testament of Philipp of Commagene,” Benny said, expecting recognition but getting none from the sisters.

“Philipp was a courtier of Antiochus the Fourth.”

Still no recognition.

“Antiochus sacked the Temple in Jerusalem and stopped the daily sacrifice. You know: the story of Hanukkah, the oil lamp that burned for eight days on one day of consecrated oil. Remember now?”

That jolted the sisters’ memories. A lot of explaining was needed, Benny could tell.

“His burial site has been a mystery for almost 22 centuries. Today we thought we found our answer with Philipp’s testament. He buried Antiochus then hid in Egypt, afraid for his life. There are rumors and rumor of rumors about the whole affair. You know nothing of our family’s sacred duty, The Vigil?”

Ruth and Shiri shook their heads no. Benny sighed. This generation, he thought, so disconnected from its roots. And here stood Benjamin bar Hasmon with two of the most secular Jews imaginable to uphold a duty passed down father-to-son since antiquity.

“The shopkeeper looked nervous with all of us there,” Benny remembered.

“No keeping your brothers away; they knew the significance. I ... I walked outside to have a smoke as your father began the translation. Then the boy, the suicide bomber: I swear he looked like an angel carrying a backpack. About the age for his bar mitzvah. Something bothered me—his dreamy look. Why should I think...? He walked into the shop. I stepped away from the curb. The explosion....”

A fresh flow of tears dripped from Benny’s good eye. “I should have been with them. The habit that’s supposed to kill me saved my life!”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Shiri consoled instinctively, “at least you survived. We’ll figure out how to go on.” She caught Ruth’s eye with the unspoken question: was their family was targeted?

Benny swooned under the influence of the painkiller. His mind tried to wrap around an important thought, something he needed to tell them.

“There’s something else. The boy was Jewish.” The sisters gasped. Jewish? It couldn’t be, but they knew their uncle to be particularly good at noticing ethnic subtleties.

“Say it isn’t so!” Shiri cried out.

“Slavic face, Ukraine region. I’m afraid so.” Benny sobbed again, grimaced, pulled Shiri closer to look into her face and speak.

“This time has been foretold, when Jew turns against Jew. The prophecy goes back to Judas Maccabeus, the Hammer of Yahweh. Listen.” He locked a delirious eye on Ruth, then back to Shiri.

“What are you talking about, uncle?” Shiri stroked his hand. “Save it. Rest.”

“Listen!” Benny insisted. “Your father had a dream. Judas came to him wielding a flaming sword. He said the tribulation is about to begin again, why aren’t we ready? Find the shopkeeper’s son, named Gilaadi. It’s Arab. The Scroll of Philipp was probably destroyed; the son might know. And b-be wary: I sense our old enemy behind this tragedy....” Benny drifted off. His hand went slack. Shiri placed it gently at his side.

Ruth voiced their thoughts. “What old enemy? And why do I think we’re getting pulled back in?”

Shiri kissed her uncle’s bandages and said, “Because we are, but we must find out why this happened. I’ll never live right if I think the slightest possibility exists that Benny is more than just doped up.”

Ruth bit her lip, pondering.

“Agreed. Let’s roll.”

At the humble cemetery on a Jerusalem hillside, the sun cast long shadows through tall, branching trees. Ruth and Shiri arrived at the Gilaadi funeral as the mourners departed. A slender man remained, kneeling in grief beside the grave. Over him stood a middle-aged male with black hair, his dutiful hand placed appropriately on the younger one’s square shoulders. They remained that way, quietly, until the older man left, glaring at the two Jewish sisters in an Arab graveyard as he passed.

The younger man with a face frozen in shock waited for a while. When he stood to depart, he’d vented enough to control his grief, but a deluge was still to come. His shock of curly brown hair reinforced a youthful, nice guy look. Under the circumstances, his eyes flashed suspiciously at Ruth and Shiri.

“Excuse us,” Ruth caught him as he tried to hurry by, “we’re looking for the son of the shopkeeper, Mr. Gilaadi.”

“Gileead. His name was Gileead Gilaadi, and I’m his son, David.”

“I’m Ruth Hasmon. This is my sister, Shiri. Our father and brothers were killed today with Gileead.”

“Shouldn’t you be with your own family right now?” David squinted angrily.

“We’re trying to figure out why his shop was targeted by the suicide bomber,” said Shiri.

“He had no enemies. He wasn’t political. He was a collector of antiquities. You put it together—he wasn’t the target. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. My people already see me as a traitor.” David hurried past the sisters and down the hillside toward the road. They followed hesitantly.

“Wait, please,” said Ruth. “There’s more to this. The bomber wasn’t Palestinian.”

She was getting ahead of herself, but had to say something to make David stop. He cocked an ear.

“He was Jewish.”

Shiri approached, wanting to comfort the grieving son, but his body cast unwelcome signals. David circled a thumb and forefinger around eyes rimmed with heavy bags, familiar of students living on coffee and rarely seeing the outside of a library or laboratory.

“Jewish? How do you know? The authorities have said nothing official.”

“Our uncle Benny was there,” Ruth answered. “He saw the bomber. We just came from the hospital.”

Shiri picked up Ruth’s thought. “Benny is an expert genealogist. He would know.”

“Our fathers met because of a scroll written by someone known as Philipp of Commagene,” Ruth added quickly, to keep the conversation going. “Do you know anything about it?”

David replied, “If father acquired the Scroll of Philipp, he would have told me. That’s a legendary document. There’s little doubt it actually existed, but to have survived this long is almost impossible. You must be wrong.”

“Our uncle saw it,” Shiri disclosed. Ruth affirmed with a serious nod.

“That’s interesting.” David hesitated, thinking. “Philipp’s Scroll is rumored to reveal the location of the tomb of Antiochus the Fourth.”

“You know about it?” Ruth hoped.

“Working on my Doctorate. Near East history is my passion.”

“So help us out here?”

“The store is obliterated,” David regretfully told the sisters.

“Nothing is left.”

“Please?” Shiri asked with her hands clasped together, as if praying. “We’d do everything we could, even if the trail leads nowhere. Benny told us to find you. It must be really important.”

David had to peel his eyes from Shiri’s pretty face to think straight. He noticed the symmetrical lines of her jaw and eye sockets. Ruth had a cast of red to her, the solidness of earth; attractive in her own way but not to his taste. What was he thinking, anyway? With roving bands of Orthodox thugs patrolling the Jerusalem streets, harassing and beating couples who dared to mix Palestinian with Jew, he only invited trouble by being anywhere near the Hasmon sisters. However, his instinct was to help the two women his age who had also lost a father. Their new information gave him a lot to think about. Jewish terrorists conducting suicide missions? That changed everything.

“You’ve got me curious,” he said. “I’ll look around. Give me your number, and I’ll be in touch if I find anything.” He took a business card from Shiri and appraised.

“Graphic designers. No wonder your business logo looks so professional.”

Ruth and Shiri Hasmon had more important business to attend.

Chapter 13

The rhythmic whooshing of helicopter rotors interrupted the silence of starry night, an unmistakable sound far out in the countryside. Dr. Stoyanich peered between two beefy security guards to gain a better view. Lights approached in the southeast camera, a little late but expected. A tactical team had already secured the landing zone. Overkill, thought Stoyanich, considering himself enough of an all-around genius to put forth a learned opinion on security matters.

A two-kilometer driveway and on-site contingent of Russian paramilitary guards protected the nondescript facility located deep in the Bulgarian countryside, right across the border from Turkey. Multiple lockdown points throughout the underground laboratory automatically activated with the central alarm. Cameras covered more angles than downtown London. Dr. Stoyanich’s employers—whoever they really were—had spared no expense making sure that everything needed to accomplish his task was readily available, under the strictest secrecy.

Considering what he was about to attempt, the extra protection was probably a good idea.

Dr. Stoyanich used the privacy of the state-of-the-science lab to pioneer DNA cloning techniques far beyond those in use around the world, manipulating the fundamentals of life. Once quite famous as a star in the field, the geneticist’s peers ostracized him for improper cloning experiments. The moralists frothed at his innovations, even some of the same scientists fascinated by the results. He felt the deep freeze, grants rescinded and tenure revoked after enough digging uncovered improprieties in his methods.

They would pay for turning him into a rogue scientist. His peers already lagged behind what Dr. Stoyanich could accomplish, given the right conditions. Free of ethics boards and experimental protocols, supplied with everything and anything needed, his research leapfrogged the Koreans and Japanese and made the Americans look like amateurs. He could coax the first cellular collection of human life beyond the one-hundred cell threshold to viable life form. Why not? Intelligent Design his ass. Dr. Stoyanich was not born into the high-technology world with his brilliance to be denied by artificial constraints. Inexorable progress called for his leadership. Human cloning stood at the threshold of reality.

The Mediterranean woman seen on the color monitor—Darianna—caught Stoyanich’s eye when she exited the helicopter. Must be the surrogate, he thought, expecting special eggs in her ovaries to prove his theories. A genetic descendant of the clone, her genes would prevent interference from mitochondrial DNA strands located outside of the nucleus, which can work into the replication process and send it tragically awry. In preparation he’d tested his theory as far as possible. Lower life forms produced high rates of success, but the human organism proved elusive to the grasp of modern science, cloning attempts sometimes producing results no decent person wanted to see.

Dr. Stoyanich observed Peter walking a step behind Darianna in the video monitor. Colonel Muhammed, following them, carried a shiny container the shape, size and color of a quarter-barrel keg. Something fixed his attention to Darianna. She reminded Stoyanich—a history buff during his off-hours—of how historians described a certain Cleopatra: a woman of certainty, purpose, and beauty to drive wild even the most powerful men. He felt compelled to greet her at the doors, which opened automatically with the faint hiss of a broken air seal, extend a hand, and bow slightly. The gesture felt appropriate in her presence.

Darianna’s stiff back balked from hours in a helicopter seat, but the man in the white lab coat demanded her full attention. Foretold about his special role in returning Antiochus to the flesh, Darianna was also warned, while on the Throne, about his delicate ego. Dr. Stoyanich possessed the scientific sorcery critical to her task, but as a romantic at heart he had to love his work, feel appreciated, have a muse—basic male motivation. Her alluring image burned into the geneticist’s mind would provide all of the motivation needed.

New energy awakened Darianna’s limbs and animated her body as she mentally pictured a rush of power flow out of her hips, down through her feet rooted into the earth, and up her spine connected with the sky. The old Darianna would have reached her limit hours ago; Laodice only started. Like a modern Cleopatra—a Seleucid princess and very distant relation—Darianna went about her business certain of success.

Her voice found the eloquence needed for the occasion.

“Fine man of science, already I feel our trust in you is deserved.”

Dr. Stoyanich took her hand. “Call me Lazar,” he offered.

“Our Lazarus, restored to professional life. You can call me Darianna.”

“A lovely name for a beautiful woman,” replied Dr. Stoyanich. “I feel as if we have known each other a long time.”

“Ages,” she agreed.

“Stoyanich,” mused Peter, unamused by how the suave scientist hit on his wife, “sounds familiar. Genetics?”

“Correct.” Stoyanich finally let go of Darianna’s hand.

“You ended up here. That’s interesting.” Peter rubbed his graying chin hair while working a thought, easily mistaken under the circumstance as insinuation. The geneticist’s scientific indiscretions would be stamped on his toe tag.

Dr. Stoyanich noticed the couple’s wedding bands. Disappointing. He had bagged many wives, and Darianna would be by far the best conquest—if he could peel her away for a while. A challenge, perhaps. He noticed Colonel Muhammed standing behind them, still holding the silver barrel and beginning to show strain, and motioned his way for an assistant to help.

“Dr. Kim.”

Dr. Kim, wearing a white lab coat like his boss and rectangular rimless glasses, wheeled forward a flat cart to haul the silver barrel.

“I’ll get this to the main lab and open it,” said Dr. Kim.

“I’ll be down soon,” Stoyanich dismissed him.

Relieved of his precious cargo, Colonel Muhammed had another important stop to make in the name of his new commander residing under Mt. Nemrut: to halt a war. He excused himself to Darianna.

“If you have no other need of me right now.”

“You may go. I’m sure you have much to do.” Darianna foresaw what the colonel’s absolution would entail, and might have cringed at the thought if she was anything but certain that cosmic balance would be served. She reminded him, “You have a greater purpose now, and you are never alone in accomplishing it.”

Peter marveled at the roaring lion, Colonel Muhammed, turned faithful dog. The colonel had passed that damn Guardian statue to go inside the secret chamber, and he came out transformed. Peter, though, failed to conjure a name from his mind other than his own to meet the Challenge. The thought intrigued him. The notion of past lives and soul names? Forget about it.

As the colonel returned to the helicopter, Dr. Stoyanich introduced Darianna to another member of his team, a stately female with long platinum blond hair pinned up to look professional.

“This is Dr. Toulissova. During this phase of the process she will lead the prep and egg extraction. I’ll be along once we’ve worked up the sample. And please, if you need anything, just ask. We prepared as best we could for your needs.”

“Gracious of you to offer.” Darianna pictured history’s great scientific minds talking in the geneticist’s ear, aiding the endeavor about to be undertaken. “Let’s get started.”

“This way,” Dr. Toulissova led Darianna toward the sparse lobby’s only interior door, forged of heavy steel alloy and rigged to a fingerprint scanner.

Peter’s breathing hitched when Darianna turned his way. He read indecision in her eyes. Darianna! His dream come true, one all too easy to awaken from alone. Ironically, he’d learned from archeology to accept change—the inevitable—instead of fear it. Easier to say when judging from the span centuries. Wasn’t Darwin’s point ultimately that the fittest adapt to changing circumstances? Only at her side could the dream continue.

“He has a purpose for you, and it’s your choice to discover it,” Darianna said before disappearing through the security door, leaving Peter with Dr. Stoyanich. Peter had man scorned written all over him, and Stoyanich was not about to babysit a lovesick puppy. Some men just care too much.

“The guards have a lounge where they break. You can wait there for now,” he said, and nodded to a paramilitary behind the desk before hurrying to leave.

“I can escort you.” The guard stood a head taller than Peter, and looked strong enough to tow a jumbo jet.

We can talk opera, perhaps peruse the Sunday Times together over iced mocha cappuccinos, Peter contemplated. Have any crumpets lying around? Dr. Stoyanich withheld the same courtesy and offer to be at his beck and call like he offered to Darianna. All at once, Peter grasped the enormity of the situation:

Sealed container from an archaeological site.

Darianna prepped for egg extraction.

Secret lab run by a disgraced geneticist.

Peter attributed his density to fatigue for missing the obvious. They were going to make a clone! No way would he be shunned. A sudden and distinct feeling burned in his chest that he needed to assert himself, despite his innate passivity.

“I’d like to observe, please,” he called to Stoyanich’s back.

“We are going to be very busy.”

“That artifact came from my archaeological site, where my wife and I have worked for five years, and I—I pay the bills,” Peter informed rightly.

“I wasn’t told to expect you,” said Stoyanich, still trying to get away.

“I’ve been part of this from the beginning,” Peter insisted. “You wouldn’t have anything to work with if not for me.”

Just what I need, thought Stoyanich. After a moment he said, “Stay out of our way while we work. Please.”

The elevator descended quickly and opened into the entryway of a spotless, well-stocked, brightly lit laboratory with a low ceiling. Dr. Kim stood near the middle of the room on the other side of a long worktable. An industrial vise gripped the cylindrical silver vessel, cushioned by a padded cloth. Tools sat neatly to the side. He noted the newcomers and exhaled in frustration.

“The lid is stuck.”

“Drill a hole in the top for a camera,” said Dr. Stoyanich. “Careful of the contents.”

Peter watched over their shoulders. He caught sight of strange symbols, also Greek and Persian letters covering the container. Dr. Kim revved a drill.

“Wait! This in an artifact,” Peter interjected, wondering if he pushed his luck too far. “Perhaps there’s some way we can avoid damaging it.”

Dr. Stoyanich impatiently stepped to the side. “Another minute is no matter when we have waited so long and have so little time,” he said snidely.

Peter ignored the sarcasm and scanned the ancient script engraved on the lid. The other symbols around the edges made his head feel light, so he avoided them. Twice he read to make sure.

“You might have a hard time believing this, but magic protects this container. It won’t open properly unless the directions are followed.”

“Magic?” coughed Dr. Stoyanich. “You don’t expect me to believe—”

“Believe me, before today, I would have thought the same thing,” Peter cut him off, “but if you had any idea what it took to get this artifact here. That’s what it says.” And judging by Peter’s ragged appearance, the trip was arduous.

“Do we say a secret word? Make an offering?” Stoyanich snickered at himself. Dr. Kim showed mild surprise.

Peter’s finger traced along the script as he read. “Actually, it instructs to speak the name of the one inside before turning the top.” Dr. Kim’s brow furrowed skeptically.

Peter asked, “You know who you’re cloning, right?”

“It never came up,” answered Stoyanich.

“Then it’s my turn to be incredulous.”

“I said, it never came up. I do not want to know.” Peter had his suspicions about the identity of the Third King interred at Mt. Nemrut. Of the many kings in the ancient dynasty named Antiochus, only one had the audacity to concoct such a scheme to clone himself back to life. He was reputed to be the most brilliant man of his time, but also crazy, mockingly nicknamed Epimanes—The Mad—and despised by those he used on the road to power. Couldn’t be him; too many bad implications.

Doctors Kim and Stoyanich unconsciously crowded the rounder and taller Peter, who shooed them back and milked the moment, cracked his knuckles, settled in with legs spread, and whispered over the lid:

“Antiochus.”

He caught a chill. That name made everything real, the same name his wife cried in her sleep. Peter shook off a strange feeling, gripped the lid, twisted, pulled, yanked, twisted again, pulled more. It didn’t budge. He decided, with nothing more to lose, to just say, “Antiochus Epiphanes, if you want to live again, make this container open.”

Peter gripped, twisted clockwise, and the top turned easily. A dense, oily smell struck the noses of their noses when he lifted the lid.

“I tried with all my strength,” Dr. Kim said as a way of complimenting Peter. “Who would ever think....”

“Peter Vandermill, Archeology,” said Peter.

“Seung Kim, molecular biology.” He shook Peter’s hand and noted, “Just when we needed an archaeologist, you appear.”

“Thank you, Dr. Vandermill,” Stoyanich interrupted. “We need to act quickly now.”

He swung around a bright light to shine into the barrel filled with thick translucent fluid. Inside, suspended in stasis, were a heart, brain, kidney, liver, testes, and swath of skin. Skin worked best for extracting DNA, but Dr. Stoyanich also wanted to try the testes, a long shot like the whole endeavor. He had made clear to the well-dressed albino who hired him that there were no guarantees. Even with the geneticist’s brilliance, the odds were against success.

His employer’s creepy-looking representative had stared back intently through pink eyes during the meeting, and smiled like someone who knows everyone’s cards before making a big bet. “Don’t worry,” he replied with a light accent that Stoyanich thought could be Russian, a conjecture later supported by the presence of the paramilitary guards and the Russian obstetrician hired to assist him, “you only have to do what has never been done before.”

“The tissue looks pristine,” commented Dr. Kim. “I’d bet this is some kind of embalming fluid. How old would you say the sample is, Dr. Vandermill?”

To be addressed equally among the scientists tickled Peter, and troubled him. He trusted Darianna’s judgment, most importantly her heart, but could he trust Antiochus? That particular Antiochus? Peter became more than a mere part of events by saving the organs from possible destruction. Making him complicit? Beyond that, if he began to suspect that all wasn’t right in Wellville, what about Darianna? No answers yet for many urgent questions.

“I can’t be exactly sure,” said Peter. “Two who lived far apart were surnamed Epiphanes. Could be almost 22 centuries old.”

He knew very well which one it had to be, impossible as it was, but covered his ass thinking ahead to possible repercussions.

Dr. Stoyanich said, “We will soon know if the sample is intact at the cellular level. Presuming that, the rest is a matter of advancing what we already know how to do.”

Peter thought of Darianna somewhere else in the secure building and thanked his lucky stars that he was not presently sitting next to a coffee pot on a plastic chair reading Soldier of Fortune with nothing else to occupy his thoughts. He decided for the moment to give the benefit of the doubt to whoever or whatever pulled the strings. At least he could remain near Darianna, maintaining a semblance of their old relationship. She would need help. They had no children, or even the possibility of getting pregnant. So what if his future surrogate son happened to be a cloned king from the ancients, despised by some and adored by others, engineering his own rebirth?

Peter hadn’t even begun to wonder how it was all possible, something just told him it was.

Chapter 14

Ernest “Ernie” Eagleton reclined in an office chair, feet propped on the corner of a wraparound desk supporting an array of LCD video monitors, a bag of potato chips balanced on the stomach folds bulging around his belt.

Ernie the computer technician manned the red-eye shift in the World Monitoring Center of Jeremiah Fallin Ministries. The sophisticated data center doubled during political campaign season as the hub for volunteers and operatives in the field, the main artery into a rapacious network fusing church and state without directly violating the Constitution.

All winks and nudges.

Wearing a white button-down shirt and diagonally striped tie slackened in his solitude, Ernie continually checked a variety Internet sites, television channels and radio stations for what evangelical Christians expected any day now: the Second Coming. Jesus Round Two. The news would thunder across the globe when He landed, wherever He landed, and the response among Fundamentalists would originate from Ernie’s desk.

Activation of one software script initiated the computer servers to blast out millions of e-mails and automated phone calls announcing the arrival of their Savior—or an anti-abortion rally in Wichita. The duel role provided huge tax write-offs. Before the Big Announcement, a chain of command had to certify the return of Jesus. Ultimately, the esteemed Reverend Fallin himself provided the secret password to unlock the special software, and before that happened, a staffer such as Ernie sounded the alarm.

The director of the facility, available 24/7, would receive the first phone call, then further up the chain, branching out around the globe seeking verification of Christianity’s peak moment. Ernie put himself on the notification list, in case he was off-duty when Jesus arrived.

After getting the confirmation, Ernie had in mind to contact his atheist brother-in-law, who had a way of using religious debates to spoil holiday gatherings. The man—a jocular, beer guzzling, blue-collar fireman—was not only atheist but gleefully so, mocking God like the Serpent in the Garden. After limbering up with a few Budweisers, he’d spew: “If a falling beam misses my head when we’re out fightin’ fires, but hits my buddy, and he’s being a good boy going to church, prayin’ and all, and I’m just being me, and he dies—who’s God looking out for? That’s what I want to know!”

Ernie wondered whether he’d be able to get a cellphone signal during the Rapture, hopefully free of such petty cares while up in the clouds with his Savior. But if he did....

The previous staffer left a note in the shift report to monitor traffic relating to Mt. Nemrut, Turkey, after the BCC reported locals claiming the mystical movement of a once-fallen statue head and televised a half-hour special about the revival of a priestly order proclaiming it a sign of coming peace. That raised a red flag. Ernie’s greasy fingers plugged keywords into the automated search scripts. He then sat back and watched the returns.

Chat rooms and bulletin boards heated with conversations that pinged his keywords, new posts filled his blog feeds, and within moments the potato chips were forgotten. No dull slog manning the Center until dawn this overnight shift for Ernie Eagleton. He logged-in as B1NG023 to several of the most active chat rooms, while the server crosschecked an archive built around screen names. The database stored every approved word relating to the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, with profiles of Internet users separated into two categories: for us, against us.

Ernie noticed new names popping up that didn’t match any profiles. Bunch of hippies talking peace and love, in his opinion, but he paid little attention to individual sessions, the computer doing the grunt work. It alerted him to a satellite broadcast originating in Turkey, tuned to that station, and recorded a news program.

On the program, two men in dark suits sat across from each other on a sound stage. Demetrius, the lean, sun-kissed guest with salt-and-pepper hair and a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth, answered questions from the show’s host. Ernie’s attention riveted to Demetrius’s silver medallion. He had seen the symbol somewhere recently.

Ernie didn’t know Turkish (fat chance!), and the translator lagged behind. Demetrius held up the medallion for the camera. Ernie eagerly waited for the translator. With a few keystrokes he allocated more server resources, fed the translation into audio, and gave his eyes a rest by listening to the simulated voices:

“You wear it as a sign of your Order?” the host asked.

“As a sign of The Way we teach,” Demetrius answered.

“What do the circle and triangle represent?”

“The fusion of the two energies that create the dynamic supporting what we know as reality,” Demetrius explained. “The circle generates the energy that the triangle focuses to the peak, where the opposing forces come into balance, and where sits the All-Seeing Eye.”

“That’s fantastic. American currency uses the Eye, so do Freemasons,” the host noted.

“It is a universal symbol. For us it represents the ascendancy of mind. Everything needed to reach our highest potential is contained here.” Demetrius touched his head then his heart, right over top of the triquetra-shaped medallion.

“Tell us more about your new religion,” segued the host. Demetrius clarified, “It is an old religion that once united East and West, older than Christianity, Islam, Judaism. Within it lies a path to bridging the world’s present-day divide. Turkey is the epicenter. From here spreads the peace which surpasses understanding.”

“Considering the state of affairs in the world, we can only hope you are correct.” The host turned to the camera. “Next on my show, the author of—”

Ernie created a shortcut to the video file and included the link in his shift report. Meanwhile, Mt.Nemrut pinged in his favorite chat room discussing religion. There he saw an old hand at work, known as AskMeAboutJesus, a Jehovah’s Witness and former missionary with an extensive posting history, located in central Texas. Many good people respected her voice. She reminded Ernie through her postings of the universal grandmother, frizzy hair, clutching a handbag, but get her on a keyboard and out poured thirty-five years of teaching high school English. Too bad she was deceived to damnation for following a religion considered heretical by evangelicals. Maybe Jesus would grant the nice lady an exemption from the Lake of Fire, Ernie hoped as he followed the chat session.

Disciple99: Hey AskMe, did you hear about the fuss over that mountain in Turkey, Nemrut? It’s like Close Encounters.

AskMeAboutJesus: I have a feeling about this situation. Look at what’s happening in that part of the world, Iraq just to the south, where Turkey is threatening to annex the border mountains.

Disciple99: John in Revelation warns of the Beast being a peacemaker, right, like this Demetrius? I thought it was supposed to be the guy from the United Nations???

AskMeAboutJesus: Don’t be so quick to judge; however, we must be ever diligent against Satan’s henchmen.

GATORPride: People of Jesus’ time misunderstood him, said he was possessed. People still label anything they don’t understand as evil. Many Christians will have a hard time recognizing the Second Coming when it comes, judging by how they missed Bush.

AskMeAboutJesus: We’re all waiting for His arrival. It could be soon. George is a good man; it’s the liberals' fault that things turned out so badly.

GATORPride: But would you recognize Jesus? Mary Magdalene saw him first after the Resurrection, and she’s slandered as a prostitute. The apostles didn’t believe her.

AskMeAboutJesus: Good question. I hope so!

CosbyKid: I saw in a dream last night a great wave spreading out in all directions from Turkey. An old man in robes stood next to me holding a really big book, and he said it was a prophecy coming true.

B1NG023: Did you see riders on horses? Angels? CosbyKid: No, a great Eye on top of a mountain, like that movie about the Ring.

GATORPride: Lord of the Rings, my favorite! Sauron is one evil dude!!! Like Cheney. ;)

Disciple99: Mt. Nemrut. See! I told you something strange is going on. It’s so remote the TV people are having a hard time getting out there. The BCC has some good stuff on their website.

B1NG023: Cosby, did you sense Jesus? anything about His return?

CosbyKid: I heard a name but didn’t recognize it. To me it sounded like many names in one. Never had such a powerful dream b4. Do you know what it means?

Ernie had been instructed to check for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse during chats about prophetic dreams. The Eye had an interesting flavor of its own, more secret society. He copied the session for the shift report, considered calling the director, but noticed the time: 3:30 a.m. in St. Louis. He sent a text message instead, asking her to contact him as soon as she woke up.

Bag of chips rediscovered, Ernie dipped his fingers as he followed the spike in traffic deep into the night. European websites published morning updates, and blogs filled with excitement. By morning in America, when the next shift reported, Asian sources blazed. The story spread. A sensational new headline to fill the television hours appeared on the morning talk shows. All of the big news organizations raced to a mountain in Turkey for the sort of live visuals that attract viewers. He noted in his report, the BCC scooped everyone by a half-day and sent their main international correspondent, Cameron Starr.

Ernie finally lay down to sleep after sunrise in his one-bedroom apartment, neighbor’s dog above barking incessantly once the owner left for work. He imagined that the Reverend Fallin himself might have already read the overnight shift report. Ernie eagerly anticipated being invited to the main office to give a presentation—if the Good Lord blessed him so.

The thought kept him awake for all of thirty more seconds.

Chapter 15

Men wearing black coats and hats bowed in prayer over freshly turned earth. Mourners left pebbles on the graves as a sign of remembrance. Old Rabbi Yochanan rent the shirts of Ruth and Shiri at the collars, the ritual of separation. Four new additions to the Hasmon family graveyard lie next to each other. Orthodox Jewish funerals are simple affairs, no flowers, elaborate displays or long eulogies. The rabbi simply said a few words committing the bodies of Mattathias bar Hasmon and his three sons to the ground, releasing their souls to God.

Afterward, the mourners sat at long wooden tables in the shade and ate hard-boiled eggs, a reminder of the soul’s eternal nature. Sisters Ruth and Shiri received a three-hour line of mourners in a succession of names and faces from their past. Few words needed spoken. Nothing could describe their loss.

Every day people bury family members, but seldom does such a loss strike in such a way to such a prominent clan. An entire community grieved. Ruth felt embarrassed—she’d forgotten so many names. Her sister Shiri, hidden behind large amber sunglasses, held Ruth’s hand and floated like a leaf in a river, mumbling only a few words when required.

As soon as the sisters could get away they found refuge in a garden patio behind the family compound. They were obligated to sit Shiva, the mourning custom of Orthodox Jews, but only wanted solitude. The relatives with their one-look-fits-all appearance were foreign to the sisters, yet intimately familiar from their childhoods. Finally freed from Orthodox stuffiness and tradition, the fraternal twins found themselves bound to it again.

On that day, they could forget their differences, but not their regrets.

“Do you remember the last thing you said to him?” Ruth wondered while pacing the footpath cut through the middle of the overgrown garden. Shiri rested against an ancient fig tree with low-hanging branches. Ruth needed to speak and Shiri only wanted to listen.

“I said: ‘Not now, father, I’m busy. Got to go. I’ll call. Bye.’ He was asking the same old questions and I didn’t feel like answering them again.”

Ruth vigorously rubbed her hands together, unknowingly copying an old shamanic technique for working energy. Anything to shake off hours of shared sorrow. She asked Shiri, and herself:

“Why did this tragedy happen when we’d been so casual blowing him off? I feel like every step of my defiance was walking over our brothers' graves. We never had a chance to work things out like I’d always imagined. I figured Poppa would eventually see things our way, even if he waited until the end of time to finally admit it. He could be so damn smart and enlightened at times, and completely ignorant at others.”

“Like about how to raise females,” agreed Shiri.

“Dammit, we were right. Oh Poppa! It wasn’t you personally, it was the whole situation.” Ruth yearned for one last moment with his attentive ear. “It’s been what, four years since we left for good, and how many times did we visit? Twice a year, in and out quickly as possible. Think about it: All four of them drove to Jerusalem on such an important task and did not even call to tell us they’d be in the city. I don’t blame them; they knew they’d be wasting their time. ‘Go on boys and have fun chasing your ghosts. I have work to do.’ That’s what I would have told them. I never understood how they got so worked up over arcane stuff that happened three thousand years ago, you know?”

“I know,” Shiri said, subdued.

“Were we supposed to pretend to be fascinated by how many sheep some ancestor got as compensation from a neighbor for injuring a slave? Is that how to crack the family code? Say the word and one of his bookshelves swings open to reveal the Hasmon secret laboratory or something?”

Shiri leaned against the tree and stared at the stars just becoming visible as the last of the blue curtain opened to night. Ruth swung at the air to emphasize her points:

“He had no clue how to raise girls. It wasn’t our fault.”

Jab!

“We can’t blame him for being unprepared when mom died, but what were we supposed to do, figure out the whole Mars and Venus thing before age 11?”

Whoosh!

“Were we supposed to say: Great, I didn’t want a doll anyway? Oh yes, father, I love going to school dressed like a penguin.”

Punch!

“We don’t want to be like other girls; we want to live like our home is a cave. Remember what it took us to get satellite?”

Chop!

“We finally convinced him that we needed to know if the country was under attack. The one time they budged, and we had to buttonhole our brother Simon first, remember?”

“Yes,” Shiri said, “I do.”

“We cooked him something.”

“That couscous recipe.”

“It was terrible.”

“But he ate it.”

“And he agreed with us about needing satellite. He talked to father,” remembered Shiri. “The next day we had satellite television.”

“We were like aliens to them,” Ruth lamented. “A girl, my god, what do we do? She must be made subservient, for that’s what the Book says. Am I being too harsh? They treated us like traitors for copying other people our age. What’s the big deal about an earring? Gee, I forgot, it’s immodest before Yahweh. Holy Jehovah the freakin’ temple is going to fall. I didn’t get it then; I don’t get it now. I refuse to feel guilty, and that’s blocking my other feelings.”

Ruth deflated, energy spent, and plopped down next to Shiri against the drooping tree. “Oh sis, why did they die?”

Shiri found no way to describe her foreboding sense. Benny’s words echoed in her head.

“I’ve got a funny feeling.”

“Does it have something to do with that craziness our uncle spouted at the hospital? Because as much as I wish I didn’t agree....”

“There’s so much we don’t know.”

Rabbi Yochanan from the funeral found Ruth and Shiri alone. Odd, he thought, that they would want to sit in the dark. He followed the trail of their lingering perfume, obviously expensive but still obnoxious to his simple nose.

“Thank you, Lord, for leading me to them,” he prayed. “Now open their ears—and my old eyes to see them!” He cleared his throat to alert Ruth and Shiri of his presence.

“I met your father about the time of his bar mitzvah. Long ago, but only a blink in the Lord’s eye.”

The voice out of nowhere startled the twins, quickly recognized for its gentleness.

“He was an erudite man, full of esoteric knowledge,” the rabbi said, gingerly feeling his way along the garden path. Shiri sprang up to take his arm. “From a young age he had a gift for scholarship.”

The family rabbi—ancient of days, a few tufts of white hair above his prominent ears—showed up on special occasions, brought thoughtful gifts and presided over religious holidays. He usually ate and drank too much, but his presence pleasantly touched all souls. The fissures and crags of his friendly face portrayed the wisdom of a long life.

“Rabbi,” said Ruth, reminded of simpler, happier times in his presence, “your words are comforting, but we’re finding out that we hardly knew this other side of our father. We saw Benny at the hospital. He made some strange claims of secrets kept from us. Can you explain what he meant?”

“I bet Benny mentioned The Vigil,” said the rabbi. “You’d know nothing of it—only the males—though women have filled in during times of great need. All of the sons would have some knowledge, in case the eldest died before passing on the sacred duty. It’s all contained upstairs in your father’s library." His voice dropped a bit when he added, “I know why Mattathias was in Jerusalem. He called me a few days ago, troubled.”

“Who would consider him and our brothers a threat?” Ruth thought the rabbi might know. “Someone had to want them dead.”

Rabbi Yochanan shook his head regretfully, saying, “I cannot tell you for sure, only what I feel in my bones. I see the world today like an overripe fruit, and I’m afraid it could be deceived by falsehoods. Or maybe it has to rot, I hope not. I’ll need to sit for this explanation. You are missing a lot of history.”

He sensed a burning need from the sisters. Baptized into a whole new understanding, they stood at a crossroads. Too much new knowledge and they would be overwhelmed; too little and they would be overly skeptical. All of his persuasive powers would be needed if they were to believe the danger he sensed. He asked himself: Am I just getting old, or do I really have reason to believe the prophecy is coming true? Is that what I hear in the whispers of the ancestors and see on the talking box?

“I’ll have to start at the beginning with how The Vigil came to be. Long ago, the domain of King Antiochus extended from central Turkey into what we know as Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, parts of Iraq, and all of Israel. He expanded east into Persia and south into Egypt, following in the footsteps of Alexander the Great, his ancestor. Like his predecessors the Seleucid kings, Antiochus pretty much left the Israelites alone as long as they paid tribute. But he grew to hate us, because battles among our high priests divided his attention from further conquests.

“We were hard people to govern, readily incited to rebellion in the name of the One God. His solution: outlaw our faith under pain of death. Anyone caught observing Shabbat, possessing scripture, or making the daily sacrifices was publicly executed on the spot. He tried to Hellenize us: force us to accept Greek ways and gods. Many Jews succumbed to save their own necks. He sacked the Temple, stole the artifacts. And in an act of utter profanity, he sacrificed a sow to Zeus on our holiest altar, the Abomination of Desolation written about by the prophet Daniel.”

Rabbi Yochanan searched Ruth and Shiri’s faces for a response. Daniel is considered among some religious academics to have the most accurate visions of the future; however, remarkably accurate prophecies tend to be written after the fact. The twins registered nothing more than a very long day. They were listening, so the rabbi continued:

“Three years of our darkest days ensued, 40,000 Israelis killed and another 40,000 enslaved. But the great patriarch of the Hasmons refused to submit. His mighty offspring took up his call to free our people, despite the incredible odds. Five brothers of extraordinary wits and bravery, no army of any size could defeat them on their rightful land.”

The elder rabbi knew he had the sisters hooked and paused to rest his oratorically practiced voice. Shiri tried to resist the urge to check her vibrating cellphone. She peeked, hoping it was David Gilaadi with news about the Scroll of Philipp. Instead it was some guy she’d dated, sending a text message. Booty call. Talk about bad timing, but soon the rabbi was speaking again, threading her mind’s eye through the needle of family history.

“Cities and towns were subjugated, all of Israel except the deep country. There, in Modin, Antiochus’s henchmen encountered a zealous Jew named Mattathias bar Hasmon, your ancestor and the namesake of your father. The troops entered Modin, assembled the people and tried to force them to sacrifice to Greek gods. Mattathias refused. He killed the first Jew who tried and chased away the rest, probably beating the backs of their heads with his cane. Of course, such an act of rebellion would be punished, so your ancestors fled to the countryside and rallied the faithful.

“Antiochus raised an army to destroy us. A hundred of them for every one of us—still we were victorious. Their cavalry and sophisticated weapons, armor and tactics against our guerrillas. Yahweh led us to victory after victory through the mightiest Israelite warrior of all time.”

Ruth and Shiri, spellbound by the old rabbi, already knew much of this part of the story, but were enjoying his retelling anyway, and answered in unison:

“Judas Maccabeus!”

“Youngest son of Mattathias. One of you two was supposed to be that son for your father, in the figurative sense. Every Jew better know who Judas was, because they wouldn’t be here without him. Three times Antiochus sent his armies, each bigger and more formidable than the last, led by his best generals. Each time Judas outsmarted them.

“Finally, Antiochus himself led his mightiest army to crush the Israelites. While riding to Jerusalem under a cloud of wrath, he was struck down by God with a terrible stomach affliction. The Israelites retook the Temple, restored the daily sacrifice, and kicked out the Greeks. That victory is part of the Hanukkah commemoration. If not for the Hasmons, the Israelites would not have their faith, and without our faith we would not be a people—or a nation.”

Bits and pieces of their history were familiar to the Hasmon sisters. Their father had tried to pass it on, but the twins turned cross-eyed after too many lessons. They were stubborn Taurus, modern, independent, materially oriented. The old stories seemed irrelevant at the time. They would pretend to listen to their father out of respect, but the older they got, the more ways they found to be busy when he was giving history lectures. On that day, when his body met the ground, deep regret bruised their hearts and challenged their presumptions. He had tried to tell them. Uncle Benny was right: such lessons are lost on unwilling ears.

Shiri uttered their shared thought. “That all happened long ago. What does it have to do with today?” The old rabbi leaned his head back and let out a silent plea to Spirit to help explain the connection. A persistent breeze stirred cooler air through the last remnants of the summer daytime heat still radiating from the old stones surrounding the garden.

“The words of the prophets are ambiguous, sometimes deliberately to disguise what they were really writing about. Daniel refers to a “little horn” exceedingly clever, rising to power using flattery and deception. That certainly sounds like Antiochus. Daniel predicted correctly that Antiochus would be defeated but his threat would carry on. Some say the threat is the Israelites giving up their faith, or again being subjugated to foreign beliefs. Others say the words actually mean that another figure like Antiochus would rise again. And still others that the prophecy was fulfilled in the person of Nero or Hitler. My deepest feeling is, if given the chance, Antiochus would try to finish what he started. Somehow. Judas warned us to forever watch out for Antiochus’s return. His death sealed The Vigil as your family’s mission.”

Ruth and Shiri knew their generation to be shockingly unprepared for such a scenario—easily deceived, yet jaundiced to persuasion.

“I can wrap my mind around the idea of an ancient threat,” said Ruth, puzzling over the new information, “but what is the connection to Turkey?”

“The epicenter of Antiochus’s kingdom was a place called Mt. Nemrut, which has been in the news lately.”

Better to lead than to push, the rabbi thought. Lord, let them see.

“We can’t stop the tradition with father and Simon,” Shiri declared, recognizing the same thought on Ruth’s face. Drawn in or not, they might as well go all the way. Their family blood cried out for justice.

“It might be against tradition for women to take such a role, but we’re the only ones left. Except Benny. You said yourself that women have filled in during times of need. Tell us what to do.”

Eureka! The rabbi feared the threat of extinction to The Vigil, and he was tickled that the sisters would try to keep it alive, his heart’s deepest desire when he found them in the garden. For his heart was also troubled, his dreams disturbed by figures from antiquity.

“Benny can tell you more when he gets well,” old Rabbi Yochanan said, praying inside for their success, “but I would begin by getting acquainted with Antiochus, Maccabees, and all that history. Study. Your father has one of the best libraries in the world on the subject. A vigil means to watch. That’s what you should do. Scour the newspapers, watch the satellite news, and see what you can find out using that thing called the Internet. Look for information, signs, clues—any evidence of our ancient threat.”

“It’s going to be difficult to get started until after Shiva,” said Ruth, thinking ahead. “A week of all those relatives, the rites and traditions we have to observe. There’s no one else to do it.”

“I think we can abbreviate your responsibilities. It could only be arranged by an old, and I like to think, respected rabbi like myself,” the rabbi winked merrily. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but for once, tradition is less important.”

Chapter 16

An overhead security camera scanned Colonel Muhammed’s face, his rigid countenance quickly recognizable without computer affirmation of his identity. Then a buzzing sound announced permission to enter a thick steel door. Two heavily guarded entryways later, deep inside the underground military complex, he passed the last checkpoint and entered the heart of Turkey’s state security apparatus.

Faces peered over partitions and around cubicles. Turkey’s most sensitive government work briefly paused to note the colonel’s passing before busy mouths pressed to phones, spreading word. He pretended to be oblivious, blank-faced to mask his intense awareness of the moment. Eyes were not needed to sense the fire his presence ignited. He knew why: war could begin. Like the American movie The Outsiders and the character Dallas when he says, “A rumble ain’t a rumble without me.”

A Kurdish guerrilla strike had recently destroyed a Special Forces convoy, and the generals howled for annexation of the border mountains in northern Iraq. Any other day, Colonel Muhammed would have led the charge to stamp out the menace.

This day, he intended to prevent the war his colleagues wanted or could do nothing to prevent, given the red meat tossed into the ring to start the action. The generals—sworn protectors of secular Turkey, entitled to act on their own when they see fit—needed no further justification. The country could care less what anyone else thought; the use of terror tactics justified war in response.

“Damn Prime Minister Erbakan for his stalling!” large parts of the Turkish public complained. If the no-mercy rule applied to terrorism in one place, it applied everywhere. The Turks sickened of all-take-and-no-give from the international community, their sovereignty challenged, people dying.

Final details of the invasion and annexation hammered into place at that moment inside of the Operations Center the colonel entered.

Formerly a NATO facility, the guts of military-security apparatus conveniently fit within its miles of nuclear-hardened interior, where all national security information collated in real-time. The first person of higher rank Colonel Muhammed had to acknowledge crossed his path in a corridor where no one else could hear them. The balding general was key to carrying out the colonel’s new mission, revealed in the heart of Mt. Nemrut when the colonel stood before the Throne and was transformed.

“Colonel Muhammed,” the general greeted him, “do you have a moment?”

“Always for you, sir.”

The colonel’s voice carried a lighter tone than its usual terseness, not exactly friendly, but not the usual menace, either.

“Tell me what happened up on the mountain,” the general said. “Is it what people say?”

“I don’t know what people say, but I have a message for you,” replied the colonel. “The message is, you must go there yourself to get the rest.”

He lingered, implying the need to move on as the small, calculating eyes of the general darted back and forth, literally looking over the situation in his mind and fitting the new information into his equations. He asked:

“The message is for me?”

“Yes.”

“Me personally?”

“Yes,” the colonel answered again.

“Who told you, is it...?”

Colonel Muhammed refused to fill in the blank as expected. He knew the general’s religious obsession, pursued in secret because of its bad image in a strictly secular military. A perfect one-word answer suspended on the colonel’s lips until after the appropriate pause and humble lowering of his gaze.

“Yes.”

Better to let the general think what he wants. Everyone had their own name for the Second Coming—no point splitting hairs. A cunning intellect beyond human comprehension chose Colonel Muhammed for a mission loaded with such ironic meaning, such a masterstroke, only the greatest mind could have conceived it. Not only conceive: Antiochus knew the colonel would carry through with his part, all of the way to the bloody end. No uniforms or ranks or medals needed; any soul would respond to this voice, but people bred on authority instantly recognized the total confidence and proclivity for the unexpected characteristic of visionary leaders.

For his next shocker, Colonel Muhammed took the general’s hand, placed his other hand on his superior’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Prepare yourself.” Then the colonel kissed him on the cheek in full view of the operations chief, southeast commander, and NATO liaison exiting the Command Center.

Perfect.

The commanders could not hide their astonishment. Not so much the display of brotherly affection in the sterile environment as the person giving it out. The colonel wasn’t known for his warm wishes and kitschy birthday cards. He crisply spun on his heels, relished the moment of surprise, and greeted the three astonished colleagues. Like his savior under Mt. Nemrut, in madness he found genius.

“Gentleman, I was looking for you. We need to talk.”

Normally a mask of obfuscation and dark hints, the colonel spoke almost openly. Instead of waiting for a reply, he swept inside the Command Center as the automatic door closed behind him.

Dominating the center of the room, a table made of thick dark glass held up piles of documents, notebook computers, telephones, files, maps, reports. It showed the disarrayed signs of recent prolonged use as the High Command planned to annex Iraq’s northern frontier. The stress and extreme work hours were carved on the exhausted faces at the table.

Colonel Muhammed, by contrast, appeared fresh and ready, though he’d been traveling nonstop since the morning he appeared like a wind devil at Mt. Nemrut. He took position at the head of the table. Almost all activity in the room ceased. Without needing to say a word, he drew together the high-ranking military officers. Hands clasped behind his back, he declared, “I have the report from Nemrut. Please sit down, if you aren't sitting already.”

He studied the ceiling, met no stares. More people entered the room, quietly filling the gaps at the table or standing in the background.

“We have a visitor to our land that is beyond explanation,” the colonel began. “No name can adequately describe the entity that has chosen the ancient mountain as its home. Nor can words describe exactly what it is. I am at a loss. You must experience for yourself. From my reports you know everything that happened until we journeyed further beneath the mountain. There we encountered a force beyond any known technology. Special spiritual knowledge is required. That’s how I accomplished my mission to discover the source of the light over the mountain. Did we get the ISS footage?”

A video displayed on a wall-size screen. A view of Earth taken from the Space Station flickered into motion. The familiar crescent of the eastern Mediterranean slowly floated by, Arabian peninsula drifting into view. Above Syria, deep in the mountain chain separating Europe and Asia, a bulb of light ignited and completely obscured an area the size of the Vatican.

“That was no weapon,” the colonel voiced the incorrect, collective opinion of the military community, “or Kurdish Doomsday device. Everything in the area is the same as it was before, except for a few obvious changes. What we saw was an announcement.”

He paused long enough to let the words sink in, but before mouths could open, added:

“You know me. I am no man to fool around. That is why I was chosen to deliver this message to you. Anyone else would be laughed out of the room. Needless to say, no one is laughing. And no word about this secret information will be breathed unless you want to end your career in disgrace.” The colonel’s choice of words—in disgrace—carried extra force in a warrior culture based on personal and family dignity. The supreme commander—essentially the most powerful person in Turkey—picked up a telephone handset.

“Please, sir,” interrupted Colonel Muhammed, “no troops. I left a small contingent at the mountain, commanded by one of my most-trusted men. We want to be as unprovocative as possible. A peacemaker is sent forth from the mountain to negotiate with the Kurds. The Turkish national character will be recognized with the respect it deserves, I was promised. Soon the world will acknowledge us as the great uniter of East and West, and as a First World nation chosen to lead humanity. Our day has come!”

Astonished, no human made a sound from anywhere in the room. Colonel Muhammed placed his hand on his heart, faced the flag and softly, emotively sang the first lines of the Turkish national anthem, the March of Independence. Everyone in the room joined to a rousing finish:

"Korkma, sönmez bu safaklarda yüzen al sancak;

Sönmeden yurdumun üstünde tüten en son ocak.

O benim milletimin yildizidir, parlayacak;

O benimdir, o benim milletimindir ancak.

Catma, kurban olayim, çehreni ey nazli hilal!

Kahraman irkima bir gül! Ne bu siddet, bu celal?

Sana olmaz dökülen kanlarimiz sonra helal...

Hakkidir, hakk’a tapan, milletimin istiklal!"

After displays of affection rarely seen among military men, a phone line rang for Colonel Muhammed. He listened briefly, replied affirmatively and hung up.

“That was the prime minister’s office,” he explained while headed toward the door. “If I may suggest, give the Kurdish military a sign that we heard, and we listened. Gentlemen, colleagues, comrades: Good day. Duty calls.”

Colonel Muhammed escaped out the door before having to provide any more details, the necessity avoided of denying his superiors. The scene might have been embarrassing. He didn’t work for them anymore, anyway. The first victory was achieved without firing a shot, a trademark of his leader at the sacred mountain.

Chapter 17

The siege of Turkish Prime Minister Recep Erbakan’s office began with tall piles of press queries. Requests for direction from agencies of the government. Whispers among aides. All were unneeded distractions while preparing for war.

Preparing? No, the Kurdish insurgency of the 1980s and ‘90s never stopped, Prime Minister Erbakan knew well, only abated while the rebels gathered in northern Iraq and pooled their resources to strike again when opportunity was presented. The ill-fated American military reprise in Iraq provided it. With the Shiites and Sunnis fighting each other and the U.S. stretched thin, the entrenched Kurdish militants battled not only Turkey but Iran and anyone else who dared into the mountains they claimed.

Only full-scale occupation would finally end the threat. Israel claimed the Golan Heights, Russia grabbed Chechnya, China invaded Tibet—Turkey would annex the border mountains and pay the same price in years of withering war, igniting a world conflagration of epic proportions, Prime Minister Erbakan feared. He had no choice. He acted before the generals or faced being deposed.

International recognition of Kurdistan in northern Iraq created a homeland sharing hundreds of miles of rugged border with Turkey. A homeland awash in Iraqi oil, able to acquire advanced military weaponry and control strategic resources. No responsible leader could allow the enemy to encamp in his backyard, to make mischief on his borders, stir insurrection, and strike police outposts. Prime Minister Erbakan made abundantly clear that forming an independent Kurdish state in Iraq would precipitate invasion. The Kurds knew his only choice; they pressed ahead anyway.

So be it. The prime minister had held out as long as possible under incredible pressure. If the Kurds wanted war, he’d unleash the dogs. At least he could mitigate the harshness of the consequences.

A deeply religious man, his life at perpetual risk for Islam, Recep Erbakan was also a pragmatist. War would stunt Turkey’s modernization and guarantee rejection to membership in the European Union.

International investors would flee. He knew the consequences. The rest of the world blithely refused to understand, if he did not stop the formation of Kurdistan, his military would—with or without him.

The generals overthrew the last Islamic-leaning government. Bound by an honor code and constitutional mandate to defend founding-father Ataturk’s secular state, they were prevented from acting on their own only by Prime Minister Erbakan’s unequivocal support for the no-Kurdistan policy. The American evangelical president even had the gall to suggest that peace or war was Erbakan’s choice, coming from a man who launched wars like paper airplanes.

The prime minister prayed for some other way. Anything but the cataclysm he sensed about to pour forth in a slow-motion tidal wave, he thought secretly, ending in Armageddon.

He sat rigidly on a burgundy leather chair at his desk, pouring over reports since before dawn in a low-lit, spacious office decorated in muted colors. Dark bags from sleepless nights puffed beneath his tired eyes. Turkey’s military amassed on the border, awaiting orders to execute the attack plan into northern Iraq—a lightning strike with thunder cracking across the globe. One phone call and he would be a notorious man. On his desk sat the red phone, just pick up the receiver. Decades of insurgency and renewal of militant attacks provided all of the justification needed. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized the tactical advantage of acting before more diplomats got involved.

The time to respond had arrived.

Through the office door stepped Aydin Arturo, the prime minister’s chief of staff. Young for his top position, Aydin wore a blue suit and oval glasses, dark hair cropped short. His background in economics had shot him through the ranks of the bureaucracy, helped along by a squeaky-clean reputation. The last chief resigned rather than face a scandal. And Aydin had not a religious bone in his body, to the prime minister’s knowledge. No cards in the hands of the secularists to play against them.

As Recep Erbakan watched his chief aide cross the plushly carpeted office, he felt sorry that their efforts to modernize the Turkish economy and society would blow away. His country boomed under moderate Islamist policies, providing an example to other Muslim leaders throughout the region. Turkey’s day as a First World nation appeared tantalizingly near. The thought of trashing that success turned his gut sour.

Aydin grabbed a nearby chair and parked next to his prime minister, a show of informality only acceptable in private, but welcomed by Erbakan. He had chosen Aydin to lead the executive staff because, in their prior meetings before becoming chief, the economics whiz-kid had sat a bit too closely, talked somewhat loudly, and acted brashly by bureaucratic standards. The message behind Aydin’s quick ascension rang loud and clear: Turkey would modernize.

Unfortunately, the generals disagreed.

“The report from Mt. Nemrut,” said Aydin, holding up a folder. “I talked to Colonel Muhammed and confirmed.”

The prime minister rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and waved the other for the chief to continue.

“He arrived at Mt. Nemrut to investigate the report of the big light. To keep it secret, I sent him under pretext of investigating an archaeological discovery. Turns out, the discovery is the real story. The researchers worked on solving an ancient mechanical device,” Aydin said as he presented glossy photos. “It’s explained as a movable horoscope, the gems being planets. By picking the correct alignment, the passage you see opened up, leading down into the mountain. They followed it and came upon a hidden chamber. Colonel Muhammed reports encountering a supernatural presence inside.”

The prime minister cocked an ear.

“He refused to say anything more about it than, before, he had no spiritual faith, now he does.” Aydin maintained a factual tone, allowing his statement itself to do the talking.

Prime Minister Erbakan pondered the interesting turn of events. Anyone receiving God deserved to be heard. He asked, “Who knows about this?”

“The colonel and the three researchers. He and the wife of the head researcher were allowed into the inner sanctum. I demanded to know how they did it, under threat of ruining his career. He wouldn’t tell me. Says it’s part of the deal. You should be aware of this, also.” Aydin spoke barely above a whisper despite daily sweeps for electronic bugs. “The date they used for the horoscope was the same day Colonel Muhammed arrived at Mt. Nemrut.”

Aydin waited as Prime Minister Erbakan chewed the information, before adding, “I scrubbed the report. With the sudden interest in Nemrut, I could see a leak happening, even with Top Secret security status. I thought it best.”

“I’ll ask if I have questions about your judgment.” The prime minister formed his fingers into a steeple in front of his studious face. Aydin knew the time to be still. A minute passed before he spoke again.

“A while back, I met the high priest of a religious group associated with Nemrut. I was so impressed with his charisma and knowledge, I gave him my private number. He called this morning, asking for a meeting. Just before he called, I woke from deep sleep to wide awake, and, strange as it sounds, knew my phone was about to ring.”

Prime Minister Erbakan studied the face of his trusted assistant. Aydin maintained eye contact, waiting. Hoping. He had a feeling like no other. Erbakan asked, “You think this man can help?”

“It’s worth listening to him. Here we are about to invade, and suddenly these events.”

“Do it,” agreed the prime minister. “Quickly.”

Demetrius sat in a high-backed chair across from Prime Minister Erbakan and Aydin Arturo, gathered around an Afghan rug in the reception area of the prime minister’s office after introductions were made. The high priest wore a sleek gray suit, black shirt buttoned to the top, the silver triquetra medallion proudly displayed on his chest. His bright, cloud-colored eyes contrasted with his tanned skin. Careful to never show the sole of his shoe while crossing his legs, Demetrius projected the calm, assured presence of a U.N. Secretary or minister of state. Eyes down, he sparked to life after a long pause, when the prime minister fidgeted.

“When they met, it is said that Jesus and John the Baptist did not talk for three days, and when they finally spoke, everything had already been said. I don’t know if it actually happened that way, but I value the wisdom of allowing the heart to speak for us.”

Prime Minister Erbakan liked the reference, true or not. His estimation of Demetrius rose. “Aydin recommended you to me. Today my country stands at the edge of war, and I’m willing to hear all voices before making that decision—especially a voice that might be able to tell me what’s happening in the south of my country.”

“It is the beginning of the peace I am here to make.” Demetrius meant exactly what he said, no waver to his voice or bearing.

“If it was so easy, it would have already happened,” Erbakan retorted.

“Do you expect to convince the Kurds to just give up their foolish rebellion?”

“Until a larger agreement can be worked out that includes EU membership for Turkey,” said Demetrius. His bold statement created a pause in the conversation.

“Then perhaps Aydin’s trust in you is misplaced.”

“The Koran says, if a man comes to make peace between neighbors, he should be given the opportunity.”

“Then I must ask, if you think you can make peace and persuade the EU, how? You sit here an unknown with no diplomatic portfolio, claiming to be able to do what’s impossible under the present circumstances.”

Demetrius searched inside for the right words spoken the right way to convey the undertones of energy in the room. Prime Minister Erbakan was a modest man who loved his people and valued honest motives over extraordinary capabilities. The priest understood how to appeal to such a pure heart.

“If I came in my own name for my own glory, surely I’d be a fool. But I come in the name of a greater power that loves this land and all its peoples, including the Kurds. Together, we will prevent this war.”

“Again, tell me how?” Erbakan’s patience wore thin. Actions were required, not words. He began to suspect a distraction by the Kurds to divert attention.

Demetrius reached into his jacket pocket for a thickly-packed manila envelope. “As high priest in service to the Covenant sealed in antiquity, I make true the words inscribed by the ancient kings. The Word is made real because the spirit of the mountain has proclaimed peace and reconciliation. I have gone forth to make it true. Proof of our benevolence is in my hand, knowledge that you can use for mutual benefit. Would you like to see?”

Demetrius would currently be on his way out the door, but the colonel’s report gave Prime Minister Erbakan the feeling, if he turned away this ambassador now, he might be turning his back on God. Angels are sometimes sent in disguise.

“Proof,” he said. “That’s what I need. My military doesn’t act on faith in anything but the gun.”

“On the maps inside this envelope, you will recognize the area of southeast Turkey close to the border with Iraq. Drill where indicated to tap a large supply of oil, enough to overflow your government coffers for decades to come. Millions of barrels a day,” said Demetrius. “You can verify with the German engineering firm that certified the maps. I offer this valuable knowledge to you as proof of what guides me, and as a gift to begin our relationship.”

The state oil company had combed the region at high expense with limited success, pondered Prime Minister Erbakan. The potential for wealth, international status, and energy independence all rushed into his mind at once. A gift. Something bothered him. He finally put his finger on it and said, “We hired the best consultants. All they found were puddles barely worth drilling. How did you come by this information?”

The priest’s face darkened, his entrancing eyes turned inward on a memory. “In a dream,” he answered.

Prime Minister Erbakan knew revelation to be a sometimes painful experience. Surreal. He stifled a yawn. Something else bothered him, staying his hand from going all-in even if the oil deposit rivaled those sitting under the Saudi sands.

“A dream you say. I have had foretelling dreams. I wonder, Demetrius, what is your faith? The Devil can send dreams.”

Faith: Recep Erbakan took it very seriously, not really caring about the particular flavor, but deeply concerned with making sure everyone took a bite.

“My faith is in humankind,” answered Demetrius, “gained from many years of study of all religions. I have learned that many names are used for The All, and behind all the names is only One. My religion, if you want to call it that, is the original of this land, originating before the time of Abraham and Moses.”

A forceful undercurrent entered his voice, gracefully woven between the lines.

“Mr. Prime Minister, the king decreed that all people should follow their own customs and retain their own religions, while having the wisdom to know that Allah cannot be explained by mouths of men. As such, my religion and faith is all religions and all faiths. But I represent the Covenant founded in this land, forever sealed at the sacred mountain. It’s not an easy answer, but your question demands a thorough reply. Look long enough into a man’s eyes and your heart tells you what is right and what is true, no matter what the tongue says. See me.”

The prime minister refused the temptation of the magnetic priest’s eyes, and thought about the Prophet Mohamed accepting any faith based upon scripture. Jews, Christians, and Muslims all shared the religion of father Abraham. As a devout Muslim, Erbakan followed the Word to the letter.

Aydin pushed, albeit gently. “Demetrius told me, he hopes to use the renewed interest in Mt. Nemrut to bring people back to their own faiths. Did I understand you correctly?”

“Our way unites all religions, found on every road to truth and justice,” Demetrius answered. “Extremists on all sides have kidnapped the true message behind faith, which is to recognize our common humanity. How did we ever grow so far apart from each other to settle disputes with violence? That is not God’s way. The time is now to raise our collective understanding of what it means to be alive and what is truth, using our God-given reason.”

Reason. The word echoed in Erbakan’s ears, spoken a little oddly by the priest, who used a vocal technique to subconsciously imprint it. Reason was God’s gift. Reason was the basis of the secular state. Reason made us human, not animals in disguise. The prime minister asked for a way out of war, and God answered with reason.

Really? asked another voice. Does it really happen that way? What was really down inside that mountain, and why did everything—the time, the person, the place—make perfect sense in a way he couldn’t explain? Already his heart had shifted, but he decided to sound noncommittal.

“I will consider your offer and get back to you shortly.”

After bidding farewell to Demetrius, Prime Minister Erbakan and Aydin Arturo huddled together.

“Investigate this gift,” ordered the prime minister, “and this mountain priest, Demetrius. Our opponents, as you know, would love any opportunity to make me look like a fool. We could use the situation to our advantage if it pans out. Tell no one.”

“Understood.” Aydin already had plans sprouting based on what Demetrius had told him that morning. In fact, the priest’s last words were: “Mr. Erbakan will consider my offer, but we’ll both know his mind is already made-up.”

“If this oil deposit exists, I’m inclined to allow him to try to make peace with the Kurds. I want to believe that Allah works through every person of faith, but I’m afraid the time to delay might run out.”

The security line rang, a call which had to be taken anytime day or night. The prime minister answered and listened, saying nothing throughout except “goodbye” at the end. He placed the receiver against his forehead, very close to crying. The unimaginable pressure....

Aydin knew if one man could carry it, his boss could, but the call meant that the generals would no longer be leashed. An ultimatum faced Recep Erbakan: lead in war or be swept aside.

“We tried sir, we really did,” Aydin said regretfully. “I believed Demetrius could work his peace, but I fear that he’s a little too late.”

The prime minister’s fallen face lifted. He cackled in pained delight.

“That was the Supreme Commander. He told me—no, asked me—to cancel the annexation. Can you believe it? He even suggested opening back-channel negotiations for a permanent solution.”

Prime Minister Erbakan felt light as a feathery puff of dandelion, about to float away with God’s next windy breath. He knew that moment, without a doubt, a real power inhabited the sacred mountain, and it rescued him from going down in history forever branded like his American counterpart as a slave to the cry of war mongers.

“Thank you, Aydin. You took a big gamble by bringing Demetrius before me. You might not be a religious man, but I know God uses your hand. You are invaluable to your country,” said the prime minister, using the highest compliment in a nation founded upon civic pride.

Aydin departed with the thick envelope packed with secrets, a symbol embossed on the back which, alongside the Cross, the Crescent and the Star of David, represented an ancient religion, but in its case, a new one, reintroduced to the world. He began to wear the triquetra as a silver medallion tucked under his shirt, a gift included in the envelope from the high priest. It spoke to his heart, helping to carry out his new mission.

Chapter 18

Doctor Stoyanich could hardly believe his eyes, but the proof displayed on the microscope’s high-definition monitor: a blastocyst. A clump of around one-hundred cells dividing rapidly. He checked the time: 44 hours since stimulation of reproduction—only 44 hours! A sample six days along in development, stem cells already appearing, soon to begin forming specialized tissue: limbs, organs, spine. Amazing, thought Stoyanich. Also impossible.

“Dr. Kim, look at this.”

The Korean scientist studied the blastocyst and quickly recognized the obvious.

“It’s in a hurry.”

“Too much of a hurry,” said Stoyanich.

“Common to have triple rate of growth in bad samples. Deformity is inevitable at some point,” informed Dr. Kim.

“We should see irregularities by now.”

Dr. Stoyanich compared computer readouts. A deep crease between his eyebrows formed from long days in the lab. “Everything is otherwise normal. Let’s work back to the beginning, to see if we missed anything.”

Dr. Kim brought up a chronological log on a computer monitor. First they had pulverized skin cells, extracted the DNA and pieced the bits back together in sequence. The DNA strands were intact—a usable sample. The protein chains of DNA in dead cells easily shatter, and while nearly any sample produced DNA, one suitable for cloning had to derive from cells either alive or preserved in stasis. Dr. Stoyanich coaxed the process way beyond the normal expiration date, but 2,000 years beyond? He would think more about that another time.

Next, they extracted a cell nucleus with the reassembled DNA and inserted it into Darianna’s hollowed donor egg. The application of a slight electrical current stimulated cell reproduction. The egg divided into two, four, eight, sixteen, and so on. They reviewed pictures taken of each division.

On the monitor, the cells appeared individually as big as golf balls, but the entire mass was actually smaller than the head of a needle. The geneticists looked for evidence of cross-contamination. Mitochondria within the donor egg contain native DNA that can cross with the clone’s to create something new and unusual. The irregularities, though, occurred early in the replication process. The scientists would not be out of the woods until a healthy baby boy popped out of the surrogate, Darianna. Dr. Stoyanich could see it happening quickly.

“There is more to consider,” ventured Dr. Kim. “This is our first attempt. First,” he repeated for emphasis.

Dr. Stoyanich, until then engrossed in the work, stopped to think about the peculiarity of a first cloning attempt succeeding. For Dolly the sheep, 276 little Dollys died in a petri dish or surrogate womb before 277 became the lucky number to make history. The miracle in front of their eyes sprang to life on the very first try. Not only unheard of—modern techniques had dramatically reduced the failure rate—under the circumstances it was just short of impossible. The disgraced geneticist remembered something said by the albino man with pink eyes, his employer’s representative:

“You take care of your part, we’ll take care of ours.”

Dr. Stoyanich had no time to think about the larger implications, and did not care anyway. Once he saw the money was real and endless, and his autonomy assured by the clandestine nature of the employment, he signed on.

“I think we go forward,” he said.

Dr. Kim asked, “The growth rate?”

“Is no problem right now, so we assume it stays that way. I’ll be back in a few hours. Call me immediately if something changes.”

Dr. Stoyanich left the lab and went to his office on the top level. He opened a locked drawer at his desk, kicked off his shoes, put his feet up and rolled a cigarette of tobacco combined with a pinch of high-grade marijuana, to turn off his rational mind and turn on the intuitive.

The soothing mixture sent warmth right where needed. He snubbed out the cigarette after a few drags, and stared for a long time at the hazy air, working his thoughts.

The anomalies were no surprise. Hadn’t a little voice told him all along? Scientifically of course, Dr. Stoyanich fooled himself. The clone would go haywire at some point. Miscarriages were common, carrying a manageable risk to the surrogate at the expense of lost months for recovery. But if he folded early and concentrated on working up new samples, he might find out later, the best cards were in his current hand. Dr. Stoyanich trusted his feeling. Once he set upon a path, only the end lay in sight.

He picked up the phone, decision made. The window of opportunity for implantation might close. The surrogate would have to stay longer than intended, an enticing prospect for Dr. Stoyanich to continue the pleasure of having the beguiling Darianna around. If only he could be rid of that annoying husband, Peter, poking his nose into every corner. The geneticist also had to consult with the obstetrician about the implications of a fetus growing much faster than usual, but that could wait until later.

He punched the speed dial and heard several clicks as encryption kicked in. Stoyanich pictured the pink eyes behind the voice that answered, his own eyes a bloody shade of red from the dope. “Hello, doctor. I expect you have good news,” the accented voice said in English. Stoyanich pushed his stack of chips into the pot.

“I hope you are as sure as you sound, Vladimir, because this could get complicated.”

Chapter 19

Tourism returned to Nemrut Dag, manna for brothers Akbar and Abby. Pockets bulging with bounty, they guided the pilgrims seeking a promised land to their destination. Karadut—their village— bustled with visitors en route to the sacred mountain, all wanting something. Some were curious like observers of a car wreck, others wealthy and in search of the latest craze to brag about at cocktail parties. Been there. Done that. Now pass the fish eggs and goose liver.

Many visitors, though, sought an experience of the divine, meaning for their lives, something or someone to follow. They made young Abby nervous with their questions:

Did you witness the miracle?

Are you one of them?

Is this where I find salvation?

Even worse, Akbar blithely waved away Abby’s concerns. Abby began to feel like a pack mule cruelly burdened by the needs of others. When he lay down at night on the cot across from his brother after a long day guiding tourists, he could only tell his thoughts to leave. Rain rain go away....

As if ruled by a divine hand, the late summer weather continued blessing them with sunny days and cool nights. Abby wondered if the power pulling the strings from the mountain had command over nature.

The less he knew, the better, Akbar told him, an infuriating dodge that disturbed Abby’s sleep. He’d picture the tall statue at Nemrut and ask it questions in his mind. “Who are you? What did you do to my brother?”

The eyes of the portrait-like face seemed to follow Abby’s movements across the east terrace, answering questions with its own: “Who are you, and why are you here?”

He thought to himself: It is only carved stone no matter what people say. But that assurance helped little to assuage his uneasy feelings.

One day after dealing with the tourists, Abby approached the two priests in Persian robes who camped dawn-to-dusk facing the statue. The odd duo occasionally talked to tourists, bits of conversation Abby overheard, and seemed friendly. Mostly, the young one talked as the old one maintained a low chant. Abby wanted to question the priests about the thoughts bothering him, but at the last moment their calm deterred him. He had no right to disturb their meditation, he assumed, so he turned away, eyes following the rocky ground, unfulfilled.

A gentle hand landed on Abby’s thin shoulder. He almost yelped. The young priest behind him had silken hair, blue eyes, and a cherubic face so serene and seemingly wise it could not possibly belong to a boy barely thirteen, or so Abby guessed.

“You are curious,” said the young priest. “Perhaps I can help.”

Abby asked, “How did you know?”

“I’m here to answer questions like yours. Come to where we can talk privately.”

The priest guided Abby around the tumulus mound toward the less crowded west terrace. He spoke again after a minute.

“Ask.”

Abby, surprised at the forthrightness, said the first thing in his mind. “Who are you?”

“I am called Cipheus. You?”

“Abdullah, but friends call me Abby. You have a strange name.”

“Yours is also uncommon for this area.”

“Our parents named my brother and I so that we wouldn’t be identified with one ethnic group over others.”

“That is wise, sometimes,” said Cipheus.

“I guess so.”

Abby gave the priest a second look and asked, “How old are you?”

“In bodily years or soul years? Souls, of course, have no beginning or end, but there is a time when they first incarnate in this world.”

“Uh, soul years,” said Abby.

“My identity was stamped as Cipheus 22 centuries ago. I’ve lived many times since then, always coming back as Cipheus.”

“Wow! How do you know that? I mean, how can anyone know they were born before they were born?” Abby believed just about everything anyone said. Akbar called him gullible.

“My brothers love me enough to find me every time I’m reborn. They would not abandon me to flounder in ignorance of my true self. I am sworn by my soul to the Order, to take my place each time I reincarnate.”

A pack of Japanese tourists filed past excitedly, chattering in their foreign tongue, taking pictures with tiny digital recorders and camera-equipped phones. Cipheus stopped under a lion relief on the west terrace.

“What do you really want to know?”

Abby said, “To begin with, what is the meaning of all this?”

The young priest chuckled, a gesture of patient amusement far beyond his years no matter how they were counted.

“Be more specific.”

“The crowds coming here like it’s the Hajj. The statue mystery. You and your grandfather appearing out of nowhere to sit all day in front of it.” Abby thought about everything that had changed so rapidly and asked, “Why are you here, Cipheus?”

“We are witnessing something wonderful, Abby, the dawning of a new Age. Why people are drawn, there are as many answers as people. Some are reborn souls who once served the kingdom that ruled this land, although only a few know it yet. Rediscovering one’s true identity is difficult, and easy to lose hold of when confronted by the everyday world. Entertainment and distraction bombard the senses with information but do little for the inner senses except confuse. So people come here searching for authentic spiritual experience. Do you know what all cultures throughout human history have shared in common?”

Abby scratched his head. “I’m not very educated,” he said.

“But you’re smart, and I can tell that you have a good heart. Do you know the answer?”

“I think all people want to believe in God.”

“Excellent!” Cipheus appeared genuinely pleased. “All cultures have stories of creation and destruction, and in those stories they explain how they see the universe. They find meaning, connection, and the individual’s place in this beautiful world. Almost all cultures have stories of a second coming. That is what you witness. A spirit like yours is always welcome among us.”

Abby grinned. “You are wise for your age—or any age.”

“Truly I am only a novice. Perhaps when I am brother Aggememnon’s age, and have fully remembered all I’ve ever known, I can be called wise. The Greek word for knowledge means to relearn, expressing the fact that we’re born with all knowledge. Everything you’ve ever known or will know is available to you right this moment, but to access it at-will requires imagination most people do not possess.”

Abby pondered Cipheus’s lesson, a hard idea to grasp. He felt a little better knowing that the priests had good intentions. The question of his brother’s role still needed answering.

“Is there anything else? You can always ask another time,” Cipheus offered. The chance Abby sought presented itself. Uncertain at first, he spoke the troubling thought anyway.

“I wonder about my older brother, Akbar. He was here the first morning when the excitement started, right before you and the tourists showed up, and he hasn’t been the same since.”

“That concerns you,” said Cipheus.

“Yes, he is my brother. He’s all I have.”

“Then you need more. It is time for you to find your own place in the world.”

“He says I shouldn’t worry so much.”

“You shouldn’t,” agreed the young priest. “Perhaps if your life and happiness were separate from his, you could allow him room for his pursuits—no matter where they lead.”

Abby wanted to reject the answer, but the truth of it spoke to his heart. He knew he could cling. Until he cut the cord of dependency, his inner life inextricably intertwined with Akbar’s.

“I know, I worry though. He’s not the same, and I don’t like how he’s changing. He says take the money, don’t ask questions, but I have to know that we’re doing good.”

Cipheus took Abby’s hand and asked, “Do you pray?”

“Sometimes.”

“Muslims pray five times a day, though I’d encourage you to think of prayer as a continuous state of being. You want to know what this is about? Connection. We want everyone to connect with their histories, their families, their neighbors, their countrymen, themselves, their world, and each other. God has many faces; reconnect with your own.” With a hint of secret strength Cipheus squeezed Abby’s hand. “You say you are uneducated, but you have a gift with language.”

“My father taught us English. Akbar makes me study, less now that we’re so busy. I speak some Kurdish too, and a few phrases of German. Want to hear?”

“Your father taught you other lessons,” Cipheus redirected.

“I was young when he died. Akbar raised me ever since. Except when they sent me away to that school, the madras,” Abby said like judging a bad taste. “I hated it there.”

“Know yourself first. It is truly the most important question to answer, and the best answers are found for oneself.”

Cipheus’s hand slackened. His eyes closed to receive a mental message. “I am needed,” he said a moment later. “Master Aggememnon sometimes finds it difficult dealing with ordinary people. Whenever you want to know more, I’m here for you. And no matter what, don’t worry about your brother.”

A family trio of American tourists joined the young priest on the path back to the north terrace. Abby heard the mother, her floppy hat held in place against the wind, ask loudly, “Are you one of the priests? Yes? So young. We’ve heard about you, we have. Look, Richard darling, how young he is. I wish our son would put down that infernal game for a moment. He’s only a little younger.”

Behind them trailed a pasty-skinned brat with unruly brown hair and red freckles, his complete attention absorbed by a preadolescent male video pacifier.

“Billy, put that thing down and say hello. You could learn something,” his mother admonished.

The boy let out a shriek when she pulled his elbow for his attention.

“Goddammit, mother, I was about to complete that level, and now I’m going to have to start over!” He kicked her shin. His father, equally pasty, thwacked the back of the brat’s head in retaliation. Cipheus caught Abby’s eye and grinned knowingly. Abby returned home, his eager young mind full of new ideas, and his fingers crossed that the youthful but wise priest was right to counsel against worry.

Chapter 20

Professor Marc Reynolds strolled into the amphitheater-style room, first day of class, and almost dropped his briefcase. The schedule read Geophysics 341: Principles of Movement and Effect, but the classroom was packed way beyond capacity. Students filled every seat, sat in the aisles, gathered in knots, stood up front around his teaching area. Thirty-five students were registered. At least a hundred bodies crammed the room, breathing the air, shedding skin cells, dragging in dirt on their shoes. And worst of all to Marc’s hygienic taste, leaving behind their germs. Germs bad.

The professor dodged through the chattering crowd to make his way to the front. Someone sneezed loudly. He was used to attention, even admiration from students who took school seriously, but everyone watched his every move.

Marc shuffled his notes, scanned around and said, “So what’s the joke?” The chatter stopped. All eyes stared back. No joke.

“Seriously. I’m dreaming, or else I’ve walked into a popular class like Human Sex.”

Cellphone cameras aimed at the hotshot professor. A student in the back tracked his movements with a hand-held video recorder. He recognized a student from previous classes sitting near the front. Who could forget the burred hair conflicting with the round face?

“Ryan, tell me what’s going on.”

Ryan was an ROTC student biding his time before being sent to fight the terrorists. He could hardly wait, only one more year until graduation. He hoped the wars would still be raging so he’d get the opportunity to kill some browns in the name of his country. He ran around campus like a video soldier with a rifle, barking “bang bang bang!” Some of his classmates secretly hoped he’d be called up early.

“Sir, I estimate that the excess students have occupied our position because of the Mt. Nemrut incident. Professor does not appear to have been briefed on the latest developments.”

Marc normally would have thought of Ryan’s routine as humorously over-the-top, but under the circumstances, the military jargon made him nervous.

“You’re right,” Marc agreed, “I’ve been out of the country all summer.” He looked for more familiar faces.

Said a tanned coed with platinum blond hair, “I’m here to see the famous professor. They said you were hot.”

“You don’t belong here,” Marc knew without checking the class list.

“My parents pay this school forty grand a year; I belong wherever I want,” claimed the coed.

“Not here. Time to go,” said Marc, pointing toward an exit. “That goes for all of you. Stay if you’re registered for this class, otherwise, you’re taking up oxygen.”

And worse: those nasty germs.

A parade of students shuffled out. An undergraduate with spiked hair, wearing earbuds connected by a white chord stuffed into the front pocket of his baggy jeans, strode down the central aisle and said, “I thought you were cool, but you’re just a stiff.”

The accusation hurt. Marc considered himself hip. He carried an iPhone and stored a personalized mug over the bar at The Greene Turtle, the local hockey fan hangout.

“What have you heard that’s generating all this interest?”

As far as he knew, the Nemrut discovery was a secret. He'd been ordered to keep it, and considering he remembered nothing much about that day, the order was easily obeyed. An automatic switch in his brain interrupted the line of thought when he tried to jog his memory.

“You really don’t know?” Spiked-hair scolded, “It’s all over the Web.”

“I saw the crowds before I left. There’s no mountain in this classroom except the material to learn by the end,” Marc cleverly brought the conversation back to his priorities.

“What about the peace movement? People united. Save the world, man.”

Marc held up his hands like a traffic cop. “One thing at a time.” He couldn’t help but ask, “What peace movement?”

“An end to the wars. It’s happening.”

A knot of core believers gathered around to lend support. A male student wearing horn-rims said, “I caught it on cable last night. The holy man Demetrius calls it The Way.”

Marc heard blah blah blah—kids and their supposed movements. The adult world would burst that bubble. “So what does this have to do with me?”

“Your bio on the school website says you’ve been working at Mt. Nemrut. You must have seen the first sign.”

“A prank, that’s what I saw. A ten-ton prank,” said Marc.

“It’s a miracle,” a girl with streaks of raspberry color in her hair asserted, stopping the round robin conversation. Agreement spread through the student body.

Marc remembered something Darianna said: People will call it a miracle. She wasn’t around to explain why her uncanny prediction came true in his classroom.

“The miracle will be if I can get this course going,” said the professor. “My role is not what you think. I was at the mountain as a researcher, that’s all. I don’t know anything about peace movements or new religions, but I know a lot about the subject of this class. Now please, all of you here for any reason other than to learn about geophysics have to leave.”

Marc breezed the halls, noticing eyes upon him. Stares lingered as he passed, conversations hushed or picked up excitedly. A high-pitched female voice called to his back.

“Professor Reynolds?”

Marc quickened his pace. The looks and murmurs as he passed, the pointed fingers. The female voice that rose a few notes higher, clattering of high-heeled shoes pacing him:

“Professor, please!”

Marc finally stopped to face whatever new pest he had attracted. It was Sally, the department secretary. He suddenly felt silly.

“Oh, hi Sally. Sorry.”

“Professor Reynolds, you’re a hard man to reach. Don’t you ever check your messages?” Sally clutched a thick stack of pink message slips. “I also tried your wireless. They’ve been calling me all morning because they can’t reach you.”

Sally the secretary wore a green summer dress with a floral print and a bit too much makeup. Her straw-colored hair perched nest-like on top of her head.

“I was going to my office to check,” said the professor.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Sally intoned conspiratorially. “They have it staked out.”

“Who?” Marc got a sinking feeling.

“The media. Here.” Sally handed him the stack of messages. He leafed through the first few: CNN, MSNBC, Newsweek. What the heck did they want?

“Dr. Martin told me to have you see him in the faculty lounge. He can’t go to his office, either.”

Marc slipped into the lounge furnished conservatively with overstuffed leather chairs, carved end tables, class photos dating back a century. The lounge sat mostly empty; only a couple of professors read books. Thankfully, his peers did not notice the junior professor as he worked his way over to a broad-faced, fatherly man wearing a tweed jacket, Professor Martin. The department head looked over the top of a newspaper at Marc as he sat down.

“Enjoy your summer?”

“Been eventful, Jim, I’m sure you’ve heard,” said Marc.

“Tell me about it.”

Professor Martin read an article headlined “Mystery at Mt. Nemrut.” A Wire photo showed the statue of Antiochus, credited to Yousef Hassan in tiny print.

“I don’t know what the fuss is about, honestly. No one told me I’m famous.”

“Apparently, you are.” Professor Martin’s steady eyes followed Marc’s every twitch and gesture.

“We opened the tomb, documented the place. There was an unexpected find,” Marc glossed over what he couldn’t explain, “but that’s not what these students were interested in. They wanted to know about some peace movement and a religion I’m not involved with. What have you heard?”

“Whispers and hints. The publicity isn’t all bad. We can make it work for us.”

Marc looked relieved at the department chairman’s show of support.

“Thank you. I’m still pretty new around here.”

“We’re all very proud to have you. I’m sure the excitement will eventually die down. You know how to make a hassle be forgotten. I have some advice that might help.”

Professor Martin set aside the newspaper, measuring his words. “Call back some of the media people. Make it work for you. And thank your sponsors while you’re at it. Ducking your head only fuels speculation.”

“I used to joke that I was part of the Nemrut Project for fame, not fortune, but I had the academic kind in mind,” Marc rued.

“You have the ambition and the talent. All in good time. Now I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything, Jim. I’m all ears.”

“I need a bone to toss the provost. You know how it works—cocktail hour sorts of questions will only persist until the information gap is filled,” Martin explained.

“It’s best to say that we made a spectacular find but can’t talk about it until everything is completely documented and cleared by the Turkish government. Tell the provost I have a paper in the works that the top journals are going to drool over. I’m also highly aware of the implications for the university. As for the peace-and-god thing, I have nothing to do with it. But I do know a great place to stay nearby the mountain and would be glad to recommend it.”

The academic world relegated partisans to “lesser” institutions, Marc knew, requiring for admission cognitive distance and rigorous adherence to accepted standards, not pie-in-the-sky speculation.

Professor Martin nodded sympathetically. He observed some anxiety in Marc’s restless hands but heard truth in his explanation. The university remained in a holding pattern until the situation played out. The religious undertones made some of the higher powers edgy—not yet alarmed, but prepared to stampede at the first whiff of danger. An elite school’s best asset is its reputation, and a professor connected to such a shadowy story....

Jim Martin would be keeping a close eye on the hot young professor.

They’d all be keeping an eye on him.

Chapter 21

A garish orange school bus lumbered up the bumpy road to Karadut, spewing plumes of diesel exhaust as the engine revved to meet the mountainous challenge. Akbar waited, hands on hips, and stared into the distance with a satisfied smile, a circus master watching the arrival of the elephants. Abby’s heart sank in dismay. What would his brother think of next?

“This is your idea to make a fortune?” Abby complained. “Like what we have isn’t enough.”

“You see why I don’t let you into my plans,” Akbar dismissed his younger brother’s fussing. “Always the pessimist you are.”

Abby asked, “What about fuel? Do we drive an hour every time the beast needs fed?”

“I’ve already planned for that,” Akbar answered confidently. “I bought a five-hundred liter fuel tank. What we don’t use we can sell.”

“The season will be over.”

“Global warming.”

“What’s that?” Abby thought he might have heard the term before. Didn’t mean much to them in the high mountains.

Akbar raised his arms in frustration. "Leave the thinking to me. You have to learn how to drive it.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Carry your weight. You give half the tours and complain twice as much. My bones are dead-tired at night, and what do you do but run around questioning this great gift bestowed upon us. If you weren’t my brother, I’d have you washing dishes with the women.”

“You know who you’re beginning to sound like?” Abby’s complaints had more to do with the ego emerging with the businessman.

Akbar pointed at the bus. “Guess who’s driving.”

He waved the driver—their hard-charging uncle from Elazig, Yousef’s father—to park beside the house. Cousin Yousef followed behind in a powerful new Ford sedan designed for conquering mountain roads. A crew of local workmen laid gravel for a parking lot. Another crew erected a large sign facing down the road, advertising with tall, hand-painted letters: “Parking for Mt. Nemrut. Guided tours.”

The area for parking near the mountain became inadequate for the crowds. All hours of day and night visitors ascended to the sacred heights, flush with cash and curiosity. Akbar, his inner capitalist unleashed, saw the opportunity to further expand. By the next season he expected to supervise a hired crew instead of give tours. He had already paid a deposit for an addition to the house and imported women from a nearby village to prepare local breads and pastries for sale, using a neighbor’s kitchen. Discarded food wrapping littered the once-pristine landscape, but that problem would be addressed in due time.

During the winter, Akbar planned to build a large addition onto the back of the house offering housing and accommodations of running water, light meals, and electricity provided by a diesel generator. Life was good and looking better every day.

“Cousin!” exclaimed Yousef. He kissed cheeks with Akbar. Akbar slung his arm over Yousef’s shoulder, gazed admiringly at the new vehicle and asked, “How did you come by this?”

“A publisher advanced me an obscene amount of money to put together a book of photographs and stories about our lucky charm, Nemrut.”

“How much?”

“You don’t want to know.” Yousef’s big grin said why.

“Gone to his head it has,” uncle Hassan interrupted, barely five feet tall but stout, with strong arms and a pug face. “Makes young men forget their manners.”

“Forgive me, Uncle, you must be tired after the long trip,” Akbar apologized to his elder, who only took the name Hassan because it was expected in urban areas. “Perhaps Abby would be kind enough to get you some coffee and a bite to eat.”

Yousef stifled a grin at the implication of weariness in his aging father.

Abby noticed that his uncle’s shoulders slumped, his eyes heavier than he last remembered. The young man felt pity. “We’ll get food in you, then you can talk business,” he said.

“I wanted to tell Akbar about how I acquired this bus for him. Saved him some money. Broken transmission. The owner thought it would never run again. Had no one idea what was wrong; the bus sat for so long. But now it runs like a proud mule in its prime. Only took a few days to fix. Could’ve been half that if my son knew how to use his soft fingers for anything other than pressing buttons.”

“These fingers are going to make your retirement comfortable, remember that.” Yousef’s neutral expression failed to cover the sharpness of his tone.

“You remember how hard it is for rich men to get into Heaven,” father reminded son.

“Just because I don’t wrestle animals all day or fix transmissions doesn’t make my work any less respectable.”

“Please!” Abby jumped between them. “Listen to yourselves. What is success doing to you?”

“We can talk later,” Akbar told uncle Hassan. “Since Abby is going to be the driver, you might give him lessons. He has never been behind the wheel.”

Uncle Hassan raised an eyebrow of coarse black hairs. “A young man of his age should know how to drive.”

Abby wanted to fire off a retort, but he saw the futility of adding his own barbs to the conversation. Instead he led his uncle into the house with words of appreciation and questions about city life.

Akbar sighed. Said Yousef, “Abby doesn’t seem as excited as you.”

“He says everything has come too easily, must be a price. I tell him the only price is what the tourists pay us for our tour service. I was poor all my life. I paid my dues,” Akbar insisted.

“Father is like that. Hard work means chapped hands and weary bones. An honest living, he says.”

“I remember the long days working for him in the animal pens, and I’ll never do that again. Shall we go to the mountain? The crowds have thinned some now that summer is almost over, but for a while we had more business than we could handle.”

“Hop in.” Yousef invited Akbar to the passenger side of his new car. “I’ll show you what a V-8 engine can do.”

“I’d rather take the back way. The hike is good for the health, and I’ve been too busy lately.”

“I’ll get my camera.”

The afternoon sun showed its face sparingly behind billowy, fast-moving clouds, alternating between intensely bright and mercifully dim during the hike. The wind carried a chill edge.

Akbar bounded easily up the thin mountain trail, stopping when Yousef took photos of the dramatic vistas. While waiting, he thrust forward on a rock outcropping overlooking a steep drop that eventually leveled out and rolled away to the next mountain.

“Hold that pose.” Yousef bent down to take a snapshot. Akbar jutted his rather weak chin forward like a conquering hero.

“I’ve got something to complete this picture,” the photographer said, and pulled out an eyeglass case from his camera bag. “Try these on.”

Akbar opened the case. Inside: silver-colored, wraparound sunglasses with mirrored lenses. He was unsure what to do.

“Go ahead,” Yousef encouraged his cousin. “They’re made for mountaineers.”

The sunglasses engulfed the middle of Akbar’s face. He suddenly felt anonymous and liked it.

“Sir Edmund Hillary, in the flesh,” said Yousef.

“Who?”

“A famous explorer; first Westerner to climb Mt. Everest. My gift to you.”

Akbar fumbled for something to say.

“No, this is the least I could do for remembering me when good fortune came your way. Now look off into the distance again like before. I’d like to use you in my book.”

Akbar smiled anxiously and asked, “Will I be famous?”

“Your face has already been seen around the world. I don’t think you know how big this story is, being isolated from news coverage out here.”

“The news people come every day from all over. How big is the story?”

“Everyone has heard something. From the questions I get, I’d say the majority think of it as a curiosity. We’re not at war, that’s all I care.” Yousef watched a fast-moving cloud blow by like a crow straggling behind the flock. He snapped one more photo. “It’s all a big secret in Ankara, but if Demetrius succeeds in bringing about this peace deal, you have a bright future. Just be careful.”

“How do you mean?” Akbar’s face darkened.

“Don’t put your eggs in one basket. Basic wisdom, that’s all.”

“Not to worry. If you knew what I know, you’d understand.” Akbar’s reticence about what happened that first dawn at the mountain made Yousef curious. No amount of cajoling could elicit more than vague answers. War veterans and earthquake survivors often have the same look.

Yousef said, “Someday you’ll tell me for my book.”

Crouched next to a boulder that blocked the path far up ahead, Colonel Muhammed watched through binoculars as Akbar and Yousef hiked the mountain trail. Four masked commandos huddled behind him, armed with silenced MP5 sub-machine guns. “Come on,” mumbled the colonel, “get moving.” He turned to the commando team.

“Two on the photographer, two with me will concentrate on our target. He’s taken alive. The other doesn’t matter. Better to jump and dump, but don’t let him get away. Clear?”

The disciplined team affirmed and crept into crept position.

“Lock and load.”

Akbar and Yousef continued up the trail. A cloud pregnant with moisture blotted out the sun. Sporadic rain drops pattered the ground. Then all out once the cloud dumped a squall, visibility reduced to a few meters. Yousef laughed in the pelting rain.

“Where did that come from?”

“Stay close to me,” Akbar shouted over the downpour. Thunder rattled the ground.

To their right, the mountain face suddenly dipped away at a treacherous angle. Rocks and small boulders littered the trail, signs of a recent rock slide. Akbar hugged the big boulder blocking their path, maneuvered around the edge, and gave the go-ahead with a wave of his trailing hand.

Yousef followed reluctantly, a city-dweller unfamiliar with the mountains. He imitated his cousin by hugging the cool wet rock and carefully wiggling around the bulge.

On the other side, the length of a volleyball court away, two masked men hustled away a limp figure that looked like Akbar. Rain dripped in Yousef’s eyes, but years of looking through a camera lens trained his mind to record everything in a snap.

Yousef next experienced what people call eyes in the back of the head. Two figures approached from behind wearing black masks and tan camo fatigues. Yousef whipped his head around to see a hand stretching out to grab his collar. By instinct, he pushed away the commando, who lost footing and slid down the slick mountainside. The other commando struggled on the precarious ledge and grabbed at the strap of his assault rifle to swing it around into firing position, but the weapon wedged between his back and the boulder.

Those aren’t standard police rifles, Yousef realized, the memory of a story he’d covered a few years prior flashing instantly to mind. City police had cornered a cell of Kurdish militants inside a second-floor apartment, the situation hopeless for them. Nothing much happened at first, except occasional peeks by masked gunmen from a window beside the front door. A nondescript delivery truck appeared, and out of the back poured a team of Turkish commandos. Yousef watched them huddle together with the police commander for a few minutes then fade away. Ten minutes later, inside of the apartment, a flash, a bang, spatters of gunfire.

The commandos stepped out of the apartment’s front door. One took off his black mask and taunted the crowd by brazenly revealing his identity in a predominantly Kurdish city, sending a challenge to anyone who would oppose him. Yousef recognized the hardened eyes of the infamous Colonel Muhammed, who hurried back around the bend from the direction which Akbar was taken.

Two plus two added up in Yousef’s mind. He bolted up the trail. Adrenaline propelled his feet forward faster than the loose terrain could handle. He slipped as bullets ricocheted overhead off the mountainside, spraying bits of rock that stung his face. At any moment he expected hot lead to rip into his back, could almost feel the sting between his shoulder blades, the burst of his heart. Fortunately, the trail meandered, providing corners to duck around. He wondered if anyone would ever know what happened to him. He had photographed dead bodies—slack faces, lifeless eyes, limp limbs. Death had always been someone else’s problem.

Yousef scrambled onto the dirt road leading to the peak of Mt. Nemrut. It appeared deceptively near but actually beckoned from a half-kilometer up a steep climb with no cover. He had to decide which way to go. The road looped far out of the way back to Karadut. Even compelled by mortal fear, he lacked the stamina. On the other hand, he might be able to hide in the crowd at the mountaintop sanctuary.

But a military squadron guarded it day and night, Yousef remembered. If they joined his pursuers, he didn’t stand a chance of getting away. What had he done to be shot at? And Akbar? No time to ponder questions without answers. Following the pregnant cloud, pleading for it to conceal him with its watery curtain, Yousef clutched his camera bag and fled for his life.

He dashed to the north terrace, the rain outracing him and moving on. Sunlight suddenly flooded his surroundings; the air smelled clean. Daring to look back, bent over with hands on knees, he saw no pursuers. Thank goodness, he thought, because he couldn’t run another step.

Yousef turned away to see two regular Turkish soldiers armed with rifles. He froze like a convict on the lam, spotted. Remembering that police officers and soldiers do not like to be photographed while doing their jobs, he lifted his camera out of the bag. Sure enough, the pair leisurely continued their patrol. A cap covered the camera lens.

Only one way to go. Praying for protection, Yousef trotted across the north terrace in quick bursts of speed and passed an Iranian tourist group headed toward the parking area. He thought he might be able to blend in with them, at the risk of returning the way he came, but instead he continued around the tumulus mound to the east terrace.

There, on the Fire Altar, the young and old mountain priests talked to a group of people. The young priest answered questions while the old priest—who appeared to be little more than a sack of bones beneath his white robes—chanted softly, eyes barely open. They both concealed their hands inside their sleeves.

“I became a Christian recently,” a middle-aged Chinese lady was saying when Yousef walked into hearing range.

“Bless you,” said the young priest, Cipheus.

“I am unsure of your teachings,” the lady confessed. “The Ten Commandments say, to worship any other God is idolatry.”

“I’m glad you ask. There is some confusion about us and The Way,” Cipheus replied. “Jesus came not to abolish the law but to fulfill it. In that spirit, we offer deeper experience within your own faith, not conversion to ours. We don’t have a religion in the traditional sense, but we invite everyone to join us in invoking the mountain’s blessings.”

“My pastor told our congregation that you’re false prophets,” shouted a voice from the back.

Cipheus appeared pained. “That term is used widely, and with us, falsely. We don’t seek your worship, money, or even your belief, only your understanding. We teach how to have your own experience of the eternal.”

“But what about that statue you people claim is a sign?” asked a man with bright red hair parted far on the side, pointing indignantly at the statue of Antiochus overlooking the Fire Altar.

“What about it?”

“You people sit before it like it’s some sort of Buddha. I call that idolatry.”

“The statue is a sign, not a symbol. A sign that the Covenant remembered here is alive today. Sit before it with the right mind and the message is felt directly in the heart. The statue is a reminder that The Way unites peoples of all faiths. Such was the wisdom of the visionaries who built this sanctuary.”

The indignant man grappled with the answer as comprehension lit the face of the Chinese lady.

“I don’t have to give up Jesus?”

“We’d never ask you to give up Jesus,” Cipheus told her.

“Good, because I like your message, but I do not want to go to Hell.”

The young priest regretted even hearing such false beliefs, especially from a brave soul like her, willing to endure ridicule or worse for being Christian in the strictly secular Chinese society. “Think less of hell and more of heaven,” he said. “Less of the future or past and more of the present. Those who preach fear are often full of it.”

“You said it,” hollered a woman with an American south accent. Yousef agreed. He had never been particularly religious, turned off by the restrictiveness, and Turkey was as secular as China. The conversation so engrossed him, he forgot his imminent danger until Aggememnon’s watery gaze flicked to the side.

Yousef followed and caught sight of the two soldiers previously scared off by his camera, now searching the terrace. The photographer turned away to hide his face.

“Do you feel a call in your heart to learn more from us?” Cipheus offered. “Some of you came here today more than only curious. You sense a deeper reason. Perhaps in your dreams or everyday life, you’ve a seen a sign shaped like the medallion around my neck.”

“I feel something,” said the Chinese woman. “Is it what you speak?” Yousef felt more than just something: the old priest pressed into him like a living skull of penetrating awareness!

“In your deepest self is where you’ll feel it,” said Cipheus. “You knew when Jesus touched your heart, yes?”

“Yes.”

“This call is similar. It comes from a place inside.”

Yousef heard the young priest’s message. A soldier positioned to the side of the crowd. He stepped back to block the line of sight, looked the other direction and spotted the other soldier. With a shiver he sensed their leader right behind him, a distinct feeling of being observed by as ruthless of a killer ever put on the planet: Colonel Muhammed.

Yousef saw in his mind the iron hand reaching out for his neck, the shallow grave waiting for his body. The skeletal priest just stared.

“He knows the danger and is trying to communicate something,” Yousef realized, wanting to throw himself at the feet of the priest and clutch his leg.

“You want answers,” Cipheus sympathized with the people gathered around him. “The world cries out for wisdom, authenticity, not canned lies and partial truths. Listen to our answers, return home to your families and neighbors, and tell them about our message. However, someone here today is tied to the sacred mountain in a special way. We know why.”

The young priest spread his arms to take in his charge, averting any particular person.

Yousef, trembling, resisted the magnetic pull forward. Then he remembered Akbar’s limp body being carried away. One of the photographer’s feet moved, no longer in control of his motions. Face frozen, mouth agape, hands clinched at his sides, he took another step.

The old priest, Aggememnon, welcomed him with an extended hand, milky white fingernails revealed from inside of his sleeves. Yousef fell to his knees. The crowd hushed. Aggememnon placed a hand on the crown of the kneeling man’s head and sent a soothing flow of energy. The terrified Turk stopped trembling. He took a deep breath. Tears streamed out of his eyes.

“Please,” he croaked, “save me.”

Aggememnon chanted softly. Other arm stretched up into the air as if to grab the sky, he channeled invisible power. Yousef’s head tingled; he felt light. Then his mind ripped away in a sudden vision of the cosmos. He lay down and curled into a ball.

Colonel Muhammed questioned the risen statue to discern the situation. The edges of the carved limestone face glowed lightly with silvery wisps. A few people in the crowd saw it, so faint to be confused for a trick of the light.

“I’ll leave him, as you wish,” the colonel said in his mind to his leader below the mountain. “We have the one we need.”

****

Akbar jostled up and down in the pitch black, head covered in a hood, arms and legs tightly bound. Exhaust grated his nostrils and engine vibrations pounded his ears. Hope sinking. Everything aching. He figured he was in a car trunk. No longer in the mountains—air too heavy and dry—he had a hunch about the destination. Gunfire in the distance, helicopters flying low overhead. But why there?

Akbar remembered rounding the boulder on the hiking path. Colonel Muhammed stood there. Before a sound could come out of Akbar’s mouth, the colonel zapped him with a black object. Two commandos flipped him over, gagged his mouth, covered his head, hustled him away, and tossed him into the trunk of a vehicle that sped off.

Many hours later, the trunk opened and the hood was removed. Akbar stared up fearfully at two indiscernible men, the night sky behind them in silhouette. A third man, who wore traditional Arab robes, compared Akbar to a photograph and gave orders.

Hood replaced, carried to a different vehicle, lid slammed—more jostling, a military checkpoint. The villager kicked at the trunk, heard laughing.

Another half-day and the trunk opened again. The hood remained when rough hands grasped Akbar, carried him into a building and down wooden steps. A door opened, more steps—stone this time—and another door.

Akbar dropped to the ground, then nothing, no sound; however, he sensed a nearby presence. Hands not as rough removed the hood. He found himself in a tiny cell that appeared to have been dug into the raw earth.

Wood boards supported the walls and low ceiling. Tattered carpet covered most of the floor. A slit in the door appeared to be the only source of light. Akbar’s eyes fixed on a brownish red stain by the entrance. A mustached Iraqi man with a bulbous chin came out of the shadows, pointed to the stain, and drew his finger across his throat. He then removed the gag and restraints. Akbar coughed violently. His captor motioned to a masked figure outside the door.

A few moments later, a young girl with shiny black hair captured in two pony tails entered the room carrying a ceramic pitcher of water, which she set down. She stared openly at the captive, Akbar. Her father the Iraqi pinched her belly and shooed her away with a kiss and a push on the behind. Men with children are seen as more merciful, and the Iraqi wanted his captive to think he had a chance to survive, while still fearing for his life.

The Sunnis needed to know if their Savior had arrived at Nemrut Dag; Akbar, a witness, could tell them, Demetrius promised during secret negotiations. All the Iraqi knew was, he had been given the job of finding out, however necessary.

He set down the pitcher and returned his attention to Akbar. He spoke a few words in Arabic, then tried again in heavily accented English:

“You. Drink.”

Akbar gulped voraciously from the pitcher. Water spilled down his neck. His captor stopped him after a few mouthfuls.

“Slow. You be sick.”

The Iraqi father appraised Akbar, nodded to himself and stood to leave, taking the pitcher from Akbar’s reluctant hands.

“What did I do?” Akbar’s shock at being kidnapped had worn off, replaced by cold fear and resignation to his fate. At least he was alive. His captor saw fear in his eyes. That was good.

“Later, we talk. Cooperate and live. Tell lies, or try to escape, and you die.”

The Iraqi left the room, shut and locked the door. Silent darkness engulfed Akbar in despair.

Chapter 22

Abby watched the sun setting, his heart sinking with heavy trepidation. Akbar and Yousef should have returned home already. He glared at the expensive orange monstrosity parked next to the house and cursed it, and cursed the day Akbar set eyes on the risen statue, good intentions of the priests or not. The evening breeze carried a biting chill, a distant echo from winter’s mouth.

“They’ll be back,” said uncle Hassan.

“Aren’t you worried?” asked Abby, worried.

“I learned long ago as a father to only be concerned when I have good reason.”

“Akbar would have told me if he planned to be away this long. He knows better.”

“Perhaps he’s trying to break old habits,” proposed uncle Hassan.

“How do you mean?”

Abby’s elder formed his thoughts about how to do the fatherly duty of his deceased brother by explaining the intricacies of being a man. “I’m reminded of what happens around year five of marriage, which is about how long the two of you have been alone together.”

Abby opened his mouth to protest the comparison.

“Just listen. Everything is great at first together. You keep your mouths shut about little things. Along comes a period when those little things become harder to ignore. You disagree, argue. You work it out; differences are part of life. You’re going to eventually claim your space, one way or another.”

“We never argued until all this craziness started,” said Abby.

“This is a phase, something all brothers go through. I’m surprised you two haven’t plucked each others heads off by now, living so closely together. Did I ever tell you about my first wife?”

Abby shook his head negative.

“She was always bugging me to let her know if I was going to work late. She didn’t want to worry about me, she said. I thought she was being silly. I was working, it happens, but I called and it made her better. Sometimes when really busy, I forgot. And she never let me forget it! She’d nag about making her worried. I started thinking that she knows I’m busy, it’s no big deal. I don’t make her worry; she makes herself worry. How many hundreds of nights have I worked late and nothing happened to worry about? I came home, ate dinner, went to bed. All was well, you know?”

Abby felt compelled to answer, but didn’t get the chance.

“I had to break her of the habit. So when I was working late, I deliberately avoided telling her. She stopped complaining.”

“I don’t remember her.”

“We got divorced.”

“Uncle! What a terrible comparison,” said Abby, exasperated.

“My point is, Akbar could be sending you a message. He is his own person, so are you. No one wants to be made responsible for someone else.”

“If that’s what he intends, it’s not very nice. He could have told me.”

“The world can be harsh. People sometimes aren’t nice, even family. Especially family! Now quit your worrying.”

By late the next morning, Abby saw fear behind his uncle’s eyes. The older man tried to hide it, but both of them thought the same thing. Neither slept well.

Unremembered dreams disturbed Abby during the night. He felt their residue the next morning and knew something was very wrong. Akbar and Yousef hadn’t run off with new girlfriends or gotten lost. They abstained from alcohol and could not have camped overnight in the cold. Yousef’s new sedan remained parked beside the house. Nothing could be ruled out, but without better possibilities, Abby’s next bet was their absence had something to do with their sudden run of good fortune. Akbar was not making a point, he was in trouble, confirmed by the simple fact that Yousef was a better man than to compound the insult by leaving his father in a lurch. Father and adult son were supposed to drive home together.

In silence, Abby and uncle Hassan drove the winding ascent to the mountaintop. Abby declined the offer to start learning how to handle the ungainly orange bus. Uncle Hassan took Yousef’s car instead, the keys trustingly left above the visor. They anxiously scanned passing vehicles, the dramatic peak of Mt. Nemrut closer with every pass. Abby suddenly had a hunch when they approached the point where Akbar’s favorite hiking trail met the road for the final ascent to the car park. The risky trail with its sharp bends and sudden plummets frightened him. Mountain weather could change before the sun had crawled an inch across the sky.

Down the trail, he saw something shiny on the ground. Not until he held the brass bullet casing did he realize what it was. With growing gloom, Abby hurried ahead and encountered the boulder blocking the trail, and nearby: fancy mountaineer’s sunglasses—smashed.

“Yousef bought those as a gift for Akbar,” uncle Hassan said glumly. “Very expensive.”

Abby and his uncle carried an ill feeling up the last leg of the road. Only a few vehicles occupied the parking area. Abby darted straight for the east terrace, noticed the thin crowd, the absence of camera crews. Winter’s grip already squeezed the comfort out of the high mountain air. Soon the Old Man would be hurling enough icy nastiness to scare away all but the most intrepid travelers, enough to bury the mountaintop in nature’s thick white blanket.

With uncle Hassan huffing close behind, Abby aimed straight for the east terrace, expecting to see the priests in their usual places. They were gone. He recognized a few people invoking the risen statue like it would speak to them if they tried hard enough. He saw an Indonesian Muslim bowed on a prayer rug next to a Hindu seated in lotus position, two different expressions of faith that found a home together in front of the same icon.

“They’re not here,” Abby lamented. “They would know!”

Uncle Hassan caught his breath and asked, “What are you talking about, son?”

“The two priests. I met Cipheus, the young one. He would recognize Akbar or Yousef, but he’s gone.”

“Let’s ask around. I’ll go this way.”

Abby noticed a pair of soldiers standing guard by the Fire Altar and drifted their direction, drawn for some reason. When close enough he recognized the younger one.

“Temel? Is that you?”

Temel’s bored face enlivened when he lay eyes on Abby. He strode up and they hugged.

“My old school friend, I was hoping to see you here. Look at that furry patch. I’ve seen more hair on a newborn pup,” Temel ribbed.

“You’re not exactly the image of a good Muslim male,” Abby noted.

“Our officers tell us that a clean shave is the first sign of a professional military, but they can kiss it if these whiskers are getting chopped every day. My face is already starting to feel rough like my father’s, and my blades last for three shaves before dulled. Only three!”

Abby asked, “Remember our secret language?”

Temel blinked twice and winked.

“It’s good to see you too.” Abby double-timed three blinks in a row.

“I don’t remember.”

“I told you to watch out.”

Temel grinned slyly at the memory. “When we were supposed to be reciting scripture, we’d watch for the teachers who handed out lashings for disobedience. We still took a lot of punishment. Hey, did your brother tell you I saw him?”

“Today?” Abby asked excitedly.

“It was a while back, middle of summer.”

Abby deflated. “He’s missing. If you see him, please tell him to come home right away. Our cousin is also missing. I’m here with his father looking for them.”

“What does your cousin look like?”

“A little older than Akbar, thin mustache, city dweller. Always carries a nice camera.”

“I think I saw him yesterday,” said Temel.

Abby jumped at the good news. “When?”

“Afternoon. The colonel crept right up on him like he was going to do something, then just walked away. Later he left, together with the priests.”

“Yousef left with them?”

“He had a camera,” Temel recalled. “Definitely a Turk.”

“What did your colonel want with him?” Abby was afraid to know.

“I watched from a distance, and that’s how I like it,” said Temel. “No man to fool with—he’s an assassin.”

“My cousin left with the priests?” Abby asked incredulously.

“Yep.”

“When?” The news kept getting worse, or better, Abby wasn’t sure which.

“Maybe an hour later,” said Temel. “He looked upset.”

“Like how?”

“I think he’d been crying.”

“Crying?” Abby wondered if it had to do with Akbar. “Why?”

“All sorts of strange things go on up here, but I’m only a grunt. Good luck finding them. I’ll keep an eye out. We’ve got to go on patrol now.”

Abby concealed the news about Yousef from uncle Hassan, sharing only that a soldier thought he recognized Yousef’s description. Abby remembered the moral of the story about his uncle’s ex-wife: avoid creating needless worry. He asked the risen statue if he should be worried.

In reply, Abby felt his brother and cousin wrapped silence, mute but alive. His next worry: winter looming without the older sibling who had raised him for the past five years. Abby’s hunch came true that the good fortune would carry a price. Only one choice remained:

Cope.

Chapter 23

Headquarters of the Order of Three lay nestled at the end of a long lane lined with tall pines, an hour drive from Mt. Nemrut, the distance covered expertly in a sleek silver Audi sedan. Yousef, in back, tried to speak with the two priests who rescued him, but Cipheus kindly requested silence. Aggememnon sat peacefully on the other side, hands folded together and eyes closed. Deep in his throat emitted one long and barely audible chant. Yousef needed to get a message to his father, and find out what happened to Akbar. Considering his rescue at Nemrut Dag under the oddest of circumstances, he could wait. Not once did the driver look back at him.

The headquarters building appeared unassuming from the front, like a large country meeting hall rising out of the hills, but inside it expanded in layers. Yousef wondered how Cipheus gained entrance at the ornate wooden front door with no knob, noticed at the time but lost on the rational mind. The young priest simply placed his hand on the embossed silver symbol of The Way and the door swung open.

Inside, a sense of long history struck Yousef. He could see centuries contained in the beautiful woodwork, smell it in the heavy carpets, hear it in the sound absorbed into thick walls and plush furnishings, and sense it in the artifacts, paintings, books, tapestries, and rugs. Cipheus guided Yousef on a tour, the photographer’s mind captured by tales of times gone by. Aggememnon disappeared into the bowels of the building, his soft chant and soothing presence left behind in the rarefied air.

Every nook had a detail, a history, a purpose. Rooms insides of rooms connected by hallways and stairs, changing architectural styles around every bend. Contained within the eclectic building were an observatory that could have been used by Copernicus, a lush inner garden big enough for a dozen people to enjoy solitude, and a three-level library shaped like a tower, where Yousef encountered the only other people: a small team of technicians in the process of documenting every word and image. The outer portion of the complex struck him as newer, which Cipheus confirmed.

“We’ve added as needed, each generation leaving its own imprint. If you dug through the basement floor, you’d no doubt find the original stone foundation blocks.”

As the tour continued, Yousef recalled the memory of detaching from his body and floating away from the mountaintop, away from the threat of the bad colonel. Only the two priests stood nearby when he awoke. The hour was getting late. They offered him a ride.

Panicked after realizing what had happened, he snapped back to reality: Akbar! —Commandos! —Emergency!

All of a sudden, something manifested in the mountaintop air, unseen with the eye except for a slight distortion, undeniably present, and undeniably real. What does the bug say to the giant eye outside of the glass jar?

Yousef’s stomach fluttered with the remembered feeling of how he prayed like never before, and realized he was saved, touched by the divine. Forever changed! Everything he had ever thought—every feeling, every opinion, every experience—his entire existence—instantly appeared trivial, mundane, trite. At that moment he knew his life’s purpose was to serve the amazing mountain power best he could. Jesus said leave your family and follow me. Yousef understood Akbar’s reticence to talk about his experience at the mountaintop.

The photographer left Nemrut with the priests to begin his initiation.

Cipheus and Yousef finished the tour seated on a cozy ottoman deep within the grand building. Yousef guessed the antique piece to be at least two centuries old, perfectly preserved. Cipheus coaxed a fire back to life in the fireplace and suggested to get comfortable.

“How old is your grandfather?” Yousef asked while settling in.

“You mean Aggememnon? This incarnation has been walking the earth for almost 120 years. I don’t really think about him in terms of bodily age,” said Cipheus.

“120? Seriously? He looks old, but that’s ancient.”

“What if I told you that I’m older, in a sense?” The young priest studied Yousef’s reaction.

“I’d say you’re crazy, but don’t take it personally. Everything about this day has been crazy.”

Cipheus smiled, amused by his clumsy new student. He added a handful of tea to an iron kettle and hung it near the fire. “I still like to do some things the old-fashioned way,” he remarked as he sat down next to Yousef, regarding him.

“Are you going to tell me?” Yousef finally asked, feeling the need to break the silent analysis.

“Tell you what?”

“How old you are.”

“Let’s start at the beginning. Stop thinking of age as the accumulation of years in one lifetime. I count by the number of lives lived, which is more than the number of years lived by Aggememnon.”

“You do know why I was at the mountain....” Yousef felt unable to form the words.

“Of course.” Cipheus left no doubt with his direct gaze.

“I—I wouldn’t have been there, except for a very unusual circumstance.”

“That’s what I expected.”

“You don’t get it. Commandos tried to kill me, and they kidnapped my cousin! I have to look for him.” Yousef moved to stand.

“His fate is out of your hands.”

“You know?”

“Only that you were placed in our care.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?” Yousef suddenly feared a trap. He tried to read through the young face but saw only serenity.

“I don’t know every reason for everything done in the name of our king,” said Cipheus. “It has something to do with the peace efforts of Brother Demetrius. You’ll find out in due time, if you learn silence. Answers are in silence.”

Yousef settled back, still uneasy.

Cipheus watched the crackling fire and focused his intention as taught, feeling it to be true in every cell of his body. He reminded himself: I am a servant of the Throne and preserver of the Covenant. He pictured the living statue—the same risen statue that commanded the mountaintop—springing forth from his solar plexus. The countenance of that king in stone he remembered as flesh, as man, and knew presently as his Lord.

“Lord, be my right hand as you are my left. Be with me now.”

A sublime connection opened inside Cipheus, bringing an invigorating rush of clarity from sublimating himself and placing his ego in service. When he opened his mouth, the words formed were not his alone, his voice deepened to convey the authority behind it.

“You know why you are here: to learn from us. So you can remember who you once were, and teach others how the knowledge is gained. Your cousin Akbar started down the path, but quickly sidetracked into other pursuits. Now he is learning through enforced silence instead of voluntarily like you. That is why.”

“Oh,” said Yousef.

“You’re still dazed,” the young priest observed. “We have a lot to do and all winter to do it, but really the time is short. You’ll discover your true inner identity, and learn how to show other seekers the pathway to their souls. That’s why you were spared. Our king saw a purpose for you.”

“They have my cousin. I have to do something, please!” Yousef pleaded. Cipheus shook his head patiently, warning:

“Every breath you draw is on credit. See? The ego resists transformation unless it realizes the need, but you must set aside everything you think you know about yourself. It can be difficult for people raised differently. Aggememnon is an excellent teacher. He and Demetrius found me in the world and brought me here when I was a young boy, to learn my true identity as an eternal being. The false sense of self is an illusion of the senses. You might have seen the American movie The Matrix?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you remember the main character at first didn’t believe that all he knows to be real is an artificial creation for the purpose of mass deception. The deception in our reality comes from the little self—ego—which believes that all you are is a collection of experiences, life circumstances, test scores and so on. You might believe in a soul, but your perception is directed from the narrow perspective of one life, this one. You live once, you die, you wait for Judgment or perish forever. It’s natural—or perhaps better understood as unnatural—to believe so.

“Truth is, the soul doesn’t leave the body, the body leaves the soul. The body goes away and the soul continues as it had before. It never ended, never began, just always has been, forever attempting to evolve into something it already is. A point of view inside sees from the perspective of your oldest and truest self, what you might call soul. I will teach you how to view life from those eyes, but you must let go. And you must trust me. Don’t see the boy in front of you,” Cipheus said, expanding in Yousef’s sight. “See the soul reborn into this world to be here with you today, carrying out this purpose. Nothing will be forced, and everything you need to know is waiting inside.”

Yousef teetered between cackling or crying. “I’m just tired. Exhausted, actually.”

“Very soon you are going to have the best sleep of your life,” said the young priest, “aided by the tea. When you awaken refreshed, we’ll do yoga and begin your instruction with centering. The calm mind receives wisdom. The cluttered, distracted mind receives static.”

“I need to call my father.” Yousef set his condition. “My phone gets no signal out here.”

“That’s fine, followed by a period of voluntary silence. You’ll listen only, then ask any questions you desire,” said Cipheus. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Yousef nodded anxiously.

“Good. Let’s drink some tea. I’ll meet you in a dream, and prove that all minds are linked together as one. The Order has used these techniques for thousands of years to attain insight.”

Cipheus poured the tea into two large silver mugs carved with hieroglyphics. He explained, “The tea has a narcotic effect that acts slowly and settles in deeply. When you get sleepy, I’ll lead you to your room. Until then, you have the opportunity to ask me anything.”

“Anything....” Yousef searched his mind. “Then my first question is, who are you people—really?”

Cipheus blew on his steaming tea before answering, “The simplest answer is, we are servants of the Covenant forged by our visionary leader, committed by an oath made 22 centuries ago. When one of us has gone as far as we can in the flesh, the other two find him in the world when he is reborn 40 days later. The oldest teaches the youngest about his true self. He then becomes the oldest and teaches the youngest, while the middle carries out the duties of High Priest.”

“Reborn? Like reincarnation? I don’t believe in that stuff.” Yousef looked at his tea wondering what sort of psychedelic brew the priest was pushing.

“I’m living proof, as we all are—except the newborns who have evolved up and experience the human body—and death—for the first time. They frequently choose to incarnate into primitive conditions. As our souls grow through many lifetimes, we become masters of our destinies, and make better arrangements.”

Yousef wondered, “Why 40 days before reincarnating?”

“That’s the minimum time the soul needs to rejuvenate and assimilate what it has learned in the previous life. Although I’ll say with a caveat that certain voracious types are known to disdain the guidelines and jump right back in. Some souls take much longer to recover between lives, centuries of human time. Some grow to higher consciousness, never to return. And some of the ascended Masters choose to reincarnate when needed, to share their hard-earned wisdom.”

“You remember your previous lives?” Yousef had difficulty letting go of the old belief in one life, one chance to get it right or else eternal punishment.

“Not all of them in every detail, but the most important parts,” said Cipheus. “My Brothers have shared their memories of me. Detailed records are stored here for future selves to learn from. Sometimes, reading something I wrote a thousand years ago can be disconcerting. Though I always recognize myself in my writing.”

“So then,” said Yousef between sips of tea, which tasted lightly of licorice and coriander, “what exactly did I encounter back at Nemrut?” Cipheus turned within. Yousef thought the tea might have put the priest to sleep, then a smile on the ruddy face indicated answer received. “Our king is beyond understanding. He is the Second Coming predicted by all cultures, all wrapped in one. We still must prepare the way. It is a process, not an event.”

The tea soothed Yousef. Its warmth spread down his legs from his bowels. The young priest was certainly right about one thing: Whatever had manifested in the air and saved him from the colonel was beyond his understanding. He said, “I’ve had a feeling there was more to this story ever since the first day my cousins called me. So this is it, the final days?”

“It is the beginning of a higher form of consciousness,” Cipheus clarified. “The fifth dimension of Intention enters the realm of mass human perception. We learn how to form our reality with our minds, and use the power to restore the planet. The fifth dimension is one of manifestation, what some people call magic. This is advanced teaching. I shouldn’t clutter your mind with it.”

Yousef felt pleasantly mellow and wondered: what did he really want to know? “Last question. From day one I’ve been curious how the head of the statue rose onto its throne.”

“What do the newspapers say?” As if the boyish priest had no knowledge.

“No one knows for sure, that’s why I’m asking,” said Yousef.

“If we drove up there in the middle of the night with hired men and used a hydraulic winch, would it take anything away from the story?”

“Yes, it would.” Yousef looked around like someone else could be hiding in the room, before adding, “To me it would.”

“You’re right. People want to know that there’s more to human existence than the ordinary. One day, with the knowledge recorded here, anyone will be able to lift heavy objects using the mind. Faith can move mountains—faith in oneself when in service. Ask yourself this: What if Aggememnon answered his king’s call to give the world a sign, and he did it by himself with no tools or equipment—and I saw him do it, little help that I could be?”

“I’d say that makes for a better story.” Yousef imagined the massive statue head floating off the ground, lifted telepathically by the 120 year-old priest.

“Pick which version you’d rather believe,” invited Cipheus, “and you have it.”

“That’s not fair. Obviously you want me to believe he acted alone,” Yousef protested futilely, the tea pulling him under.

“We are never alone.”

“You know what I mean.”

Said the cherubic priest as he led Yousef to bed, “You can ask me anything, but I did not promise to always answer to your satisfaction.”

Chapter 24

Two minutes before air-time, Cameron Starr sat beside a pretty Korean-born news anchor, both broadcasters being touched up with make-up as production assistants swarmed the set in preparation for the evening program. Show time!

Cameron had to be on top of his game—not that he wasn’t always. Viewers and affiliates of the BCC clamored for more reports about Mt. Nemrut and the peace efforts of its representative, Demetrius. While reviewing notes, Cameron’s cellphone vibrated, the only call he would take under the circumstance. The journalist’s demeanor changed to all sweetness when he answered, porcelain smile showing in his voice.

“Demetrius, so good to hear from you! I’m about to go live. Do you have my quote?” Cameron waved away the make-up artist, who dabbed once more at his cheek.

From thousands of miles and few time zones away, Demetrius watered his seed through the phone. “Forgive me, Cameron,” he said, “you journalists are so impatient. I just landed in Iraq. Bad news: I cannot confirm why I’m here. It’s too delicate right now.”

“You’re there for peace talks.”

“And you are the first in your profession to know for sure. Draw your inference from that. When is your broadcast?” Cameron looked up at the big LCD clock: 132 seconds, 131, 130. “One minute,” he said.

The phone crackled from bad reception. Listening closely while scribbling notes, Cameron heard: “You can confirm I’m here, and the Turkish government will neither confirm nor deny that I’m officially authorized to talk to Kurdish authorities.”

“That’s already been reported,” complained Cameron. “Come on, you promised an exclusive.”

“A top Turkish military official is along with me,” Demetrius enticed.

“Who?”

“Can’t say. I’ll call again.”

The line went dead. Cameron’s producers in the glassed-in booth above him peered down eagerly. “What’ve we got?” one of them asked over the intercom.

“More than anyone else,” Cameron said as a way of not answering. “Do we have any live feeds from Baghdad airport?”

“Too late.”

“Damn.”

An elegant man with a long face and flattened gray hair, wearing an expensive beige suit and gold cuff links, appeared in the booth: the big boss who first briefed Cameron on the Nemrut story, Mr. Campbell.

“Cameron!” he boomed enthusiastically. “Happy to be home?” Cameron unconsciously straightened his silk polka-dot tie. “It’s great to be back in London.”

“Your reporting has been top-notch of late. Everyone should take notice.” Around the studio, everyone took notice of the executive producer’s declaration. “How’s your wife and daughters?”

“They’re happy I’m home,” replied Cameron. “My youngest grew a full set of teeth while I was on assignment.”

“Better than we can say for many of our countrymen,” humored the executive. “Keep up the good work. Perhaps we could hit the links. Tee time tomorrow at noon. St. Andrews, lad. Just don’t put us old guys to shame with those muscles of yours.”

Ten seconds to air. Cameron thought fast.

“I’d love to, but it’s a work day, sir, and the traffic is murder.”

“The heli will be waiting,” said Mr. Campbell. “You’ve earned a day off. I’ll call in the morning.”

St. Andrews, the most famous golf course in the world, flown there in the corporate helicopter. Of course Cameron would go!

The lead anchor began the broadcast. Cameron watched his meal ticket disappear, no doubt to return to his office in the executive suite and prepare another nightly, hair-splitting critique of the broadcast. That’s why Mr. Campbell sat in the big chair and zoomed over London gridlock.

Cameron turned on the charm when the light fell on his co-anchor’s chair, riding his exclusive as far as it would take him.

In Baghdad at that moment, another silver Audi sedan began the perilous journey to northern Iraq. Next to Demetrius in the back, Colonel Muhammed looked uncomfortable wearing plain khakis and oversize sunglasses. He turned away from the window, annoyed.

“You shouldn’t have told him about me, not even a hint.”

Demetrius closed his eyes and replied, “We’ll be at our destination before it matters. Relax.”

“The Kurds will kill me on sight if they know I am here.”

“I know what I’m doing, and you know who watches over us. Get comfortable; you’re no good to me with your mind addled.”

Demetrius took his own advice and curled his long legs into his body. In a dangerous place like Iraq, he would usually maintain a protective mental bubble around the vehicle, but he had to trust his twin of the mind to watch over them from Mt. Nemrut. He slept soundly with no worries, driven north by an old soul—an elite Kurdish bodyguard—behind the wheel.

Colonel Muhammed stared out the window during the long trip like a Death Row inmate facing the inevitable.

****

Atop a vast desert of violence sat a relative oasis of peace: the Kurdish territory of northern Iraq. While war had engulfed most of the rest of the country, the Kurdish area prospered, even advertised itself as a tourist destination. Mountainous, scenic, bustling—the northern enclave bore little resemblance to points south in war-ravaged Iraq.

Like Israel’s attraction to battered Jews seeking a land of their own, Kurds made northern Iraq the center of their world. The Kurdish Diaspora, forty million strong, finally had a home. Kurdistan was a reality except for international recognition, and in the minds of the people, the day of their official ascendancy appeared inevitable.

Damn the Turks! They should die like mongrels in the border mountains, opined the Kurdish public. So close to achieving their collective goal, emboldened by gains after centuries of mistreatment in the bloody games of larger powers, the Kurds were not about to back down from demanding their rightful place among nations. Chaos in Iraq presented the opportunities to consolidate power and form a Kurdish government and military. It also created a people tired of senseless death, receptive to an emissary of peace.

It helped that the Kurds had heard rumors of a peacemaker from the sacred mountain, and maintained a cease-fire on the Turkish border. Excitement mounted by the time Demetrius arrived.

He stopped impending war; next to deliver peace. Kurdish Iraq, however, still shut tight as a pressure cooker. The southern border resembled the Maginot Line, interspersed with checkpoints to keep out suicide bombers trying to spread fear and death. Demetrius and Colonel Muhammed encountered no difficulty while traveling north, no bombings on the highway or shootouts, and the oppressive security eased as they left flatlands for foothills with mountainous backdrops, the kind pictured in travel brochures.

Colonel Muhammed, all thought squeezed from his mind, watched the terrain flash by during the long drive, soaking it in. He had known all along what his sacrificial atonement would require. Awakened to awareness of lifetimes of karmic debt accrued, his decision to pay carried larger meaning than satiating the hatred he had incurred in this life. The knowledge did not comfort his sense of impending doom, only gave it meaning.

The Audi glided around back of a walled compound. The brilliant blue sky belied autumn chill in the air, closing on winter in the mountains, a welcome relief from the dusty heat of the flat Iraqi desert. White-capped peaks punctuated the horizon.

Governor Jalal Zebari hugged Demetrius into his thick chest as soon as he stepped out of the car, while Colonel Muhammed remained behind. Tufts of black hair escaped the top of the governor’s open, pinstriped dress shirt. He had clean cheeks, dusky skin, and a cheerful smile that could transform instantly to a scowl in the presence of incompetence or foolery. Guards stood impassively in the background, military rifles slung over their shoulders only as a show of warrior status. Demetrius, obviously no threat, returned the hearty embrace of a man he just met.

Governor Zebari made small talk while leading toward the back of the compound. News that the trip north was traveled safely with no hassles genuinely pleased the governor.

A private patio equipped with a table surrounded by comfortable deck chairs and topped by a leaf-green umbrella awaited them. Two men, both close in age to the governor, stood courteously, one wearing a tan militia uniform, the other a navy blue suit jacket and pressed slacks. Governor Zebari introduced them.

“These are two of my closest associates. Demetrius, this is Sabir Effendi, the chief intelligence officer assigned as a liaison to my office. He has top-level clearance, as you specified.”

“I see the intelligence in your eyes, Sabir,” Demetrius complimented, using his keen gray orbs to create a feeling of familiarity. “You are well-matched to your profession.”

Sabir Effendi received Demetrius’s handshake and replied, “Thank you. I have heard many interesting things about you.”

“And this is Fuad Ahmed,” continued Governor Zebari. “He would be here anyway, our years together many, but you asked for someone influential with our people fighting for our rights high in the mountains. He has many friends on both sides of the border.”

A shock of unplaced recognition struck Ahmed while taking the hand of the magnetic priest.

“You should visit the sacred mountain,” Demetrius said knowingly.

“Something is there you’ve been looking for.”

“I might do that, thank you.” A tingly feeling lingered in the palm of the governor’s old friend. “You speak flawless Kurdish, yet I don’t think it is your native language. I’ve also heard you speak English and Turkish in public. How many languages do you know?”

“Does that include animal languages, or only human?” Demetrius intended a display to get tongues wagging among the influential Kurdish public.

“Human.”

“Several dozen. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I have an unusual ability to learn any language as if I already know it, only have to remember. After a few phrases the rest falls into place through continued exposure. Anyone trained properly from a young age can do it.”

“That’s pretty amazing,” said Effendi, the intelligence officer. “I’ve read about research into animal communication. The Americans are using dolphins to patrol harbors.”

“They have a remarkable vocabulary—dolphins, that is—every bit as detailed as ours, but they’re more efficient in their communication. America’s leaders, on the other hand, are prone to sloganeering and propaganda. Too bad, because English is the modern world’s universal language.”

Officer Effendi blinked rapidly, trying to digest the thought, and asked, “You understand dolphins?”

“Yes, falcons too. Governor, did you know that a huntress protects your compound from rodents and other unwanted intruders? I heard her call during the drive in.”

“Is that right?” Zebari replied. “No wonder the cats are hungry. Tell her she can have all the mice she wants, just leave my wife’s little dog alone.”

“I’ll do that.”

Demetrius faced north, formed his hands into a cone with an opening through the thumbs like a reed, and blew a piercing falcon call. The shattering sound echoed off the surrounding hillsides and scratched the eardrums of his company.

“She’ll come investigate the sound of another falcon, but the hunt has taken her into the hills,” explained Demetrius. A moment later, a distant falcon cry sounded in reply. The three Kurds looked amazedly at each other.

“That is some gift,” said the governor.

Demetrius saw faces drawn to the surrounding windows by his sound. He modestly lowered his gaze.

“I’ve been blessed with skilled teachers.”

“Please sit,” Zebari invited. “I cleared my schedule for such a special visit, no hurry. I have more time now that the Turks have pulled back, no doubt thanks to you.”

Demetrius sat straight-backed on the cushioned, wrought-iron chair and for a moment enjoyed the air, the sun, the sounds. Even while subdued he radiated energy, sharpening the moment for everyone nearby who came under his gaze or had the pleasure of his company. Governor Zebari filled the priest’s glass and passed around a pitcher of iced tea with a plate of lemons and sweetener. Demetrius patiently folded within himself, absorbed in the moment.

The governor opened phase two of the conversation.

“I should start by thanking you for helping my little nephew. His condition is much improved. You have the deepest gratitude of myself and my family. Don’t act surprised: I know it was you. That is why I felt right to embrace you upon meeting, for your act of kindness.”

“I only recommended an old folk remedy. A friend told me about the case of your nephew,” Demetrius deflected. He studied his partner in peace, the governor, a classic archetype of the cerebral clan politician. Like most elected officials, a man of immense ego but also enlightened self-interest. By absorbing and overcoming the worst that major powers could throw at them—chemical attacks, mass killings, deportations—the Kurds carried resilient group confidence personified in the 55 year-old father of five, grandfather of fourteen, showing his age but still vigorous and ready to tangle. Governor Zebari’s power derived from his popularity and finger on the pulse of his people, more so than from his official position. Demetrius chose wisely.

“A charred oak cask soaked with brandy for healing the lungs—that is special,” the governor marveled. “Perhaps you could talk to my doctors and recommend a few nips with dinner for my ulcer. They won’t let me touch alcohol anymore.”

“Grapes are good for ulcers, but not the green variety—Concord,” said Demetrius. “If you get your daily dose of grapes as wine, all the better. You might also eat a few almonds. Tell your wife I said so, humble country doctor that I am.”

The governor gesticulated while saying, “She forbids my drinking, says I get so loud they can hear me laugh in Tikrit. But if I tell her it’s for my health....”

“Everything in moderation.” Demetrius held up his glass of ice tea. “To your health, and the health of your people.”

The falcon flew across the sun, winged shadow tracing the ground. Governor Zebari sensed the time had come to talk business.

“I hear you’ve been busy lately.”

“Soon I’ll have enough frequent-flyer miles for a free trip to the moon,” Demetrius joked. He slipped in, “I met with Prime Minister Erbakan in Ankara. He sends his regards.”

“Does he really?”

“He says he wants to prevent war.”

“He wants to start war,” the governor said a little louder.

“The situation has changed. You noticed that the Turks stayed their hand. What you don’t know is, the generals stopped the prime minister from launching the invasion, not the other way around. I ask you to use discretion with that information, and with what I’m about to tell you.”

Demetrius aimed his request around the table.

“We will,” answered Governor Zebari. The trio of Kurds leaned closer.

Demetrius marshaled his concentration, reached out for his mental twin at Nemrut who knew all hearts, and together their minds felt the subtle energy currents given off by the Kurdish men who had been chosen—unbeknown to them—to help make peace. As the magic took root, the mood on the patio elevated, sounds clarified, hearts opened, minds loosened. Destiny unfolded by the moment.

“The Turks have additional reasons to make peace with you,” Demetrius honed in, “and the prime minister has a way to keep the generals at bay: An oil deposit near your northern border has been discovered. Not any oil deposit—it will provide many millions of barrels a day.”

The governor whistled appreciatively. Demetrius continued.

"The deposit extends into the territory Turkey was prepared to annex. They could occupy the region for decades and pump all of the oil. That’s what the Ottomans would have done, but the prime minister realizes the opportunity to secure a larger peace guaranteed by mutual benefit. I call it mutually assured security—MAS. Our security is guaranteed by Covenant, and the sacred mountain is the ultimate underwriter. An entire operation is ready to kick into motion after the larger security situation is secured.”

“We can be agreeable,” the governor gestured with open hands. “I’m beginning to see where this conversation is going. Negotiation of this sort is better handled between diplomats.”

Demetrius drank his tea and noticed the circling shadow of the huntress. “There is more," he said. "Prime Minister Erbakan is prepared to accept a Kurdish homeland, but you know as well as he does that the generals must agree. Otherwise they’ll oppose him—and possibly depose him. He must give something in return.”

“I have no daughters left to give away,” quipped Governor Zebari. A little smile played at the corners of Demetrius’s mouth. Perfect moment to drop a bombshell.

“Your vigorous support for Turkey’s membership in the EU is enough.”

Zebari laced his fingers behind his head, 'ah-ha!' stamped on his face. He wanted to speak, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His two associates appeared similarly stunned by the sheer audacity of the plan.

Demetrius explained, “By going to war with Kurdistan, Turkey’s hope for EU membership vanishes. But a strong Kurdish appeal will influence European minds and give them a stake. You do your part, I’ll take care of the diplomatic machinery. It’s happening already. You don’t see the big picture because this is the beginning, but I’m telling you now that the peace we create here will spread, and your names will be preserved in history for helping to make it happen. The time is now for a totally new paradigm of how we live and how we interact. The sacred mountain has a long memory and a special fondness for your resilient people. The time is now.”

Governor Zebari worked over the angles in his mind. From everything he knew, he could trust Demetrius. He even had a spine-tingling feeling about the whole situation, but some of the priest’s assertions were far-out.

“I thought I was too old for surprises. Genius. The Turks join the club, we get a homeland, everyone gets richer. Win-win, right? Sorry, but my people won’t accept this deal no matter how fortuitous it is. Too much pride is at stake. Too much history. We have fought too long to just forgive and forget. It’s a better deal for Turkey.”

“I anticipated that, and I have proof of my intention and my ability to carry it out. Our reach extends beyond borders, ideologies and ethnic groups to the living heart of humankind. Whatever has to happen to create this peace will happen.”

Demetrius modulated 'will happen' to sound as two voices. Only a professional would recognize the technique of squeezing the lungs independently, and only a highly-trained voice could attempt the trick, let alone perfect it. He added, "If you truly want peace, and are prepared to help make it happen, there’s no turning back after this next step.”

Governor Zebari felt the test of his intentions. “Everything about you so far has been too good to be true,” he said. “But I cannot act alone; my people are my power.”

Demetrius understood. He excused himself to go to his vehicle.

“Is he for real?” Fuad Ahmed asked after the priest departed. “How could he possibly expect us to accept such a deal? First we get nationhood, then the Turks get their EU membership!”

The governor shrugged. “He drove here from Baghdad without a security detail, just him and his usual driver, a Kurd. Can you believe it? There’s more to this man than we know, as we’ve seen here today. My nephew was near death, just a little kid about to be taken, and this man out of nowhere sent word on how to cure him.”

“What does he think will convince us to go along?” asked the intelligence officer, Effendi. “We would have to put our necks on the line. Nationhood is close enough to taste, and no delays or deals will sit well with the public. We can get what we deserve without compromise. The Turks will bog down in the mountains, and we’ll hit them eye blow for blow until they finally bow to pressure to get out.”

The Kurds were confident in the resilience and soldierly skill of their homeland’s defenders. The Peshmerga could fight for decades living on wild grass and sleeping under blankets of snow, male and female side by side.

“If we negotiate it is from a position of strength that we’ve earned,” Effendi insisted. “That is still the way the world works.”

“Do we really want to sacrifice our prosperity?” the governor asked his two close associates. “Our lands boom, but without stability, everything halts. Zip. Done. With due respect for our Peshmerga, they can’t stand for long against Turkish firepower. And we can’t count on anyone to come to our side, because most of our neighbors consider us a threat. It won’t be us against the Turks but us against the entire Near East—which means against the world. That is the enormity of our situation, and that is why we are leaders. We must decide.”

Demetrius returned, followed by Colonel Muhammed walking board-stiff up to the shaded table. The colonel took off his sunglasses, met no stares, face hard as granite. A peaceful feeling settled in now that the time arrived to carry out his sacrifice, the guilt accumulated from a lifetime of wrongs finally about to lift from his shoulders. He intended to wash away the karmic debt with his blood, as the great spirit deep under Mt. Nemrut promised, to come back again as a better person. He only hoped to be allowed a warrior’s death.

Fuad Ahmed’s mouth dropped. Words tried to pass his lips, but choked and gurgled in his constricted throat. Face flushed crimson, he pointed a shaky finger at the colonel. The hated name finally passed his lips:

“Arslan Muhammed, the Butcher—you dare!”

The hands of Governor Zebari and officer Effendi gripped their chairs. Saddam Hussein could have risen from the grave and caused less alarm. Demetrius intervened before a commotion started.

“My apology for surprising you, but it was necessary. Colonel Muhammed, or Arslan the Butcher as you know him, would have been shot at the border, denied the opportunity to come here today and freely offer himself. Behold one of your own, the hated enemy at your door. He’ll tell you why.”

“Correction,” Zebari said flatly, “he’s not a Kurd. We disowned him.” The governor walked around back of the motionless colonel. His voice came out restrained, with an undertone of cold hatred.

“Why are you here?”

“Atonement,” replied the colonel, eyes focused ahead.

“Why?”

“I betrayed my people. My mind has been opened.”

“Who did this opening?”

Without turning to look, Colonel Muhammed said, “Give credit to the priest.”

The governor could picture Demetrius, inscrutable half-smile and level gray eyes, analyzing their exchange.

“What do you hope to accomplish?”

“Peace,” said the colonel. “If the sacrifice of my life convinces you, I do so willingly.”

The governor hardly believed his ears. He asked, “You are prepared to die?”

“Yes.”

“It could be painful.”

“I have lived like a lion, and am ready to die like one.”

“I won’t burden the government with a trial.”

“I'm not here for one,” said the colonel. Governor Zebari turned to his fellow leaders Effendi and Ahmed.

“Do you agree that I have the legal authority to accept this confession of guilt to treason, murder and who knows what else, and order the punishment?”

“Governor, you are a sworn judge, and I will be your witness,” Effendi declared, eager to see the enemy's blood spill.

“This is highly unusual,” said Ahmed. “We should present him to the people.”

“You read my mind, but we’re trying to move on,” said Zebari. “We already endured reliving Saddam’s misery at his trial.”

“But wouldn’t the colonel be a good piece to use against the Turks?” Ahmed argued, his face flushed with raw emotion.

Colonel Muhammed snapped his head side to side. “That’s not what I agreed to. Leave the Turks out of this,” he insisted. “It’s between us.”

Governor Zebari quickly thought the situation over.

“Today he sees justice. Right now. I’ll do you the honor of using your pistol to put the hole in his head.”

Ahmed handed over his pistol, a look of doubt lingering. The governor, his face masked with cold fury, asked Demetrius, “Is this what you had in mind?”

“As Spirit wills,” the priest replied. Zebari chambered a round and removed the clip. He talked closely to the colonel.

“I find you guilty and order immediate execution. Because you are a military man and I don’t want to waste the wood on a gallows, you get a bullet instead of a noose. And because you came willingly, I offer you the option of spilling your own brains. I make no promise about what will become of your gesture. Do you accept?”

Colonel Muhammed hissed between clamped lips, “I accept.”

“Over there. In the grass.”

The governor’s associates jumped up from the table, followed by Demetrius. The priest called upon help from the heart of the sacred mountain. The power could always be invoked, but must be properly petitioned to work in one’s favor, reminded of the eternal laws. Where two are gathered together in my name....

The colonel stood in a grassy area with the pistol at his side. “Put it to your head,” ordered the governor.

He pointed the gun at his temple.

“Turn off the safety.”

The colonel complied.

“You are a hated man, traitor. Does that keep you awake at night?”

“No.”

“Do you want to die?”

“I’m holding a gun to my head,” the colonel pointed out.

“The Reaper’s shadow hovers, and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I want to atone.”

“You think your death can satisfy the blood lust of my people? After all you've done?” asked Zebari, settling behind the colonel’s right ear, while another voice from Nemrut spoke in the colonel's left ear.

“That is what I’ve always wanted, even when I betrayed my people to try to achieve it. With the rebels gone, I thought the troubles would be over.”

“We’re not savages. What could possibly compel you to offer yourself like a sacrifice?”

“A greater power will use it to prevent many more deaths than I’ve caused.” Despite the cool air, long stains of sweat spread down the colonel’s back and chest like a smock.

“What power,” asked the governor. “Allah?”

“You could say that.”

“Not good enough. You aren’t sorry for what you’ve done?”

“I have regrets about my ignorance. The Kurds are not innocent.” Sabir reached for his pistol, ready to shut the insolent mouth. The governor stayed the intelligence officer’s hand.

“You’re right,” conceded Zebari, “we have done our share, and without admitting our culpability the conflict will never end. But we didn’t start it, and nothing can excuse what you’ve done.”

Colonel Muhammed stared ahead courageously. The governor mulled his thoughts. The pistol shook.

“If I may suggest, there’s an old custom among your people for fratricide,” Demetrius interjected. “It might be useful to revive.”

Arslan Muhammed—Turkish colonel, butcher of Kurds, and himself Kurdish-born—stood at the end of two long lines of men facing each other to form a gauntlet. Security vehicles blocked both ends of the street, their lights flashing the mood of the hour: Emergency!

At the other end from the colonel, Governor Zebari waited with his two fellow Kurdish leaders and Demetrius. A huge crowd clamored for space to view the spectacle, assembled in windows, in doorways, atop benches, and everywhere else a person could watch expectantly behind the men who had volunteered to deliver the punishment. Word spread quickly.

Thousands of spectators turned out to see the hated traitor receive justice in the middle of a public street.

“Arslan will make it through the line to us,” Demetrius told the governor, “because of the power walking with him. When he reaches your shoes, you’ll know the truth of our ability.”

“He won’t,” Zebari replied with raised chin. “If he makes it, the old wolf simply refuses to die, but no way will he be standing.”

Zebari held up a fist. The crowd hushed.

Colonel Muhammed came forward, eyes locked ahead, a man as sure about his actions as his punishment. He relished this warrior’s death, and thanked Antiochus from the depths of his soul for arranging the opportunity. Bring on the pain!

Governor Zebari dropped his arm. Colonel Muhammed stepped between the first two men. They struck blows with their fists, knocking him sideways. He straightened and continued as the next tandem took their shots. A boot smashed against the colonel’s kidney. He winced but otherwise showed no pain and moved on, step after slow step.

However, the brief expression stirred the hungry sharks. Another young man jumped forward and swung his gloved fist squarely into the colonel’s jaw, rocking it sideways. Crimson fluid trickled out of a split in his lower lip and pooled in the dimple of his chin.

The next two men eagerly rushed forward and vented the rage of their people, dealing savage blows. One punisher gleefully landed an overhand punch on the colonel’s split lip, raining drops of blood on the pavement. Two more men rushed in, one large as a professional wrestler, and—with the last two still punching and kicking from the back—assaulted from the front. The wrestler stomped his boot heel on the colonel’s knee; his partner followed almost simultaneously with a cudgel blow to the head.

Colonel Muhammed collapsed. The crowd swarmed, delivering blows with primal ferocity and mob frenzy. Blood poured from his scalp down his face, but he somehow forced himself to his feet during a lull and staggered backward, then forward, beyond the halfway point.

The mob quieted at such tenacity. The next moment it determined to break him.

A bald, handlebar-mustachioed man wearing a butcher’s apron ran five steps and aimed brass knuckles square between the colonel’s eyes, cracking the sinus cavity with a loud crunch. The two sides of the gauntlet tossed the rag doll back and forth. The colonel lost footing and landed on his hands and knees, gasping. He cleared his eyes, his mouth. A puddle of pulpy liquid formed on the pavement from his shattered nose. A ferocious kick to the ribs stunned him before he could regain his feet, but his eyes still found Governor Zebari, barely visible through the mayhem and the swelling of his face.

Colonel Muhammed raised himself, wobbled, staggered forward. With each blow he came closer to atonement, the balancing of his soul’s actions while in the body. Antiochus enlightened his mind to the importance of the role of the betrayer; how Judas Iscariot actually had the blessing of Jesus, and carried out his master’s final wish knowing they would soon be together again.

Colonel Muhammed fully accepted his poetic death. Blowing his brains out would have been too easy.

The crowd took up a chant—“Kill him! Kill him!”—and pressed forward until only seething faces filled his vision. Children found places between the men to deliver futile kicks or throw rocks before being pulled away. A knee drove directly into his groin. A fist smashed his larynx. A rotund man dashed forward and rammed the half-dead colonel into a knot of men on the opposite side. They pulled his hair, tore his clothes, punched, screamed, scratched, and had their revenge!

The punishment lulled as an old matriarch parted the line. Colonel Muhammed coughed blood onto her skirt. Glaring hatefully, she backhanded him across the face. More blows rained down with renewed furor.

Still the colonel continued, barely aware. Nothing mattered anymore except sweet absolution. His strength gone, a flow of energy from the Throne channeled through Demetrius pushed relentlessly, even when the colonel’s own legs no longer sufficed, the bones no longer capable of supporting his skeleton. The mob hit and kicked and yanked until he reached the end and stood before Governor Zebari. More punishers stepped forward, but the governor’s raised fist halted them, bringing silence except for a few cries of “Death!”

Zebari motioned for his fellow Kurdish leaders, Effendi and Ahmed.

“Finish him.”

They eagerly stepped forward and struck Colonel Muhammed with the most precise and deadly blows, attacking his groin, kidneys, neck, eyes. Centuries of wrongs released through the sacrifice of one for the many. Sabir Effendi chose to preserve his hands by using a baton, but Fuad Ahmed felt the most personal rage. He’d known many good people felled at the hands of the hated Turkish counterinsurgent, the traitor who turned on his own people, responsible for the assassinations of dozens of top Kurdish militia officials—personal friends, in some instances. He wanted to feel the pain being delivered.

The governor’s men struck and struck, and still the Butcher stood, dead on his feet, so Zebari put an end to it.

“Enough!”

Colonel Muhammed collapsed flat on the ground, sounding like a heavy chub of ground beef slapping against tile floor. He smiled, revealing a reddened mouth and missing front teeth. Demetrius pictured him bathed in pure light; only a little further. The bloodied, broken man on the ground saw a shiny black leather shoe and reached for it before the last of his life drained away.

Governor Zebari bent down, disgusted. He and Arslan locked eyes. The colonel placed an unsteady hand on the ground and tried to push himself up, but could rise no further.

Governor Zebari’s booming voice addressed the crowd and the colonel simultaneously:

“You know this man and what he has done against us. You have exacted our retribution. Let him be a symbol for all our anger and desire for revenge, tamed in the name of achieving a just peace. It is time to leave bitterness behind and claim our future. Let us begin a new day in the history of the Kurds!”

Jalal Zebari turned to Demetrius—he of the inscrutable facial expressions and healing potions and bird calls—and heard words come out of his own mouth which he couldn’t have imagined earlier that day. “You are an amazing man, Demetrius of Nemrut. If you don’t follow through, I am a dead man. Now make this peace happen.”

Demetrius laced his fingers together over his sternum and replied, “The Word of the sacred mountain comes true before our eyes. My friend in peace, all things are possible to followers of The Way.”

Chapter 25

The Reverend Jeremiah Fallin ominously declared, “This is it, I know sure as my name is Jeremiah: The Antichrist is nigh!”

His words sent shudders down the spines of his inner circle of ministry employees meeting in his spacious office. Captivating before large audiences, the reverend could also command the rapt attention of a small gathering of the faithful. People had hung on his every word for so long, he hardly remembered the last time he opened his mouth without estimating the impact and weighing the potential response. In public, he acted out the constant inner drama of his long life. Even privately with his staff at the Sacred Hill mega-church outside of St. Louis, Missouri, he was always onstage.

“Is it Demetrius, the so-called mountain priest?” asked a skinny man with drab brown hair parted neatly on the side, dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and tie. He had the look of the unfortunate bachelor by circumstance, not by choice. A gold leaf, soft-cover Bible sat closed in his lap, the name Roger Ecksby engraved in billowy script on the cover.

“I cannot discern the spirit,” Jeremiah Fallin told his personal secretary, “though God reveals more each day. I sense a greater power. Remember: behind the Beast is the Dragon. The Dragon grants the Beast’s authority.”

“He claims to be a peacemaker,” said a severe-looking woman, Theresa Jenks. Her thin skin showed vein and bone beneath; cherry red lipstick caked on thick; hair held in a bun tight as a helmet. “The Beast will claim to be a peacemaker, like the heretical priest.”

“And he will speak boastfully, which I have not heard yet from Demetrius,” Fallin continued her thought, “but his false religion gives away his true nature.”

Ernie Eagleton, the ministry data center’s overnight technician, wearing a light blue golf shirt and tan slacks for the special occasion, added with a surprisingly juvenile voice for such a big person, “The public believes him. You should see the Internet traffic.”

“I’d guess they have a sophisticated media operation,” said Reverend Fallin. “The Beast will not act alone, but will ensnare the brightest minds in the world.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ernie awed before his leader. “We tracked many postings back to a few people leading the discussions. They might be his servants. They call themselves ‘old souls.’”

The thought of an enemy to fight excited Ernie. All of his life he had been fed bogeymen, and ate it up without question: Saddam, Osama, Communists, Terrorists, Blacks, Immigrants, Gays, Liberals, Abortionists—his brother-in-law, the gleefully atheistic fireman who tested God.

“We should presume our enemy is wise in the ways of the world, and has most likely cultivated followers, possibly for many years. People absolutely loyal,” Reverend Fallin warned, “maybe not even aware of the true nature of what they serve.”

“They claim to be reincarnated from some ancient kingdom.” Theresa Jenks derided the idea.

“Interesting. Which one?” Reverend Fallin looked up to focus his thoughts on God.

“Greek. Seleucid, or something like that.”

Reverend Fallin smacked his fist into the other hand. “I know who they are: the northern kingdom of Daniel’s prophecies! Idolaters. Enemies of the chosen people.”

He leaned back in a big reclining chair behind his desk. The small group of loyal employees—twelve in all; the reverend liked parallels to Jesus—formed a semicircle, sitting on chairs of various types that tucked into closets and corners of the spacious office.

“Let’s get into the Word,” the reverend enthused. “Roger, begin with Daniel, chapter 8, verse 8.”

Roger Ecksby flipped open his Bible to the exact page, familiar with the Good Book like a Spelling Bee champion knows the dictionary. His reedy voice grew more assured while reciting.

“Therefore the male goat grew very great; but when he became strong, the large horn was broken, and in its place, four notables came up toward the four winds of heaven.”

Asked the reverend, “The male goat—can anyone tell me what it represents in Daniel’s vision?”

A young woman, plain as the girl next door with hair the color of wheat, timidly raised her hand. Her shapeless print dress drably covered a hot body. Roger Ecksby knew the answer, but the lesson was for everyone else.

“You don’t have to raise your hand, Paula,” the reverend said.

“Sorry reverend.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yes reverend.”

“Your answer?”

“Wasn’t the goat used as a sacrifice for mankind’s sins? Hung around its neck and driven into the desert to die.”

Paula seemed pleased with the thought. In fact, she felt a certain glee whenever sinners got what was coming, whether salvation or the sword, a trait she shared with their political leader in the White House. She truly believed man was born with sin—terrible sin—because Adam ate the Apple. Women, on the other hand, weren’t such base creatures, just easily misled by bad men and naughty serpents. Paula, a 24 year-old ministry office worker, had copulated once in her life, a dirty tryst on top of a car behind a skating rink that ended in a secret abortion. She could not wait for the Rapture.

“Good guess,” Reverend Fallin began delicately. “In this case, the goat stands for Greece. Greece and Persia were the two great kingdoms of the time, until Alexander came along. He is the large horn of the vision, broken when assassinated. His empire was divided among four generals, symbolized by the four winds. One of those generals founded the Seleucid kingdom. Go ahead with the next verse, please.”

Roger Ecksby, distracted by Paula’s firm calves—he’d heard it all before, and even wrote some of the sermons—felt temptation tickle. He quickly discarded the intrusive thoughts to pick up where he’d left off, ashamed of himself for lusting.

“And out of ... out of one of them came a little horn which grew exceedingly strong toward the south, toward the east, and toward the Glorious Land.”

“Can anyone tell me about the little horn?” The reverend’s saggy face lifted hopefully.

Everyone appeared stumped except Roger, who tried to intensely engage with the lesson as a way to avoid looking toward his temptress, Paula.

“The little horn was a ruler who took over the northern kingdom,” the reverend answered his own question, “not by force but by cunning, flattery, bribery. He wasn’t the rightful heir, but he conquered many lands, including the Holy Land—here called the Glorious Land. Keep going, Roger.”

“And it grew up to the host of heaven; and it cast down some of the host and some of the stars to the ground and trampled them. He even exalted himself as the Prince of the Host.”

“Let me explain what’s going on here,” Reverend Fallin interrupted. “When the stars and Host are referred to, Daniel’s vision means the people of Israel. The little horn was very cruel to God’s people, trampling many of them. Roger?”

“...Exalted himself as the Prince of the host; and by him the daily sacrifices were taken away, and the sanctuary was cast down.”

“Stop there.”

Reverend Fallin glanced around the semicircle of his ministry employees, willing them to grasp the hidden meaning. They were the defenders of the faith, warriors for Jesus.

“This vision was fulfilled when the little horn defiled the Temple in Jerusalem. Does anyone know what the event is known as?”

Spoke a man in his thirties who could easily blend into any office park culture, “The Abomination of Desolation?”

“Correct, Stephen,” said Reverend Fallin. “The little horn erected an idol of Zeus in place of the Holy of Holies, and dared to sacrifice a swine on God’s altar. Go ahead, Roger.”

“Because of transgression, an army was given over to the horn to oppose the daily sacrifices, and he cast truth down to the ground. He did all this and prospered.”

Reverend Fallin circled the backs of his staff, exhorting:

“Hear the words and understand! Because of transgression an army was given over to oppose the daily sacrifices. The Israelites had been fighting among themselves, particularly three brothers all vying to be high priest. They bribed the Greek king for the office, each more than the other, dividing the people. As punishment for this transgression, God found the Israelites unworthy of the daily sacrifices, and delivered them over to their enemy. We’ve seen this at other times when the Israelites lost their way. God punishes them by allowing calamity to befall, so that they may see their error and be corrected.”

Roger read before being asked, “Then I heard a holy one speaking; and another holy one said to that certain one who was speaking: ‘How long will the vision be, concerning the daily sacrifices and the Abomination of Desolation, the giving of both the sanctuary and the host to be trampled underfoot?’ And he said to me, ‘For two thousand three hundred days; then the sanctuary shall be cleansed.’”

“You’re reading from the new King James version. The original text says evenings and mornings, the two times a day for the Temple sacrifice,” said the reverend. “So we’re talking about 1,150 days, roughly three years plus a half, the time it took for the Temple to be retaken and cleansed by the Maccabees. Daniel goes on to describe how Gabriel came to him when he was trying to understand the meaning of the vision. What did Gabriel say?”

“Understand, son of man, that the vision refers to the time of the end,” said Roger.

“Yes!” roused the reverend. “Even though we know that the vision was fulfilled during Old Testament times, Gabriel says it refers to the time of the end. Pay attention! What this means is, at the time of the end, the circumstances will be similar, as we shall see. Skip ahead to verse 23, please.”

“And in the latter time of their kingdom, when their transgressions have reached their fullness, a king shall arise, having fierce features, who understands sinister schemes. His power shall be mighty, but not by his own power,” Roger read aloud. “He shall destroy fearfully, and shall prosper and thrive. He shall destroy the mighty, and also the holy people.”

Reverend Fallin stopped behind Paula. He leaned forward with his hands gripping the back of her chair, listening intently, eyes aimed upward for insight. Paula fidgeted. Roger read a notch louder.

“Through his cunning he shall cause deceit to prosper under his rule. And he shall exalt himself in his heart. He shall destroy many in his prosperity. He shall even rise against the Prince of princes; but he shall be broken without human means. And the vision of the evenings and mornings which was told is true; therefore, seal up the vision, for it refers to many days in the future.”

Reverend Fallin resumed lecturing while pacing, the scripture working his mind. “We know what to look for. He’ll be mighty, fierce features, cunning, deceitful, arrogant. Daniel tells us, one like the little horn will come again. Here we have this Demetrius fella presenting himself as a peacemaker. He’s a gifted speaker. Doors are opening to consult with the kings of our time. Most telling of all, he comes bearing the religion of the enemy.”

The reverend stamped his foot on the heavy carpet, a new bogeyman pounded into the minds of his followers.

“Demetrius I feel is the agent of the Beast, or could be the Beast itself. We haven’t even touched on what John says in Revelation about the head that had been wounded unto death, yet lived. Are we seeing that very sign in the risen statue at Mt. Nemrut? At a place called Seat of the Gods? Jesus is warning us. The signs are many.” Reverend Fallin paused to raise the drama, met every eye in the room, and concluded, “What do we do?”

Faces expressed disgust and determination, anguish and elation. It was one thing to sit around speaking bravely about what they would do to stand with Jesus at the end, and quite another when the Ministry was confronted by their religious prophecies apparently coming true.

Ernie Eagleton rose from his chair, a comic soldier volunteering for a dangerous mission. “All my life I’ve waited for this time. We must take up arms and fight Demetrius and his vile religion.”

“Yes,” Jeremiah affirmed, “we must oppose Demetrius. Fallin Ministries spans the globe. Good Christians will answer our call, but we must be clever. We fight with the sword of truth, feet shod with willingness to spread the Gospel, protected by the breastplate of righteousness. The devil is a master liar, only defeated by truth. One last thing: can anyone name the little horn?”

The question was met with silence. Roger Ecksby finally asked,

“Reverend, can I?”

“Go ahead.”

He cleared his throat to voice the name of their enemy.

“The little horn is King Antiochus IV Epiphanes.”

Chapter 26

The American president loved mornings, more than ever the closer his political odyssey neared its end. He rose at 5:30 a.m. every day, rode a stationary bike for exactly thirty minutes, Bible open to the passage of the day, worked a sweat then showered and dressed.

At 6:30 sharp, an aide knocked at the door with the President’s Daily Brief contained in a black leather-bound presentation book imprinted in gold leaf with the presidential seal. The PDB, as it’s known in Washington, summarized the intelligence collected during the night about all the threats against the United States and its allies.

Or what remained of its allies, becoming scarcer as enemies grew fiercer and the PDB thicker, old threats worsening and new ones constantly emerging. The president had declared war on terrorism, staked his presidency on winning, and started a war in Iraq that sank into a quagmire. Repercussions stacked up like newspapers for someone never home.

Few had risen higher or fallen further than the president; Icarus never knew such a flight. Toil strained the edges of a face that had glowed with youth and good cheer on Inauguration Day.

In the bathroom mirror, he noticed the lines around his tight mouth digging deeper. His jaw twitched, and his eyes darted this way and that but rarely looked directly back. Staring at himself in silence was uncomfortable, because behind his eyes were two people. One had straightened out his life, found Jesus and rose to the White House. The other—who’d always said the joke is on everyone else—pointed mockingly and proclaimed, “Joke’s on you, pal.”

All of his attempts to ignore the other voice only buried it deeper in his head. The stress created fissures where lava glowed inside. With time running out on his presidency, he despaired for a sign that the road would end up where he had envisioned. He would be a success. God had brought him this far, and now he felt like Saul of Tarsus, blinded, with no idea how to get to Damascus. His Bible passage of the day began with Psalm 22:

Oh God, why have ye forsaken me?

But he couldn’t admit the feeling. Instead he beat it back with forced optimism.

The president finally locked eyes onto the center of his face as he worked the knot of his tie, reenacting memories of a harsh mother preparing a fussy son for church. He asked himself, “Did you think it would be easy? Moses spent 40 years in the desert. Daniel slept with lions. God prunes the vine and casts the chafe into the fire. Are you strong like them, or flawed? You are strong, determined. God put you here to lead during troubled times. You head Christ’s Army. The Devil works through doubt. Straight and narrow is your path. The time is short....”

The president realized that his wife, wearing a fluffy white bathrobe—hair hardly showing a sign of recently being embedded in a pillow—watched him from the bathroom door. Her bleary eyes indicated lack of sleep.

“You always so sneaky?”

“Is that any way to say good morning?” she retorted gently.

He yanked harder at the tie and said, “Sorry sweets.” Finished with the tie, he made up with a hug that became a long embrace, his head falling to her shoulder. She thought he might cry, but he sucked it up and returned to primping.

“The doctor says the medication will help. Why don’t you take it?” she asked.

“I shouldn’t have to.”

“It’s not a sign of weakness. You’re under a lot of stress. It might help you sleep better.”

“Was I talking again last night?”

The first lady nodded, he saw in the mirror.

“And did you stay up talking to your friends on the Internet?”

“For a little while.”

He knew otherwise. “If they find out who you really are....”

“Not going to happen,” she said. “The tech people promised me.”

He gazed into her upturned, shiny eyes. His rock. His angel. He felt uncomfortable with her late night journeys. He did not dare insist she stop, but did try to discourage her in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. This morning he attempted a new tactic.

“I miss you, you know. I can sense when you’re not sleeping beside me.”

The first lady touched the president’s nose with the tip of her index finger. “My dear, you sleep like a rock even when you talk, and I doubt if you have any awareness whether or not I’m next to you. If you like, I’ll bring the laptop to bed with me.”

“And keep me awake with your clattering?” he balked.

“You always want it both ways, and both ways are your way.”

He grinned half-cocked. “Well, I am the President of the United States—the POTUS. I’m used to getting my way.”

Three light taps sounded at the front door. The president finished his morning ritual by grabbing his gold watch from the bathroom counter. The first lady pensively smoothed his tie as he buttoned his jacket.

“You know I keep our personal lives separate from your job,” she said to begin her thought. “I’d never tell you what to do, but I want to offer a suggestion.”

She waited for his full attention, aware of his sensitivity to criticism. The president checked himself one more time in the mirror. He figured she must think it important enough to mention. He could have said: “Sorry, duty calls,” but he respected her opinion. She kept him together. She kept the lava from spilling over.

“I’m listening.”

“God works in mysterious ways, as you’ve said many times. Do me a favor and keep an open mind. Solutions might come from unexpected places.”

“Is this you or one of your Internet buddies talking?” He regretted the implication as soon as the words came out of his mouth, and was about to say sorry, but she’d already forgiven him. She always forgave him.

They met eyes. He wanted to start his day, but could tell his angel needed another moment to speak her peace. The first lady had an uncanny sense about some situations. Maybe the proverbial Saul could find an arm to lead him in a troubled world. They expected more knocks any moment.

“I feel this deeply. I’m not under anyone’s influence, and I know too well how people would try to work through me to get to you. I want you to leave this job proud.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll keep an open mind. Thank you,” he said, and waited for her to disappear into the bathroom before departing for the Big Rush: working life in the White House.

He strode the hallways with three secret service agents and a national security aide in charge of the PDB, remembering that his demeanor, whether confident or crooked, spread everywhere he passed. “No cracks,” he told himself. “Give everyone what they’ve come to expect; same old me.” Most of the staff would have already arrived for another busy day in service to their government, punctuality the trademark of his presidency.

The president stepped into an elevator and read the PDB summary during the ride down, rereading a passage about a high-ranking Turkish military officer voluntarily offering his life as a peace sacrifice in northern Iraq. The fanaticism of some people, he thought. Still no good intel on the mountain priest, Demetrius, truly a man of mystery either masquerading or a miracle worker. The president couldn’t argue with the results, but his base constituency—evangelical Christians—raised an alarm behind the scenes about an Antichrist plot.

The president disbelieved the story about some silly statue shining so brightly it woke crew members on the Space Station, even after seeing pictures for himself. The vice president got the scientists to agree it could’ve been caused by a phenomena when the earth’s crust shifts, unleashing intense bursts of light by instantly crushing massive deposits of quartz. People confuse it for UFOs, said the experts. Who was the president to disagree? The PDB alluded to answers forthcoming, and announced an unusual change of protocol.

The new Turkish ambassador had accepted an invitation to the morning security briefing. The vice-president’s office worked up the idea to impress the ambassador, hoping to gain favor for negotiating oil contracts. The diplomat was told that he was being specially worked into the president’s schedule, and as a show of just how special the Turks were considered, arrangements had been made to serve breakfast in the Situation Room.

The president exited the elevator with his contingent and arrived outside of his favorite room in the White House, where he was truly the Big Kahuna, making life-and-death decisions from a high-tech hub connected to the bowels of government and military. The big desk and fancy carpet of the Oval Office were certainly impressive, but paled in comparison to the Sit Room.

He felt like 007 stepping through the doors into Q’s lair. Monitors covered the walls, capable of video conferencing with any of his top commanders or staff anywhere in the world, displaying a news report in China, or peeking at a live satellite image of what the French president was eating for lunch.

As impressive as the technology was, the president still preferred to meet in person, to gain a sense of the soul within. He considered himself an expert. The vice-president—a fleshy man with white hair and rumpled skin bunched above the collar, looking like he belonged on a golf course with retirees—had already started into a plate of poached eggs, bacon, buttered toast and tan coffee when the president arrived. The national security advisor sat primly to the Veep’s right, a white woman with brownish gray hair that moved as one piece when her head turned. The president smelled her perfume, something expensive and unobtrusive but still annoying. Beside her sat the president’s chief of staff. Conversations paused and everyone stood.

“Hiyo. Sit down, it’s just me. After all, it is the ‘Sit Room.’” The president liked his joke. You’re a real comedian, said the little voice in his voice.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” a chorus of replies met his ears. No matter how many times he heard the title, the ring never lost its punch: Mr. President. The most powerful man on earth, according to rumor. In reality, he knew very well the truth depended upon how power is defined. Old-money families accounted to no one. He thought himself accountable only to God.

A brown-skinned man wearing a dark blue suit and mustard-colored tie remained standing. He appeared old enough to have children in college, air of composure. The service staff, dressed in traditional black and white, went to work as soon as the president’s behind touched his captain’s chair. They served his usual breakfast of oatmeal, scrambled egg whites, hash browns and a tall glass of grapefruit juice.

“Will someone please tell him he can sit down?” the president pointed with his fork.

The diplomat understood and parked. The national security advisor began the briefing.

“Mr. President, this is Kahlil Gabush, the new Turkish Ambassador. He has joined us this morning at our request. You might have noticed in the PDB....”

“I read it,” the president said between stabbed forkfuls of egg.

“I thought it wise to have him here, to brief you personally.”

“Good thinking,” said the president. “Mr. Ambassador, thank you for joining us at this early hour. Most of you diplomatics prefer to sleep away the morning.”

Ambassador Gabush had heard about the informality of the American leader. The convolutions of diplomatic protocol could be tedious, he had to admit, but a cavalier attitude seemed inappropriate when it came to such serious matters. Like cracking a grin when ominously warning against Word War III.

“Mr. President, I came here this morning to tell you about the recent events in my country, and respectfully advise how they might benefit you and your country. Let me begin by asking what you know about Mt. Nemrut.”

“I’ve heard of it. It’s a mountain, right?” The president turned to his chief of staff. “You’re the expert.”

“If you say so sir,” the chief replied, knowing that the president was using an old trick of disarming by acting ignorant.

“A mountain topped by an ancient monument considered to be a wonder of the world,” the ambassador continued, aware of the president’s tactic.

“It has become a beacon. People visit from all over the world to rediscover its greatness.”

“I’ve also heard that you struck a huge oil deposit to the south. The two are related, I’d bet.”

The vice-president smiled with half of his mouth at the president’s remark, shoveling runny eggs into the other side, doctors be damned. The Veep first made the connection between events at Mt. Nemrut and intelligence reports about the oil find, and had taken an intense personal interest in the unfolding story.

“It has changed our position, especially in regard to our southern border. But there’s more at work,” said the ambassador. “My country is prepared to recognize Kurdistan, in return for Europe fulfilling its promise of EU membership to Turkey.”

Ambassador Gabush waited for the president’s reaction.

“If you’re asking my permission, you’ll have to ask the Iraqis. It’s their country.”

“A public statement from the U.S. would go far in advancing along negotiations, assuming the Iraqis agree.”

The president looked to his national security advisor.

“The situation is still delicate,” said the NSA. “The Iraqi government recognizes the importance of stability in the north. The Kurds have been valuable allies in the war; we’d like to reward them. Turkey too. But before we make a statement, we have to have more assurance. There are concerns if things fall apart, and about the man making it all happen behind the scenes.”

The ambassador answered admiringly, “Demetrius is a man of peace. He finds ways where others can’t, proving himself as a neutral arbiter. With his help we’ve made good progress. Of course, the Europeans now have to come through.”

“So who is he?” the president inquired. “My briefings are not very illuminating.”

The vice-president interrupted, pissed off that the boy had blurted intelligence secrets by revealing their lack of information. “He’s not a completely unknown quantity, sir.”

The Veep had little standing when it came to trust, but had entrenched himself into the very nervous system of the Executive Branch. And he always got what he wanted, one way or another.

“I’ll be the judge.”

The vice-president stuffed more bacon into his maw and noted junior’s response.

“He’s a holy man,” Ambassador Gabush explained, “and earns trust by doing exactly as he says. The shadow of war in northern Iraq has seen the light. I think he can help you. He’s already talking to parties around Iraq who would have to support us, and for what I hear, they’re listening.”

The president paused between oatmeal and hash browns and made a connection. If Demetrius could do so much for the Turks, perhaps he had the same knack in Iraq. It could be a way to win the war before he left office. The hunch came out of nowhere.

“Well, if he’s such a peaceful-type guy, why hasn’t he been in touch with us?” asked the president, acting surprised it hadn’t already happened.

“I cannot speak for him,” said the ambassador, “but I will be only happy to pass on your message.”

The president checked the body language of his advisors. The Veep frowned disdainfully, because trusting an independent party took some power out of his hands. The NSA had already made clear in private conversations that an outsider stood the best chance in Iraq and the surrounding region. The chief of staff sat ready and eager to implement the president’s decisions, and while he was an old friend with opinions of his own, he was not a Decider.

The president remembered telling his wife he would keep an open mind. Why not? Everything else had been tried; time for only one more play. He saw a way to wiggle out of a desperately tight spot, pinched between the Turks and Kurds. Perhaps his prayers had been answered.

“We’ll issue a statement of general support after consultation with the Iraqis. Tell this Demetrius fella we’d like to chat with him, pronto. And send my regards and congratulations to your prime minister, Mr. Erbakan. My ear is always available if he wants to conversate.”

Ambassador Gabush acknowledged with a nod, puzzling over the president’s novel use of language. He had succeeded in doing his part for an important mission.

He and other old souls newly added to the Turkish diplomatic corps took the good news to capitols around the world, spreading hope for a new peace among nations—and representing a growing threat to the world’s entrenched powers.

Chapter 27

Demetrius was no fan of diplomatic formality, especially the circumspect European kind, but European diplomacy had created a wonder of the modern world: the European Union. The orchard of western liberal values bore fruit from the fertile soil of mutual benefit.

Confronted by the dark side of the European heart exposed during World War I and II, then threatened by the repressive forces of the Eastern Bloc, the Europeans accomplished the seemingly impossible, considering their history: They put aside their differences for the common good. Rather than hoard, they shared. They talked instead of fought. And instead of competing in a zero-sum game, they cooperated in raising everyone’s standard of living.

Like all Utopian endeavors, though, the brighter the light the deeper the shadow. Beneath the happy talk lurked arrogance, sense of superiority, and false belief that they could do no wrong. The EU wronged the Turks by dangling the carrot of membership and pulling it away. For the sake of the world, and for the furtherance of his cause, Demetrius would correct that sin of hubris.

The peacemaker arranged the meeting with a small group of influential EU diplomats in the back room of a Brussels restaurant, decorated in subterranean colors, deliberately chosen for its private atmosphere and low profile. Dim lighting turned every alcove into a private sanctuary. The owner was an old friend, also an old soul. Demetrius need not worry about loose lips, important in a town which prided itself on discretion.

His well-connected guests had already heard rumors about a possible peace deal with the Kurds hinging upon full acceptance of Turkey into the Union. If for no other reason than to meet the new sensation, the diplomats would have accepted the invitation and shown up even if their houses were on fire.

For this power play Demetrius used a time-honored technique. He called Cameron Starr at the BCC, hinted at what was brewing but only offered the information on background. Cameron made phone calls, asking if the EU was considering Turkish membership in return for peace with the Kurds. No source wants to sound ignorant of such a big development. Hurried discussions ensued.

“Have you heard? Is it true?”

By the time the handful of guests arrived at the restaurant, drank a cocktail, ate an appetizer and small-talked, the seeds had been planted.

"Impossible,” asserted an Italian diplomat resembling a pinstriped bag overstuffed with wet noodles, when asked about Turkish membership to the EU. “They are not European. The Union will never agree.”

Said a bespectacled, intellectual Dutchman with ski-slope hair, “We really should consider. It’s the price of peace.”

“Price?” questioned a gentlemanly Englishman, fingers laced over the upper knee of his crossed leg. “What about the principle? If we compromise on one point, we compromise on all.”

“But compromise made the EU possible in the first place,” objected a slender brunette Frenchwoman in a powder blue jacket. “We all bent in some ways, or do we forget the decades of negotiations leading to Maastricht?”

“Bah,” spat the Italian. “Different circumstances.”

“I see many similarities,” she disagreed.

“You see a chance to play hero, a proclivity the French indulge too easily.”

The Frenchwoman’s matching powder blue eyes widened indignantly. “When was the last time your country did anything for anyone but yourselves?”

“We should look honestly at the situation before storming the Bastille or sacking Rome,” suggested the Dutchman. “We all know that Turkish membership is likely, eventually, and I think we can all agree that they have done almost everything we’ve asked to gain admittance—reformed their economy, abolished the death penalty, cleaned up their judiciary and military. For what I hear, the generals are backing the prime minister, and Erbakan is pressing ahead behind Demetrius. Turkey is NATO’s boots on the ground, Europe’s buffer against the extremism we all fear to the east. In starkly geopolitical terms, we need them more than they need us. Principles and academic discussions are one thing. We must focus on reality.”

The table erupted. Everyone spoke at once, pressing their point of view. One guest had remained silent throughout the heated conversation. The distinguished Spaniard Julius Espanoza, wearing a cream-colored dinner jacket and open-collar silk shirt, locked eyes with Demetrius and shared an unspoken thought, two distinguished lecturers amused by an unruly class. Gradually the other people at the table realized the silliness of their vociferous clamor, and quieted.

Virtually unknown outside of EU circles, the Spaniard wielded tremendous clout in the upper echelons. He recognized in Demetrius a kindred spirit when they met at a Council on Foreign Relations conference a few years previously.

At the CFR conference, their mutual respect coalesced when the question of wisdom arose at their luncheon table, and a lively philosophical debate ensued. What is wisdom? The anticipation of consequences? The discernment of good and evil? The ability to perceive essential nature? The unbiased application of knowledge? Adaptation? Simplicity? Demetrius observed the debate, his brilliant gray eyes conveying that he followed the arguments and perhaps possessed a better answer. When the debate stalemated, Espanoza’s opinion was requested, the presumption being he might crown a victor.

Wisely, the Spaniard deferred and said, “I’m curious what our quiet friend here has to say.”

No one at the table knew Demetrius at that time. He had no academic or professional reputation to defend or advance, no known accomplishments to his name, nothing to set him apart except his potent presence. He waited so long to answer, the group’s attention almost moved on.

“I’m thinking of something Abe Lincoln said: ‘It is better to remain quiet and appear a fool than to open one’s mouth and prove it.’ A wise saying; however, this subject is central to the purpose of my life, and I can only share with you my own conclusion.”

Demetrius paused with everyone’s attention, determined to indelibly impress himself upon their memories.

“Wisdom, in my opinion, is the ability to separate the factual from the significant. We could fill a bookshelf with the many arguments and quotes I’ve heard today. The easy availability of so much knowledge makes it more important than ever to discern what is truly significant. One of the world’s problems is the glut of supposed facts, to the point that, even if Solomon the Wise graced us today with his opinions, he might not be heard over the din.”

The listeners at the luncheon table weren’t sure whether to boo or cheer. The Spaniard lifted his glass in salute to Demetrius.

“I couldn’t have said it better.”

With the serene mountain priest next to him, Julius Espanoza told the EU diplomats in the Brussels restaurant, “I hear a good point being voiced. We can tie ourselves in knots by debating the facts as we know them, or we can ask ourselves what is most significant. The way I see it, we were staring at world war with no hope of averting it. Today we have a way, delivered by our remarkable peacemaker, Demetrius. Break down the situation and what do we have to do? Stop playing games with the Turks and tell them yes or no. That is not popular in our business, but the situation requires straight answers. Reality is war—no war. We have in our power the possibility of deciding.”

“It’ll never happen,” bet the Italian. “Never.”

Whether or not the prediction came true, the point was to get the question on everyone’s lips. Demetrius only needed enough time to work his magic.

After the guests left, Julius and Demetrius talked late into the evening. Even for peace, some individuals would not budge, the Spaniard predicted.

“If they can’t succeed openly, they’ll tie us in procedural knots—assuming that we can even get the matter tabled. I’m sorry. While my heart is with you, my mind says that what you ask is impossible in such a recalcitrant institution. I’ll do my best though.”

“You’ll find a way,” Demetrius assured. “There are many means of persuasion.”

“You have friends in the Mafia?”

Demetrius slipped a hand onto his friend’s back. The peacemaker desired to share something important.

“We open one mind at a time, beginning with our friends at dinner. When enough moths are attracted to the light, it spreads to all of them—even the ones still lost in the dark. Scales tipped. Mass enlightenment.”

“The best we can hope to deliver in such short time is a statement that Turkey has fulfilled the requirements for membership, and will be strongly considered during the next round of negotiations. I can speed up the clock, but can’t flip pages on the calendar. We’re having a hard enough time as it is.”

“Once the Turkish government has political cover, we can move on to the next phase,” confided Demetrius. “Everyone knows what is at stake. Therefore, we give everyone a stake.”

“I knew there would be a next phase. Ever since we met, I’ve had a feeling about you,” said Julius, in the presence of the only man he considered a mentor.

Demetrius knew how to talk the Spaniard’s language: church of the Virgin and Son. Soon the Vatican would come calling, a visit from a cardinal, little chit-chat about the state of world affairs. Julius Espanoza could open many doors.

“There are other conflicts that could use our help after this one,” said Demetrius.

Julius tried to sound in reply like he might be kidding, but he sensed something big building, led to fruition by the most remarkable man.

“You’re going to solve them all?”

“Not me. All of us together, made possible by the power of the sacred mountain.”

Demetrius raised a glass of Brandy & Benedictine for a toast.

“To a peaceful new world, led by higher minds.”

Chapter 28

“My son, I beseech you to look at heaven and the earth and see everything that is in them, and recognize that God made them out of nothing, and mankind also. Do not fear this butcher, but prove worthy of your brothers. Accept death, so that in God’s mercy I may get you back again.”—Second Book of Maccabees

“Oh my god, what a horrible way to die!”

Ruth’s outcry broke the silence of the Hasmon family library, upstairs in the main house. Mattathias Hasmon, their deceased father, had preferred soft lighting that cast the cozy room with a tobacco glow. Collected artifacts of many generations decorated every flat surface and wall: slender African wood carvings, Egyptian shabti funerary figures with expressive faces, a thin-necked Corinthian alabastron for perfume, oil lamps, vases, pictures, paintings, figurines. Even the milky quartz paper weight originated long before the modern era.

The fraternal twins worked alternately, early bird Ruth by morning and night owl Shiri sometimes until dawn, ever since their uncle Benny and elderly Rabbi Yochanan lit a fire for knowledge of the family Vigil—a sacred duty passed down from Judas Maccabeus to beware of Israel’s ancient enemy, Antiochus Epiphanes.

Distractions were frequent, not only the news coming out of Turkey. Family as well as friends and colleagues visited to express condolences, less as time went by but often enough to pull the sisters back into a personal space they desperately wanted to leave. The sympathizers were only responding to the tragedy of four men lost at once from one notable family.

A few visitors were annoyingly bigoted, assuming that two baby sisters left all alone needed big strong men around to keep them safe. One annoyance obtained Shiri’s IM address and suggested in a chat session that really hot sex would ease the sisters' loss. He’d “service” them both at once as a favor.

Shiri traced his IP address to a small town in Iowa, searched for his user name in Internet databases and cross-referenced. A background check later, Shiri sent a transcript of the chat session to almost everyone the asshole knew, including his wife. He confessed that he had seen a picture of the sisters on the Internet next to a story about the suicide bombing that killed their closest family members.

The sisters turned down a fat new contract for their graphic design business, the loss bitter, but less than it would have been before a tornado of family tragedy tossed their lives in the air like farm equipment. They needed more than old books and Web searches to prove their uncle Benny’s theory of an old prophecy coming true. Money would never again be a worry after four life insurance policies paid off, a small consolation. Shiri, seated on a fan-backed, saffron-colored daybed situated on the other side of the office, tore away from her computer to see for herself what caused her fraternal twin Ruth to produce such a plaintive outcry. The sisters could distinguish between a sound to break the silence and one that meant come hither. They needed to compare notes, anyway.

“What is it, sis?” Ruth’s forefinger hovered over a passage in a dense, leather-bound book. “I can’t believe some of this,” she said. “Could a person really be so vile? Characters like Hitler ordered all sorts of barbarity, but listen to this.”

Ruth read the Hebrew passage, paraphrasing:

“Antiochus fried a mother named Chanah and her seven sons in a huge skillet—alive! All for not bowing to an idol or eating a piece of meat. The six older sons defied the king, sent to their gruesome deaths one at a time in front of the others. Chanah made brave speeches about how any Israeli mother would give up her sons in defense of their God, and one at a time blithely sent them to execution singing praises. Her children! What kind of twisted mind...?”

“The same kind that could send a bomb on a boy’s back into an antiquities store.”

“No,” said Ruth, annoyed by her miscommunication. “What mother would give up her children like that? I’d eat ten pounds of raw bacon if I had to, to save a child. This story is passed down through the ages to us—you and I and all Jewish women—to make the same sacrifice. Reminds me of those crazy Palestinian mothers who keep shrines for their suicide bomber sons. Mom says blow yourself up in a crowd and you do it! If Chanah’s story is a moral about bravery in the face of human depravity, that’s one thing. But I’ve found three sources claiming it actually happened.”

“The more I find out,” Shiri peered into her thoughts and saw hues of angry red, “somehow he is responsible. World peace movements led by charismatic cultists don’t appear out of nowhere. If anyone could reach out through time, it would be Antiochus. Some evangelical Christians think he’s the Antichrist.”

“But the hated king died,” Ruth insisted. “No matter which story is correct about exactly what happened and when, he still died thousands of years ago, and I don’t believe in mummy’s curses. The grave is a one-way ticket.”

“Really?” Shiri waited a moment, first asking herself the question on her lips. “Do you sense our father and brothers kind of guiding, supporting us, and mom in the background sending her love?”

Ruth had grieved enough that the thought hurt while also comforted. “I see what you’re getting at. I can accept the possibility and still believe that most claims of spirit contact are wishful thinking.”

“So then spirits can reach through and influence things on this side,” Shiri drew out the thought. “If the spirit is potent enough, perhaps the influence is god-like.”

“Yes, but listen to this.” Ruth found the passage and read, “The fourth son before he died said to Antiochus: ‘One cannot choose to make men die at your hands and cherish the hope that God gives of being raised. For you there will be no resurrection to life.’ He is not coming back.”

“That’s what they thought, but our ancestors were known to be wrong sometimes,” said Shiri.

“Did King Antiochus—hopefully burning in Hell at the moment—hypnotize that boy into walking into Gilaadi’s shop with a bomb? Despite how evil Antiochus was, I still have to deduce that the greatest possibility is plain fanaticism. Step back and you’ll see it that way, despite the coincidences. I need more than dusty old books; I won’t buy into this until we have proof.”

Shiri agreed with the logic, but a small voice kept her awake at night and sent thoughts of angels strapped with explosives. She read a text message on her vibrating cellphone.

“You’re going to like this. David says that he found his father’s journal. We’re going into Jerusalem tomorrow to pick up Benny. We could drop by and find out if our efforts amount to more than brushing up on family history and purging ourselves of guilt.”

“Took long enough. No ancient scroll?”

“Didn’t say.”

“That is good news, I suppose.”

As Shiri sent David a reply, Ruth set aside the Book of Maccabees and wondered if someone or something long since dead could return. And how.

“Let’s presume that all Jewish men associated with our family aren’t deluded zealots,” Ruth said when Shiri finished, “and a prophecy really is being fulfilled. What then?”

“Fight ‘em off with Chanel handbags?”

“We have to know what to look for. I need details.”

Ruth—the Felix to Shiri’s Oscar—could not dance on the floor of speculative thought like her fraternal twin. Shiri painted a lovely picture by throwing paint at the walls. Ruth followed each dot and frequently consulted the directions.

“There are hundreds of Internet sites that describe Antiochus as an Antichrist of one sort or another,” Shiri shared the results of her recent research. “Notice the close English spellings of Antichrist and Antiochus. Nemrut is also Turkmen spelled backwards, minus a letter. I mention it because the coincidence is being used to spread support for the peace movement among the Turkmen. They have a big stake in settling the conflict with the Kurds. The proclamations of the kings who built the Nemrut monuments frequently mention the land and its people as theirs eternally.”

“But Nemrut wasn’t built until after our Antiochus died. He couldn’t be buried there,” Ruth reasoned.

“Maybe it was already a monument site,” conjectured Shiri.

“Good thinking.”

“Information is badly lacking. I’ve scoured many library databases, hours of slogging through German, and of course they spell everything a little differently—enough to throw off a search. I kept coming across the same handful of sources and getting no further with them. The different spellings and variations are frustrating. Plus, two kings were known as Antiochus the Fourth, Epiphanes, born two centuries apart.”

“Dad’s library is like making sense of alphabet soup.” Ruth referred to the stacks on the desk she’d pulled from the shelves. Titles screamed out for long reads. No easy workarounds available, like Cliff Notes for Maccabees, or Talmud for Dummies.

“Chanah is also known as Hannah, Miriam, and simply the woman. Everything I read has two or three interpretations, even about Antiochus. Would be ironic, wouldn’t it?”

“What?” Shiri failed to guess the mind of her sibling.

“If the Christians were right all along. Jesus was our Messiah, but we killed him, and now as punishment we get to deal with his opposite, the Antichrist. How else do you describe something which clings to life so tenaciously, it returns thousands of years later?”

After a prolonged stay in the hospital, Benny looked better but still healing, a patch over his eye and a soft cast on his arm, scars concealed under a loose shirt. He stared out of the car window at the outskirts of Jerusalem passing by on the freeway.

The moment ripened to talk about more than doctors orders and people who sent condolences. Shiri kept the story about Iowa-guy to herself, despite knowing that Benny would see the humor, especially her retaliation. He seemed somber.

“I have a friend in the government who confirmed my suspicion,” said Benny. “The suicide bomber was Jewish, his family Orthodox. Slavic. They slipped over the border, presumably back to the Caucuses where we’ll never find them.”

“There’s been nothing in the news,” Shiri said from the backseat.

“I know: the implications of Jews bombing Jews. My friend says the cover story is bunk, the boy who bombed Gilaadi's shop never converted to Islam. And there’s something else. He was the fourth of 11 children.”

The significance was lost on the sisters.

“Our Antiochus was the fourth of 11 kings called Antiochus.” Asked Ruth, “He’s mocking us by leaving these clues?”

“Sounds like him to hide in plain sight,” remarked Shiri.

“You’ve done your homework,” Benny approved. “We are dealing with one of the most cunning minds ever. Antiochus wasn’t born to the throne. In fact, he wasn’t even born named Antiochus. As a child his father offered him to the Romans, collateral against a treaty made to end a war. Rome at the time was not yet an empire. Antiochus drank in the urban life of the world’s largest city. He was a brat with a trust fund and a big name, basically, able to indulge any whim, and Rome offered everything. He’s known to have enjoyed the night life, dabbling in the many mystery cults of the time, and,” Benny noted ironically, “frequently made offerings to Bacchus, God of the Vine.”

“He was a drunk,” Ruth summarized.

“That’s too simplistic. The cults indulged many drugs in pursuit of mystical experience, stuff that would make your Ecstasy seem mild as a puff off a hookah.”

Ruth glanced in the rearview mirror at Shiri—Benny did drugs! He picked up the vibe.

“I submitted later in life, but first took a few trips with the opiate gods. Back to Antiochus. He made himself at home in Rome, even got elected to a city council, and thought of himself as a Roman in spirit. So it must have really galled him when his old buddies prevented him from conquering Egypt. First he had to become king of the Seleucids, and the opportunity arose with the death of his brother. A young nephew took the throne under the regency of a council of nobles. Antiochus had the boy assassinated. Some say he assassinated his brother, also, but it was never proven.”

Ruth navigated off the freeway into a crowded neighborhood of one-story houses. Benny continued:

“Once in power he set out to conquer the world, but lacked the success of his ancestor, Alexander. While Antiochus was frustrated at every turn, he still bribed and cajoled and schemed and killed with the best of them. Some kingdoms fell to his machinations without drawing a sword, convinced to become vassals. Or he backed rebellions to install his sycophants. It was said that he had eyes and ears everywhere, worked every angle, disarmed opponents—even kept allies guessing at his next move. He made startling claims of supernatural knowledge, and portrayed himself as a genius destined to rule the world. He convinced many people about his remarkable abilities. Jewish mothers used him as the bad guy in children’s stories, that sort of thing. People believed the myth, and rolled over to his demands before an army appeared on the horizon. In one word he was an opportunist; I think also a genius with people, exceptionally charismatic. Like Bill Clinton with pretensions to immortality. Am I boring you yet?”

Ruth parked the car on a residential street and said, “Perfect timing. This is David’s address. You know, Benny, we thought you were doped up in the hospital, talking about vigils and risen spirits. But the more we’ve learned, the more we’re inclined to agree with you. I’d like some proof before saying I’m convinced.”

Added Shiri in jest, “Yeah, you’re not as crazy as we first thought.”

“Well, gee, thanks for the vote of confidence!”

Benny could only briefly act offended.

“I know how improbable it sounds. If I didn’t know better, I’d probably conclude like the authorities that there’s evidence enough to indicate the bomber was an Islamic convert, but I tell you, my very DNA screams foul play.”

Shiri sent a text message to David. He trotted out of the best-kept house on the street, still modest by most comparisons but blessed with a big picture window. A monstrous oak tree dominated the shady front yard adorned by lawn statues and spreading vines. Many of the other houses on the street showed signs of disuse: peeling paint, pocked sidewalks, untrimmed bushes. Indifferent attitudes tend to develop among people segregated within their homeland.

Carrying a leather satchel over his shoulder, David approached Benny’s passenger window.

“We should do this elsewhere,” David said regretfully. “A pall still hangs over the house, and my uncle is here with some other family members. They blame you for what happened, even if it can’t be true.”

“Actually,” Benny began to say, “our family—”

“Is descended from Maccabean times.”

“And the Scroll of Philipp—”

“Is the only record of Antiochus’s secret burial,” David finished. “I still don’t see the connection. Not unless you mean to imply that Antiochus is somehow behind the suicide bombing.”

Perhaps the Hasmons did, answering without a word.

“Then join the club. I don’t know if it’s what you think, but my father had very interesting things to say. We’ll go to a park a few blocks away. We shouldn’t be bothered there.”

David meant bothered as Orthodox Jews in an Arab neighborhood. The sisters had long ago dropped the appearance. Benny wore black and white, ringlets tucked under his cap. In a city of nuance, their distinct ethnicity could be an unwelcoming beacon in certain neighborhoods.

“If it’s all right with you, I’d rather face your family,” Benny offered. “Such circumstances are better met in light of day.”

“I warned you, but I think you’re right,” David agreed. “Come.”

Artifacts decorated the front entrance and continued throughout the house, mostly Near Eastern pieces but also Chinese vases, Hindu tapestries, Afghan rugs. Everywhere the eye looked, something inanimate stared back. Reminded the sisters of home.

David led Ruth, Shiri, and Benny into the family room, where a knot of people surrounded a plump woman seated on a burnt-orange love seat, her face heavy, her simple black dress decorated with flowery frill around the neckline. Off to the side, two grandchildren played with toys on the carpet. Nearby, parents drank coffee from china cups.

David stood in front of his mother, his eyes darting around the room like he expected a burglar to spring from behind the curtains. The Hasmons stopped at the doorway. David’s bony-faced uncle recognized the sisters from the cemetery and shot a harsh stare.

“These are the Hasmons,” said David. “Their relations were lost with father.”

His mother cast sore eyes on the three Jews. “I feel for your loss,” she said. “What do you want with my son?”

“He is helping us find out the truth about what happened,” Benny said gently.

David’s uncle sneered. “We know very well the truth. Jews are treacherous! My brother was a peaceful man. The bomber struck because your family was there!”

“Would you feel differently if you knew that the boy wasn’t an Islamic convert?” Benny addressed his counterpart directly. “The government found a Koran in his house, and a couple of neighborhood boys said they’d seen him hanging around by a mosque. That’s all.”

“The blade sinks even deeper!” spat David's angry uncle.

“How do you know this?” The grieving mother appeared heavier laden with the news.

“A friend I’ve known since childhood is high in the government. He told me. Matriarch, I would not dare stand before you in this condition, under these circumstances, and make untrue claims. There’s more to this story than we’ve been told.”

Momma Gilaadi flicked her eyes over Benny. Angry uncle Gilaadi refused to stand there and allow the point of view he’d argued be acceded. “You people are trouble,” he said. “Go away.”

“They’re my guests,” said David, frustrated, “I knew it was a bad idea to even try. We’ll go someplace where grief has not overridden some people’s manners.”

“Please,” Mrs. Gilaadi motioned, “come in. Let me see you.”

Adding the three Hasmons filled the room to capacity. The sisters still wore black in honor of their father and brothers, but on this day they had decided to show their sign of mourning under their dresses in favor of brighter outerwear. Mrs. Gilaadi craned her head back to appraise the sisters.

“You two are adorable. I’m surprised I don’t see rings on your fingers.”

Ruth answered a touch defensively, “We’re single.”

“So is my son, and it’s about time he started a family.”

“Mother!” exclaimed David, embarrassed. Shiri nudged Ruth, sympathizing for a grown son hogtied by momma.

“Shush,” she ordered. “If it were left up to you, you’d never give me grandchildren like your sisters. Just like his father, so caught up in his books he forgets what is most important. I had to drag Gileead to the altar by his short hairs.”

Benny bellowed from the gut. He hadn’t had a good laugh in a while, and momma Gilaadi had a way with words.

“Oh my, how many men give up without a struggle? Few I tell you. If not for mothers, wedding planners might go out of business!”

The adults in the room shared the laugh—except David’s uncle shooting nails out of his eyes. “You cannot defile the memory of my brother by offering his son to these lions!” he erupted. “Bar Hasmon: a corrupt dynasty still spreading filth. What did Jesus say about the Pharisees? A den of vipers!”

“Enough!” intervened momma Gilaadi, pushed too far. “You have been so quick to blame this family because they’re Orthodox. Hot heads create widows and orphans, and yours is so hot it smokes!”

If ever a boiling pot was about to teeter over, David’s uncle approached the edge. He stormed out of the room and the house. The grandchildren watched him curiously, soon resuming play with their toys.

Mrs. Gilaadi shook her head sadly. “I wish I didn’t have to say that to him, not while we still mourn, but everyone else is afraid. Someone had to speak the truth. It took a lot of courage for the three of you to come here. We forget that you have suffered four times our loss.”

She pulled David down closer to look directly into his deep-set eyes. He had told her about some of the disturbing revelations in his father’s journal. Mother and son shared the unanswered and largely unspoken question turning their stomachs: What really happened? She told her only son, “Find out why our Gileead had to die.”

Gileead’s old office resembled Mattathias’s except half the size, and instead of shelved categorically, most of the books and journals sat in stacks like growths off the ocean floor. A heavy cardboard box sat half-filled on the hardwood floor beside a petite, antique walnut desk.

“I’ve been going through my father’s possession, packing, not finding anything illuminating,” David said as he sat down behind the desk and opened his satchel. “Then I found his journal in a locked drawer. I’ll start at the end and work my way to the initial entry. That’s how I first read it.”

David opened the hardcover ledger marked with yellow notes, paused and suppressed a wave of grief before it could crest, thinking of his father’s hand hovering thoughtfully over the same pages.

“July 15. I have finally decided to allow Mr. Hasmon to see Philipp’s Scroll. His patience has convinced me of his good intentions, but the deciding factor is I no longer wish to carry this burden alone. The responsibility of secret knowledge is tremendous, the responsibility of sharing that knowledge even greater. Sometimes I have a strange sense of being watched on the street, or even when sitting alone in the store or in my study, but no one is ever there. An imaginary voice carries behind the wind. Perhaps Mr. Hasmon will have answers. Time to tell him everything. Our appointment is tomorrow.”

David leafed back a page.

“July 2. I was contacted again by Mr. Hasmon. Like before, he was patient but insistent. I have a feeling he knows I’m being dishonest, but he won’t corner me into telling a lie. I don’t know which is worse. I have hidden the Scroll in five different places and never am I comfortable—wake up in the middle of the night imagining dark figures seeking it. It has grown on me in a bad way. I have to unburden myself. Mr. Hasmon would seem the person to talk to about such dark matters, yet a selfish part of myself insists, contrary to my principles, on keeping Philipp’s story secret. If what it says is true....”

David presaged, “It was a terrible secret, you’ll see.

“June 14. I have verified my translation of the Scroll of Philipp, courtier of Antiochus the Fourth, and poured over it a dozen times to be sure it’s not a forgery. I’m highly suspicious given the circumstances by which it was acquired. Why was I given this artifact? As if someone knew the vulnerability in my character and dropped temptation into my hands. I have secretly desired in all my years of collecting to acquire a truly unique and important artifact, a Rosetta Stone to unlock long-lost secrets. I now possess it, and part of me wishes otherwise.”

David looked up from the journal to his trio of guests. “If I wouldn’t have been spending so much time on my dissertation, I might have noticed my father’s secretive behavior. I can connect it together now, but at the time I thought nothing.”

“We feel the same way,” said Shiri. “We asked too few questions, focused on our own lives. You can’t blame yourself.”

“She’s right,” Benny agreed.

“But he writes of needing someone to unburden himself to. I was that person.” David pointed to himself. “Mother took no interest in the subject of history unless it was family history, but dad was my best friend. He shared his passion with me. I’m writing my dissertation on a subject we talked about for years.”

“It was up to him to seek you out,” Benny advised David, one man to another. “A father’s mind can be hard to read, impossible if he deliberately hides it. Perhaps he withheld the information for your protection. You couldn’t predict what was going to happen. I say that as the last person to see him alive.”

David appeared a shade brighter as the point sunk in. “Sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner. You are better people than I first thought.” He continued reading before anyone could reply.

“June 8. I was contacted today by a collector, M. Hasmon. How did he know a week after Philipp’s Scroll fell into my hands to ask? I said I would look into it. The artifact sat before me at the time. I feel bad for avoiding the truth, but I justify myself by saying it’s part of the bargaining process. However, I have no intention of selling, and it’s not like me to play such games. I already know before finishing the translation that this is an important document of great interest to historians. Not only does it name the location of the burial, it describes strange rites Philipp witnessed as bearer of the corpse of King Antiochus. Chilling details about animals fleeing before the procession, the secretive holy men chanting over the body the whole way then casting a powerful spell over the hidden tomb, sealed with a rumble deep inside the mountain. They promised that Antiochus would return to inhabit the flesh. I get chills when I read the passages.”

David flipped back further in the journal and said, “This is the first entry about the Scroll, dated June 1:

“Today I came into possession of a nearly priceless artifact, the Scroll of Philipp. I acquired it from an albino man wearing an expensive suit; couldn’t place his strange accent or decipher his nationality. Didn’t have time.

“He pulled out the alabaster encasement, set the Scroll on the counter for my inspection and asked, “Do you know what this is?” The first two lines told me: “The last testament of Philipp, Courtier of Antiochus Epiphanes, given at the hour of my impending death. I unburden myself of this knowledge, so that future generations may know the role I played, and with mercy absolve me of undue complicity.”

“I was stunned silent,” Gileead continued in his diary. “The albino said a deceased relative handed it down, and asked me how much it was worth. I replied by saying it was worth more than I could offer. He said that I would know what to do with it, then walked out. I quickly followed around the counter, hurried into the street not ten seconds after him. He was gone. I closed the shop to continue translating the Old Greek. It’s slow work, but already I am very excited. This is a dream come true.”

David closed the journal. “That’s it.”

Benny closed his eyes and remembered, “Mattathias told me that the man who called with the tip about the Scroll had a strange accent, maybe Russian. We got so caught up in the possibilities, we never imagined it was a plot to kill us. Just the opposite.”

“I’ve given this some thought,” said David, “and looked up information about the burial. The consensus seems to be, the location is in the north of Iraq. But a second location is proposed, as improbable as it sounds. Two other rulers of his dynastic line are already buried there, and I’ve been hearing a lot about it in the news.”

“Mt. Nemrut,” Shiri confirmed.

“Built by a later Antiochus. Philipp’s monarch died a century earlier. Going back to ancient times, Mt. Nemrut has been considered a hierothesion—a holy Throne of the Gods. A mystery cult is reported to have practiced there, though excavations have turned up nothing. It is a tantalizing thought.”

“Sure is,” said Ruth. “Who wants to take a trip to Turkey?”

“Don’t go running into trouble. They’re about to go to war up there,” Benny incorrectly reminded his nieces.

Shiri said with a touch of good humor, much appreciated by her ambulatory uncle, “I’m surprised you haven’t heard—you, the man who knows everything, secret friends in the government and all. The Turks pulled back. In return, the Kurds are supporting their membership to the EU. It’s all happening quickly, in record time for the Europeans.”

“Well now,” Benny cawed, “isn’t that a coincidence. Thanks for finally telling me.”

“Mt. Nemrut is near the upper border of traditionally Kurdish territory,” David added.

Ruth spoke their collective thought:

“Time to find out for ourselves what is going on up there.”

Chapter 29

Darianna propped on thick pillows, seated on the Throne of power deep under Mt. Nemrut, contemplating. Antiochus joined minds and taught her about the universe, amazing secrets. She felt overwhelmed at times, like Dante, but that mystic journeyer only dreamed of having a guide such as hers.

Antiochus showed her the human realm balanced between the upper and lower realms; how souls travel between like a game of Chutes and Ladders; and how creation is a classroom. Souls choose to live on the edge of chaos as humans to participate in the making of reality, amnesiacs blocked from remembering their true selves in a world that reinforces their illusion.

The common representations of God were so wrong, but also contained elements of truth. Putting aside the idea of father as God, father as a creative, authoritative, generative force participates in creation with a universe receptive, nurturing, inspiring, mothering. Darianna learned that creation is a macrocosm of male and female, synthesis and antithesis, positive and negative. And behind the action, the motion, the order rising out of chaos: utter stillness.

The truth, when it dawned, terrified her. Her former notions of afterlife were incorrect. While souls live on, personalities fade away. Souls that gain the experience to rise face harder challenges. And those caught up in the deception of the senses faced more of the same: the smoker had an endless carton, and the addict hooked up with the ultimate dealer, always available and well-supplied.

Appetite is endless when uncontrolled, in any realm of existence. Darianna criticized the master planner. Whatever force set in motion such a scenario was not the personal God of Love she thought she understood. Seemed to her distinctly unfair to thrust souls into a situation so ignorant of the reality. Human potential as creators is unlimited, but the pitfalls are numerous and enticing. The ascetic might not learn any more than the indulgent, heathen or perverse. But people who strike a middle way tend to stay in the middle, looping back to where they were before, to make the same mistakes, fall into the same traps, and muddle along to nowhere.

Antiochus showed her how the two of them could unshackle the human mind from ignorance. He would remove the blinders from humanity and provide the tools to spark a revolution in consciousness.

Just in the nick of time, thought Darianna. Without intervention, the world’s conflicts hurdled toward war of nuclear proportions, mushroom clouds enveloping major cities, human race plunged to near extinction. Antiochus understood; humanity cried out and its savior heard!

His cloned fetus developed rapidly in Darianna’s womb—the flesh also sensed the time was short. Antiochus wrapped her in an incubator of power that she departed occasionally to visit Dr. Stoyanich and his crew at the Bulgarian lab, but increasingly, she maintained the health and growth of her king’s bodily vessel.

Her knowledge and her womb grew with each passing day in the deep. Peter brought her comforts: fat velvet pillows, warm blankets, nourishing foods. Most of the time she remained on the Throne in a state of meditation, concentrating intently on the life blooming inside. Antiochus also communed with the fetus, much the same way that the dreams of a pregnant mother create the first bonds.

During the few moments Darianna had to ponder her old life, her thoughts returned to where her heart dwell: the desire to know her child inside and out as its mother, a pleasure that just ten weeks previously appeared impossible for her to ever enjoy. She vocalized her thoughts to Antiochus at the top of the pyramid chamber, asking, “Are you my child, or is my child still to come?”

She heard in reply:

We are the same.

“But I sense another soul aware of this body growing within me, a soul that wants to return to physical life.”

The flesh is only clay. These thoughts are born of fear.

Darianna would birth Antiochus, but mother him only by technicality, and she wondered if her body would hold up to have another child, to raise normally. Despite her healing powers, Antiochus’s tripled growth-rate might sap all she had left. Rather than dwell on the personal thought, she brought to mind an image to share: a line of future rulers spawned from his DNA.

Stay focused on the life within you. Give it everything until my majesty fully inhabits the flesh. You are limitless like me!

Darianna sent the growing fetus her mother’s unconditional love, the most powerful force in creation. Her full awareness attuned to the flesh, to right any wrong in the process before it rapidly spiraled out of control.

Someday she would get her child, or rise above the needs of her old life.

Until then, her mind revolved around one thought only: giving birth to a healthy baby boy.

Chapter 30

The triangular peak of Mt. Nemrut hovered over the range of mountains, normally visible from far away on a clear day, but on this day heavy clouds obscured the view. The travelers only saw the peak in frustrating glimpses during the last hour of the long ride.

Sisters Ruth and Shiri Hasmon and David Gilaadi followed the nerve-rattling road upward in an extended Ford Econoline van driven by a cheerful Kurd named Azeel. Only the four of them occupied the vehicle made for group transit. Azeel, a newly-married, effortlessly handsome young man with brown wavy hair and light goatee, wore a shiny green and yellow soccer jersey and loose jeans. He took their money but made no guarantee about reaching the destination. Snow had arrived in the mountains the night before; anything more than shoe-deep would make the roads too treacherous for even a tank.

They embarked mid-morning for the long drive. Azeel whistled, talked on his phone, and sang merrily to rambling, rhythmic Kurdish music. The beautiful mountain scenery crawled by valley-to-vista, their destination occasionally returning to view closer on the horizon. Fat flakes of snow fell as the van climbed the deteriorating road, the peak tantalizingly close only a few kilometers away, hidden behind another treeless hump of mountain. Azeel drove through a quiet village when the wheels began to slip.

“Sorry, ahead of us will be drifts higher than the van,” he apologized while trying to control the big vehicle. “You have to try next year.”

“What a long way to come for nothing,” Ruth complained bitterly to her companions, David seated next to Shiri in the back seat, Ruth stretched out in the middle row.

“When do the snows clear?” David asked Azeel.

“Every year it gets a few days earlier. May is a good time.” Azeel reversed the van and stopped in a gravel lot overlooked by a sign advertising parking and guided tours for Mt. Nemrut.

“This is new,” he said to himself, then to the passengers, “I know someone who lives here and think he is home. We can rest before driving back.”

“I’ve got to go,” Ruth whispered to Shiri, spotting an outhouse around back.

“I think those are the accommodations.”

“Good day to be male,” said David, winking. “I brought toilet paper if you need it, and hand sanitizer.”

“Tell me again why you’re not married?” Ruth asked in fun.

David’s cheeks reddened. “Mom’s a real hoot, isn’t she? I might be married if not for her. She goes on and on about grandchildren, but has a record of running interference when the prospective bearer of the family line doesn’t meet her approval—everyone I’ve dated that she’s known about. What about your mom, does she screen your boyfriends?”

“She passed away before we got old enough,” Shiri answered. “It’s all right. You didn’t know.”

Azeel rapped on the wooden door of Akbar and Abby’s mud-brick house, waited, and pounded loud enough for the neighbors to hear. A doe-eyed girl cracked open the door and cautiously examined the visitors.

“Is Akbar home?” Azeel asked in Kurdish. “I’m his friend, Azeel.”

“How do you know him?” The girl asked through the crack.

“I’m a tour guide, and we’ve worked together.”

The girl’s face brightened a little. “Oh, I see. Akbar disappeared a while back, and suspicious people come around asking about him. You should talk to his brother.”

The driver explained to the Israeli visitors, “My friend is not home, though his brother is. I don’t know if he’ll remember me, but he’ll offer accommodations; kindness to travelers is a tradition.”

The village girl sprouting adult breasts and hips led them through a small living room into a tight kitchen under remodel. She continued to the back through another doorway to a spacious, add-on A-frame room comprised of little more than roof, frame and outside walls.

Abby studied designs spread on the plywood floor, a hammer and carpenter’s tools spread out nearby. He looked up as the visitors entered.

“They asked for Akbar,” the petite girl demurely informed him. “He takes tourists like you.”

“Azeel?” Abby guessed.

The driver smiled, pleased. “You remember!”

“Been a long time,” said Abby.

The girl began to walk away. Abby called to her back.

“Thank you, Medra.”

Medra stopped, nodded slightly but didn’t turn around. Tragically shy girl with a crush, the sisters agreed with a mutual glance.

“How’s the stove coming along?” Abby asked.

Medra rotated and almost faced him, happy to talk about her work. “The gas line is connected. Next I’ll light the pilot.”

“Need help?”

“No thank you,” she said, and scooted out of the room.

“Amazing,” marveled Azeel. “Hooking up the gas? My wife can’t even pound a nail.”

“Medra’s father is a baker. He sold me the stove and basically included her,” said Abby, looking puzzled. “I didn’t exactly agree. He just said she would install it, and when I went to leave, they had already attached the stove by a trailer. She was packed and waiting. I’m still waiting for her to say more than a few words.”

Azeel grinned wryly. “Her father thinks if you can afford a big stove like the one I saw in the kitchen, you can afford his daughter.”

“Think so?”

“Goodness, it’s obvious,” said Azeel.

“I don’t know, she still looks young. He did say I could use her next season.”

“You don’t look much older,” Azeel observed. “How’s your English?”

Abby switched from Kurdish and said, “Better than ever.”

“The disappointed travelers with me don’t speak Kurdish or Turkish.”

Abby acknowledged the Israeli visitors.

“Like most of the tourists. Keeps us in business. Please, be welcome. You missed the visiting season, unfortunately.”

Abby caught a close look at the Jewish sisters and quickly shied away, but he looked back and forth to make sure his first conclusion was correct and two sophisticated, attractive women stood in his home. Too old for him, not that he had any real prospect. He wondered which girl came with David.

“The snows arrived later than expected,” Abby said to make conversation with Azeel.

“They did,” agreed the driver, “and they’ll end early too, blessing us with a longer season next year.”

“We were busy for a while...” Abby’s voice trailed, sounding an off-note.

“What’s this I hear about your brother?”

“We can talk about that later,” Abby deferred. “You must be hungry after the long ride.”

“Do you have a bathroom we can use?” David asked. He smiled impishly at Ruth and Shiri.

“Just finished it: running water, new fixtures, but no walls.” Abby pointed to a framed-in, dim corner occupied by a shiny white porcelain toilet. Shiri tapped Ruth’s shoulder for her to notice the rolls of toilet paper stacked on the back of the commode.

“Go ahead. I’m done for today,” said Abby.

A horn sounded in the distance.

“Time for prayers. You can join me in the front room if you like, after you're done. Doesn't matter to me what religion you believe.”

Abby stoked a fire as Medra arranged flat bread, goat cheese and olive oil on a hand-woven, multicolored blanket in front of the fireplace. After a comical moment in the kitchen trying to communicate, Ruth helped by carrying a steaming pot of tea. Shiri filled her hands with cups, silverware, cloth napkins, and small plates. All of the utensils came new out of boxes. David already had Abby talking, and summarized for Ruth and Shiri while they filled their plates.

“Abby’s older brother and cousin vanished, and he thinks it has something to do with strange events they were embroiled in at Mt. Nemrut. Is that fair to say?”

Abby nodded affirmative while enjoying a mouthful of fresh bread.

“His cousin has been heard from,” said David. “He ran off with two priests of the mountain. Apparently, they intervened to help him escape from a ruthless Turkish military officer.”

Connections flashed through Ruth’s mind. “When did the trouble start,” she asked Abby.

“Middle of July.”

“What day?” Ruth waved her hands excitedly trying to think of the correct word in English. “The date—the date.”

“It was the day of the Festival of Lights, the 16th. Why?” The day of the suicide bombing that killed her father and brothers.

“Wanted to know,” she replied. “Who took your relatives?”

“We don’t know for sure. Doesn’t matter who did it. I know why,” said Abby. “The statue: It is more than a tourist attraction. And those priests are connected. They say they are reborn to bring back their leader. My brother was never the same after that first morning.” He turned away and poked at the fire.

The Israelis felt a pall. David observed, “I think one thing we all share is the recent loss of people close to us.” A long pause as Abby ran out of wood to poke. “Except you, Azeel.”

“They have a religion based on the inscriptions up there,” Abby continued to talk, wrapped in his previous thought. “Something big is going to happen. And,” he voiced a nervous hunch, “something is coming, building like a vibration. You can feel it in the ground, a change in the air. It woke my brother Akbar out of a sound sleep and called him up there. How do you explain that?”

Abby looked like he secretly wanted to scream.

“Do you know anything about any discovery beneath the mountain?” David wondered.

“The scientists were around as usual, doing something underground below the Fire Altar on the east terrace, way around on the south side where no one can get to. The soldiers keep people away.”

Ruth, looking ready to travel, asked, “Is the military up there now?”

“Temel, my soldier friend, dropped by when he was leaving with his unit,” Abby related. “They left before getting snowed in. Helicopters can get up there on calm days—I hear them sometimes—but when the weather is really bad, nothing gets through.”

“Excavation has been going on for decades,” David said as an aside.

“The last information is they obtained permits to open the burial chamber. The trail ended in mid-July.”

“We’re going up there,” Ruth insisted. “We’ll walk if we have to.” Shiri nodded in agreement.

Listening sleepily to the conversation, Azeel blurted, “That is suicide.”

Abby turned curious. “What’s so important? You aren’t just tourists, are you?”

Ruth answered firmly, “We’re searching for the killer of five family members—almost six—and we’re now sure it has something to do with what’s happening at Mt. Nemrut.”

She had all the proof needed, a cold anger rising like a dirge from her sternum.

Azeel whistled and sat up. “I’ll be in the van,” he said. “Take your time, my passengers. Abby, thank you for the hospitality. I hope to see you again next season.”

Everyone stopped for a moment, a bit stunned as the young driver quickly exited.

“Guess he doesn’t like the conversation,” said David. He shook Abby’s hand. “You helped us greatly. Do we owe you anything?”

Abby declined. Ruth thought of another question.

“What do you think of the events at the mountain, especially after your brother disappeared—good or bad?”

“Sometimes I think it’s good,” Abby replied after a moment of thinking. “War was stopped, and our business returned. I can’t imagine the nice priests involved with killing. But then my cousin left his father to join them and my brother disappeared. I don’t know. I’ll take you up there next season. Don’t try in this weather. Azeel is right: it’s suicide.”

Ruth accepted his advice. She asked Shiri in Hebrew, “Should I drop a hint?”

“About the girl? Let him find out for himself. I wouldn’t want to jinx it.”

“What is it?” Abby saw something mysterious on the sisters’ faces and was too young to know what.

“We’ll be back to see you next spring,” said Ruth, “and we want you to take us to the mountain.”

Until then, the Hasmons had work to do. The truth had to be known.

Chapter 31

Peter Vandermill passed the time by documenting the secret passage beneath Nemrut and sketching the elaborate symbols and writing carved into the raw rock. The new talent he had discovered after weeks in the dark, snowbound inside of the mountain where the temperature remained a constant 58 degrees—warmer in areas he chose to camp. On the occasions he saw Darianna and could ask how she was doing, his tongue froze.

Darianna came out of the inner chamber when Peter descended the steep passage to the underworld; sometimes she didn’t. When she did, her robes revealed more bulge to her belly. A sheen of sweat covered her pallid face despite the cool temperature, and her eyes floated dreamily in their sockets, mind far away. When Peter could bring her back to reality, she explained that the terrific growth could only be maintained on the Throne. The task took its toll by adding a weary edge to her rejuvenated youth. Not even the new personality—Laodice—could be seen anymore in Darianna’s face, her very being subsumed into an incubator on legs.

Before snow covered the peak, Peter had to make a choice, but really had no choice at all. He stayed. No way could he leave Darianna in her condition. He stocked up on supplies and made arrangements, and waited weeks on end. Silence and solitude work the mind for its weak spots, every passing thought amplified in the cramped quarters until the inner and outer world are indistinguishable.

When Peter stopped his train of thoughts long enough in the presence of the menacing Guardian statue, he sensed stirring in the underside of his psyche. He learned to calm his fear and imagine himself as an opened book for the timeless being. That is how Peter Vandermill saw himself; nothing to hide or hide from.

All at once a figurative road appeared. Peter felt that he must expand his conception of reality, the meaning of life, and the nature of existence if he was to ever again be the man who could stand rightfully at the side of his amazing mate. But jealousy ate at him for being denied the most precious gift by an usurper, and nothing his rational mind argued eased the loss.

Then one day he napped on the marble steps in front of Ashur’s counterpart formed from darkest mineral, the Guardian. Behind his eyes, Peter saw processions of robed masters drawn to the sacred mountain for their highest rituals. A charismatic Teacher from an advanced, destroyed civilization led the original cult of shamans, healers, mystics, seers, psychics and prophets, all drawn to the highest peak in the range, where Earth’s energy concentrated.

Peter recognized the lay of the land, but in the vision it produced nature’s bounty abundantly instead of barren like modern day—rolling fields of fig trees and grape vines; cultivated vegetables of all colors; clear streams and roaming rivers, including the two great fertilizers of life: the Euphrates and Tigris. Back then they split into four rivers, each going its own direction. Four rivers like Eden. Peter instinctively understood the harmony between people and planet. No one had to beg, borrow, or steal in a land of plenty, where one could ask an apple tree, “Friend tree, I’m hungry; please spare me some of your fruit,” and a ripe apple would fall to hand. Water sprung from the ground simply by wishing. Animals came to die at human feet, to be used for meat and warmth, their final contribution to the cycle of life and the comfort of the planet’s caretakers.

The Teacher from the land afar led the people in building a mountaintop temple dedicated to all powers of the upper world, and in building a chamber down in the heart of the mountain for teaching the deepest mysteries of the lower world. Nemk-Ru he consecrated as the sacred heights where Heaven met Earth, a center of hidden knowledge that protected the divine Garden during humanity’s innocence. The first covenant of flesh and spirit incubated everything living in sight of the mountain.

The Teacher established a line of priest-rulers both male and female. Remarkable mental and physical abilities manifested, the supernatural made natural. Society bloomed, the abilities spread, and a great light shined. He taught humankind its special place in the cosmos. Then he passed on, taken bodily from the mountaintop into the clouds, promising to appear again far in the future when darkness befell the land.

The traditions were preserved for countless centuries exactly as originally taught. Far-reaching generations like Adam to Jesus enjoyed carnal pleasure and delightful existence combined with deep, instinctual spirituality. Strong leaders emerged from the blossoming union of matter and spirit. Mother Universe’s endless labor produced a special breed. As the population boomed, settlers took the teachings and traditions to outer lands, to spread among peoples formed from more primitive traditions. Some of those people, in turn, pilgrimaged to the mountain at the top of the fertile crescent, to tend the many temples and monument complexes that rose and fell as civilization formed around the pocket of enlightenment.

But, Peter saw, the Garden’s occupants grew complacent. Some of the priests enjoyed the privileges of their position more than the execution of their duties. Prophets were dismissed as pessimists. Luxury and adornment exceeded extravagance, reaching new levels of self-indulgence as someone else claimed to be the reincarnated soul of the Promised One, and proceeded to hold court endlessly, sharing cosmic insights and engaging in long-winded abstractions. Young people amused themselves with frolic to the detriment of everything else. The Garden and its endless delights proved addictive, so the principle sustaining it stopped working when called upon. The prophets howled dire warnings, as disgusted at the excess as their deity.

Then one bright morning the warnings came true.

A fire in the sky preceded a great flood in the outer lands, forcing many thousands of refugees to flee to the motherland nestled in the mountains, the mythical land of plenty. Resources stretched thin. Natives grumbled about being satisfied first, the remains distributed among the newcomers. Thus the first fissures in the ancient ways appeared as people learned to think of some of their brothers and sisters as “them.” Another word—“my”—gained popularity. This is my home, my children, my land, my food. Indulgence and indifference led to greed and envy, and eventually, to exploitation, domination, war, and the decline of the ancient ways.

Peter hovered in twilight between asleep and awake to ponder the lucid vision. It had been a gift delivered by the Guardian, he felt, originating from inside the chamber beyond the top of the steps—the secret room where sacred rituals were once performed. The vision was also a special reward to the archaeologist for faithful service, and that part confused him. He was no convert. The objections rising to mind vanished at the sound of Darianna’s voice echoing with a hint of need from the inner chamber:

“Peter?”

He felt around and found the flashlight, batteries drained to a weak beam while he dozed. It must have been an hour or more, yet the whole movie-like dream seemed to unfold in moments.

“Peter, help.”

“I’m out here,” he hollered into the dark, seeking the direction of the entrance to the inner chamber. He glimpsed reflections of shimmering silvery orange light, but between him and there stood the Guardian: pointed ears, rippling muscles, extended arms.

Darianna’s voice echoed to Peter from behind it. “The baby. It’s time!”

He started up the steps, saying, “I don’t care if Zeus himself planted you there, I am going to pass. I know you hear me.”

Eyes closed to retain the feeling-tone from the dream, he allowed no other thought to enter his mind than he meant to walk right up and pass by the Guardian to help his wife. He stopped an inch from its broad lion’s chest, a tingly feeling warning to go no further. The sensitive nerves of his fingertips detected something like the afterglow of a camera flash. It reminded him of a field trip he took as a boy to a science museum and all the kids’ fun with the silver ball that made hair stand straight up, even the girls with long tresses. The Guardian sent a clear signal for hands-off.

A warm hand suddenly touched Peter, traveled up his arm and used his shoulder for support. He opened his eyes to Darianna dragging herself down the steps, her raven hair matted to the sides of her flushed face, eyes rolling in their sockets.

“I made it,” she said. “Finally, I made it.”

“Not yet, there’s still a long way to go. Let me help.”

Darianna had meant made it through the pregnancy. Peter anchored his arm around her back and noticed how thin her body had become beneath her loose white robes.

“He thanks you,” she said breathlessly. “You don’t know how much.”

Peter thought of one way. “Being better to you is a good start.”

“They’re all watching. Do you see them? The ancient ones all around us, hailing the return.”

Peter focused on the practical. “What’s the time between contractions?”

“Doesn’t matter, we must hurry. He’ll come at the appointed time. It is me I’m more worried about right now,” said Darianna.

When confronted by the long, 45-degree climb to the surface, Peter stopped cold.

“Why didn’t you think ahead of time about getting you to delivery? How are they going to know to send the helicopter up here?” But Peter then realized, help was already on the way, the weather calmed, circumstances exactly as needed.

“I had to wait until the last moment, and might have waited too long,” Darianna said from the ground, kneeling to rest. She grasped her hands to her chest, a moment of her old self showing. “You were here for me,” she said appreciatively.

“We’ve got to get you to the surface,” Peter replied, ignoring her opening. “Ride on my back. I’ll get on my knees.”

“Just give me a little push if I get stuck.”

Peter helped Darianna to her feet, remembering what it was like to hold her hand as a husband and mate. The self-doubts became torturous. “It’s because you don’t want to make me feel old,” he said.

“Honestly, if I needed you to carry me, I wouldn’t hesitate to take your offer. Remember the story of Elijah running 3 days across the desert without stopping. Human capability is limited only by the mind.”

The mother-to-be slowly but surely climbed to the surface, Peter trailing behind trying to make sense of a three month pregnancy.

She fell into either deep meditation or a dead sleep as soon as the helicopter left the ground, Peter didn’t know which. Assuming the best of the delivery, what came next, play house raising baby Jesus in anonymity? Antiochus calls forth his army to battle all the evil in the world? More of the same?

Life on hold, unsure of himself in so many ways, Peter only knew to expect more surprises. One day at a time he had to take it. One hour. One minute.

He watched Darianna’s slack face during the long helicopter ride, wondering if he would ever get back the woman he knew, doubting if he deserved her in the first place, and agonizing at the nearness of his precious wife.

The obstetrics bay of the secret genetics lab in Bulgaria easily converted into a delivery room with the addition of an incubator, vital signs monitor and surgical equipment. Dr. Toulissova ultrasonically inspected Darianna’s abdomen as Dr. Stoyanich observed closely, breathing windily on the elegant blond obstetrician’s shoulder. Peter, off to the side, noticed the closed-circuit camera mounted over the delivery table and the awaiting royal purple blankets.

“It’s your call, Natalia,” offered Stoyanich.

“Doctor, put your mask on please.”

Earlier while preparing, Dr. Stoyanich “generously” informed the obstetrician of her lead position in the coming delivery, reminding her that he had completed medical school before conquering genetics. And—droning on—all doctors learn how to deliver babies.

Dr. Toulissova admired Stoyanich for his brilliance, but sometimes found his arrogance disappointing. Real men possessed quiet confidence, like her father, a banker and former Communist. Stoyanich mentioned protocol to remind her that his medical degree was from Harvard and hers from some country outpost in Siberia, presumably. Amazing for a man to seek such petty recognitions when he was about to make history, she thought.

The ultrasound indicated conclusively a full-sized infant with a heartbeat. The exam revealed little dilation but real contractions. She had to act quickly.

“This baby is coming cesarean. Let’s put her under.” Dr. Toulissova looked over her surgical equipment. Dr. Stoyanich prepared to inject the anesthetic intravenously.

“I can’t go under,” Darianna protested.

“You must,” insisted Stoyanich. He did not admire her as much as the first time they’d met, her regal beauty sapped by the pregnancy. Anyway, most women disappointed the bachelor scientist with their normalcy once becoming mothers. “The operation is quick and easy. You’ll be back in no time.”

“I mean it,” warned Darianna, her voice rising. “I have to remain conscious during this crucial time. It's almost here!”

“No way,” the obstetrician objected. “The dual shock to your body could be too much.”

Darianna screamed, “Just hurry up and cut him out!” The blood-chilling sound was all Dr. Toulissova needed to hear.

“I’ll prepare the local. Lazar, stand by with the crash cart and prepare a sedative. Five minutes.”

“Now!” Darianna’s face became savage as ungodly pain racked her body.

“We won’t have a live child if you wait much longer, and I mean seconds. No drugs. Now!”

She flopped back and gripped the sheets, eyes clamped shut, inwardly locked on the picture of a live birth. All of their efforts hung in the balance. She would give her life if necessary.

Peter couldn’t believe his ears. Dr. Stoyanich couldn’t believe his eyes. He swore he saw Darianna’s body bathed in white fire.

Dr. Toulissova drew a line with a marker for the incision and spread iodine over the distended lower abdomen. A simple cut she’d performed thousands of times. “Women in my country have endured worse conditions for delivery. At least my scalpel is sharp, and I’m very fast,” she said. “Lazar, suction and scissors. We begin.”

The obstetrician rubbed a fast-acting local anesthetic across the path and made the incision in two swift cuts, a pause after the first cut to check if Darianna kicked or struggled, followed by the second to get the worst over.

Darianna sent her consciousness into a void, shutting off her body’s insistence on acknowledging the pain and sensation of a loaf-sized object being forcibly removed from her womb. A strong presence appeared in the room, seen as a distortion of passing light, and scooped her mind away to bliss during her moment of greatest need. Everyone felt the change when the presence manifested, from the hairs on Peter’s neck that rose to Dr. Stoyanich’s momentary fugue state. He shook it off.

“No pulse,” he warned as he handed over surgical scissors.

Dr. Toulissova snipped the umbilical chord. The wrinkled, wet newborn turned blue. She checked the airway and said, “Take her, I’ll resuscitate.”

“No, it’s mine!” Dr. Stoyanich grabbed the cloned body of Antiochus and swung it over to the fetal station. Quickly and precisely, he prepared a ventilation bag and intubated the airway.

The obstetrician neglected to notice Darianna’s crashing vitals until the monitor screamed. No arterial blood loss or distinct spurt of a rupture, only a nine inch incision needing stitched, the doctor saw after toweling away mixed body fluids. She lifted the abdominal muscle and inspected closely for the cause of Darianna’s dropping blood pressure and heart rate.

Peter wandered in surreal shock over to the fetal station. A tempest in the air hovered over the wrinkly infant. He watched with the disgraced geneticist as the faintly visible spirit descended and absorbed into its skin like mercury.

Dr. Stoyanich gently worked the bag; the fetus turned pink. Its pulse started, rose quickly, steadied. The little legs kicked and tiny arms thrashed. Stoyanich removed the breathing mask, examined, and proudly pronounced the birth of a baby boy. He wrapped the proof of his genius in the purple blankets.

Unfortunately, his ego’s desire to proclaim “I did this!” would remain forever unfulfilled, according to the agreement with his employer. But he did get a shiny new science lab to stay busy.

Darianna flat-lined.

Peter’s face turned ashen when he realized the terms of the deal. He accused the newborn, “You live and she dies? You are a false messiah if you don’t bring her back. False. This is how you reward those who follow you?!”

“She will live,” Dr. Stoyanich stated heroically. “A creature this fine must breath until the very last.” He placed the ventilation mask over Darianna’s nose and mouth, squeezed twice and thought better: blood flow first—chest compressions. He planted his palm above her sternum and counted while driving down into her chest cavity—one, two, three, four....

The obstetrician asked herself why she’d gone along in the first place when a tragic result was likely. Just prior to making the incisions, a secret to take to the grave, she saw herself as a priestess in an ancient religious cult holding a stone knife, about to slice open the womb of a pregnant slave to offer the baby as a sacrifice for their bloodthirsty gods. She fleetingly wondered if Dr. Stoyanich asked himself what he would do if his multimillion dollar experiment in creation science went wrong.

Who would come to settle accounts?

Chapter 32

Reverend Jeremiah Fallin railed from the pulpit against false idols, false prophets and false religions—especially the phony-baloney coming out of Turkey. For sure, many followers heeded Fallin’s traditional message, but some who had once taken his word as divinely inspired now questioned, even accused him of backwardness. They said the reverend failed to understand, caught in the past, an anachronism. The world went forward while he clung to yesteryear, obstructing peace and compromising his principles for access to political power.

He asked himself, Am I really led astray? A different era produced Jeremiah Fallin, a Rockwellian world of sometimes Orwellian duplicity. He didn’t know how to check e-mail, thought an MP3 was a military rifle, and never met a blackberry he didn’t want to eat until encountering the electronic kind. His young congregates paid more attention to their gadgets than to their reverend.

The ultimate rebuke came when Fallin requested an urgent meeting with the American president to personally warn him about the threat from Mt. Nemrut, but instead spoke to a White House insider who, while a believer with proven stripes, courteously replied that the advice would be considered. In other words: go fly a kite. His viewer numbers were down by almost half, while Christian leaders who embraced the universal ways of the mountain religion were more popular than ever. The “liberal” pastors filled their pews, teaching a hybrid of the old and new.

Reverend Fallin agonized about what to do.

His huge oak desk—one of his first extravagant purchases—sat still and bulky like himself. He reclined behind it in his spacious, darkened office. Inspiration he needed. The familiar tingle of divine presence remained conspicuously absent. Instead: silence. Jesus at Gethsemane must have felt the same way, thought the reverend. Jesus praying for some other way than crucifixion, pleading with God to pass the cup. But no avoiding the path God set upon. Jonah tried and a whale swallowed and delivered him to the last place in the world he wanted to be: exactly where needed.

Could this mysterious man Demetrius be a prophet of the New Age? A forerunner of the Second Coming? Jeremiah Fallin knew well his Messiah’s warning about false prophets deceiving even the Elect during the End Times. He could quote the passages by heart:

1John 2: “Who is the liar but the one who denies Jesus is the Christ? This is the Antichrist, the one who denies the Father and the Son.”

Demetrius acknowledged Jesus as an important prophet, no better than the Muslims did, and fell short of the Christian creed’s insistence that Jesus is Numero Uno. The mountain priest’s falsehood could be discerned in his respect for Buddha, Mohamed, Krishna, and the other deceivers.

1John4: “Every spirit that does not confess Jesus is from God, this is the spirit of the Antichrist, of which you have heard is coming, and now it is already in the world.”

“Yes!” thought Reverend Fallin. Already in the world. The evil spirit that strives for power and domination had plagued humanity ever since the Fall of Adam and before, when God cast out Satan and the rebellious angels.

The reverend knew the traits of his ultimate enemy, and recalled 2Thessalonians:

“Let none deceive you, for it will not come unless the apostasy comes first, and the man of lawlessness is revealed, the son of destruction, who opposes and exalts himself above all, so that he takes his seat in the Temple of God, displaying himself as being God.”

Fallin thought back on all he knew about Demetrius, gathered from every source publicly available and a few from the underground evangelical network. The mountain priest hadn’t proclaimed himself as God, did not ask to be worshiped, but he split hairs. He said, honor my way and conveniently gloss over the fact that it denies Jesus his due place.

Blaspheme!

Then there was the idol statue on the mountain, people actually thinking it could be invoked to produce the Second Coming. Certainly not the coming of Jesus. The whole ridiculous notion offended the reverend, but some adopters of The Way gained good fortune in their lives. A family in his congregation had, in desperation for a child with leukemia, done what Demetrius preached by observing certain dates, adopting a more liberal idea of God and facing toward Mt. Nemrut for prayer. Their child was miraculously healed when an invisible presence came into the room and entered the little girl’s body, the parents claimed. The story spread wildly through the community, the healed child held up as an example, prompting many poor and desperately sick souls to jeopardize their salvation by believing the malarkey.

The reverend knew Satan could heal, but what could be said in the face of a mother brought back from the brink of despair? Scattered reports from around the world proclaimed benefit for people who followed their native faith while adding on the teachings of The Way. Reverend Fallin heard stories of new wealth, a job in the nick of time, a lost parent found. He even knew some of the people personally.

More headlines every day. Atheists believed. Mountains moved.

Was the world really witnessing the machinations of the Antichrist as he believed? Had to be. Other signs marked the landscape: wars and rumors of war, extreme weather, increasing instances of volcanoes, earthquakes and disasters agonized over on hundreds of satellite channels. Reverend Fallin could embrace the new religion to reverse his slide in popularity and influence. Or he could continue following his instincts all of the way to the bottom, knowing only that the closer he came to accomplishing God’s task, the more he felt doubt—and utter solitude.

The buzzing door disrupted Reverend Fallin’s brooding. An expensive security consultant convinced his staff of the need for an impenetrable door that only opened from inside, necessary in an age of mass shootings and rampant gun violence. To see who was outside required lifting his bulk off the big chair and waddling to the door to check the video monitor, while a second button sat conveniently near his fingers, beneath the oak desk.

The reverend took the path of least effort. He already knew who wanted inside. Roger Ecksby entered, Bible in hand, dressed as usual in a white dress shirt and slacks like a Mormon. Reverend Fallin himself had baptized Roger into the real faith, away from the deceptions of Joseph Smith. Hallelujah, the young man blossomed. His earnest, almost dour diligence proved immensely helpful. Hired as a low-level office assistant, Ecksby moved up a year later when Fallin’s first personal secretary died in an unfortunate boating accident.

“Reverend?”

The shag carpet absorbed Roger’s thin voice. Reverend Fallin held his head in both hands over his desk, staring sightlessly at an opened Bible. Sensing the usual authoritative presence of his leader dimmed like the lights, Roger called out again: “Reverend, can I?”

He flipped on the overhead lights before getting an answer. Reverend Fallin blinked rapidly in response to the bright florescent light. He leaned back in his chair, hands laced together behind his head.

“Sorry to bother you, but I have something important for your attention.”

Roger sat across the big desk in what he considered to be his seat, not that anyone else wanted the folding wooden school chair kept in a corner. He preferred it even when more comfortable ones were available. The reverend liked Ecksby’s discipline. He quoted the Good Book chapter and verse.

“Remember what you asked me to do?”

Make discreet inquiries, Fallin remembered. The White House response was puzzling. Doubt about the true devotion of that bunch grew like a fungus on his heart. Whispers in the evangelical community hinted that the Christian activists had been used as tools of convenience to attain power. Willingly! What was he supposed to do, trust a heathen liberal instead?

The reverend cleared his head. “What’s the news?”

“It’s worse than we thought.”

“Oh really?” Why am I not surprised, Fallin asked himself.

“Our friend in the White House says we’re good as excommunicated.” Roger frequently used religious terminology fit awkwardly to the situation. Occasional bad grammar too. “They follow the heretic peacemaker. Even worse, someone deep inside convinced our man that Demetrius could be sent from God. They’re looking at a way to fix Iraq. I couldn’t believe my ears.”

The reverend tapped a finger on his bottom lip, thinking.

“This came from our special friend?”

“Yes,” Roger confirmed, “and others with good ears. We’re on our own.”

“Then it’s time for sackcloth and ashes. We must petition the Lord for guidance.”

“The Holy Spirit quickened in me as I thought about this situation, and I saw a vision, Reverend.”

“What did you see?” Reverend Fallin shuddered with anticipation.

“War,” Roger answered.

The room absorbed the word and curdled it, producing an icky feeling in the gut. War. The edges of Fallin’s vision blurred. His head became light and his heart thumped dangerously in his chest. Not just the spiritual kind of war with prayer power, good works and spreading salvation, but blood and carnage. Elijah slew 400 priests of Baal, bodies piling around him like split firewood. The Red Sea swallowed an entire Egyptian army.

“The Horsemen stand ready. I see one Pale,” said Roger. “He carries a vile of poison and says pour it out on the infidels. Sir?”

Reverend Fallin had zoned-out.

“Do you second my witness?”

Do I? Fallin asked himself Roger’s question. Does the Lord really want this? Why so silent during my hour of greatest need? Beware of the next step, said something inside, but it was time to be decisive. Time to act. “I think so. Yes,” Fallin corrected himself, “yes I do. The signs are many.”

“I know what to do. Want the details? It might be better if you just give me the go-ahead.”

“Do you know what a 'body man' is?”

Roger had to really think about before answering, “A man who collects bodies?”

Roger’s mind worked so literally. Reverend Fallin chuckled deep in his chest, despite the somber mood.

“Good guess. A body man protects from fallout in politics, keeps secrets. They do the dirty work which is sometimes necessary.”

“Am I your body man?” Roger Ecksby nodded up and down; he understood.

“In so many words, but my heart tells me I cannot hide behind you. In this together we are. Now tell me what the Holy Spirit revealed to you.”

“Have you heard of the Nazirites?”

Reverend Fallin thought back: “Samson, the Apostle Paul. Men given completely to God.”

“What I mean is the Nazirites of modern day.”

“I recall something about a small group in the ‘50s, way down south, but the memory is fuzzy. Tell me.”

Reverend Fallin leaned forward to hear better, his considerable hands clasped together on the desk blotter.

“They’re mighty in the Lord, warriors absolutely dedicated,” Roger pronounced enthusiastically. “They don’t marry or watch television or corrupt their minds with garbage. They pray, they fast, and they prepare.”

Jeremiah twiddled his thumbs, getting impatient with the buildup. “I get the idea.”

“I was raised at the Alabama compound,” Roger revealed. “I’m a Nazarite.”

Holy----! The good reverend almost sinned out loud.

“You never told me?”

“We take a vow of secrecy.”

“I thought you were raised Mormon?” The shock on Jeremiah’s face deepened.

“My stepfather raised us that way. I used it as a cover.”

Jeremiah thought of the movie Manchurian Candidate as his vision narrowed to a pinpoint and his heart labored, head crowded with loud voices like stockbrokers jostling on a trading floor. Could Roger be a mole? He knew everything about the Ministry!

“You are surprised,” Roger soothed, dressed like a waiter assuaging a balky diner. “I understand. My loyalty is to the Lord first and you second. We’re trained to enter Christian organizations. Understand? I ain’t no Judas,” he ended with a note of disgust.

Reverend Fallin’s ire rose dangerously, face hued blotchy purple. He shook his finger and demanded, “Are you reporting to them, spying on me? Tell the truth or surely you’ll perish on the spot like Annanias, I promise you!”

“My contacts have only been in my role as your eyes and ears,” Roger assured his reverend. “We’re all waiting for Jesus to return. The Nazarites are waiting, trained and waiting for this day when the Antichrist makes his move to take over the world. We are willing to sacrifice our lives to stop him.”

Jeremiah stared at the ceiling tiles and felt harsh light strike the back of his eyeball. A warm wind suddenly blew away clouds of doubt. Roger had been sent by the Lord during his time of greatest need for this very reason.

Everything made sense now. God’s hand moved to open the door, pointing the way. What did Jesus say? I bring an ax; I burn the chafe; I spit out the tepid.“Yes Lord,” the reverend murmured with his eyes closed for a moment, feeling the invigorating touch, “I hear the command. No turning back now; the path forward is clear.”

He looked around the room and saw pictures of himself posed with famous people, and the awards, commendations, and honorary theological degrees. He remembered a lifetime spent building his ministry from a few dedicated souls to a worldwide power. All of that work and good fortune prepared the way.

“If I can’t trust you, Roger, I can trust no one. We’re led by the Lord, and if this is what He wants, this we must do. Now tell me more. Spare no details.”

Roger Ecksby rubbed his hands together, ready for battle.

“There’s a professor in Washington, Marc Reynolds, who is neck-deep. I’ll send a message to the right people that the Lord wants him made an example.”

The old-time reverend felt a rush. Action. Deeds. Confrontation. The Old Testament God demanded it. No reincarnation nonsense or hints of ancient pagan practices. No idols on mountaintops attracting the masses. The road is narrow and strewn with those who turn away from the one true Savior, Jesus Christ hallelujah amen.

He would slay the Beast and banish to Hell the Dragon behind it. Anything Jesus could do to help....

Chapter 33

The planted seeds were beginning to grow. Demetrius the sower worked his magic as the servants of the kingdom responded to the call of the ancients. Old souls conveniently reborn in positions of influence, in the right places at the right time, winked to life in corners around the globe. Their illumination spread all directions from the sacred mountain. People awakened. No longer did they believe; they knew a deep sense of connection.

The truth of existence stares everyone in the face. Some resist it harder than others, influenced by regurgitated force-feedings of religion, nowhere more so than the Middle East. Figurative nuts with tough shells, Muslims were just as tender and flavorful as all others in the soft middle.

Other cultures by their natures are more open to new ideas about spirituality. Many lights sparked among the Hindus, a culture accepting of the many-faced messiah: the latest incarnation of the divine spirit manifested at one time or another among all the world’s people, but has been absent from the world’s view for a very long time. To some people, the absence of proof meant the light of science had exposed superstition. The idea of Apocalypse, however, lingers in the shadowy recesses of the human mind, an expectation of the end to life as we know it, beginning with one’s own.

Many names are used to describe a remarkably similar figure expected to appear at the end of the Fourth Age to bring justice and truth, easily explained by scoffing academics as the result of a common story passed around. But they could not explain with hard science how it jumped impassable physical barriers to spread—literally—everywhere.

Mythologists explain the similarities as a messiah archetype residing in the collective unconscious, connected throughout the human species. Unfortunately, the psychology of soul has largely been replaced by a corporate assembly line for the prescription of profitable drugs that do nothing to help the inner person, but supposedly help the outer one function better.

Muslims—the “red” or “earthy” of father Abraham’s descendants—did not fall for that swindle originating in Nazi eugenics programs. The red brothers consider themselves better prepared as a culture to administer the Messiah’s kingdom, a messiah known as the Mahdi, al-Muntazar, the Twelfth Imam, the Hidden Prophet. Sunni, Shiite, and Sufi Muslim all await the second coming with fear and trembling—and great, great anticipation rising feverishly, city to countryside.

That fervent belief Demetrius intended to use to crack open the Muslim’s tough cultural shell.

The very circumstances that tore Iraq asunder also created fissures throughout the Middle East, providing openings the peacemaker needed. Muslims—particularly Arabs—roar like fierce lions at the first whiff of threat to their religious beliefs. Never would they have countenanced peace attempts, falling like seeds upon rocky ground. But because the Abaddon from America prepared the way by destroying the old international order, Demetrius found a receptive world; Muslims especially, lands soaked in blood and seized by turmoil.

The Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways.

Reminders of the Abaddon’s bloody destruction flashed by outside of the silver Audi as it sped passed pock-marked buildings, shattered glass, bullet-ridden vehicles, bomb craters. Rattles of gunfire in the distance. Rotting carcasses on the roadside. After a few weeks in Iraq, the land of destruction, one hardly noticed anymore.

Demetrius watched the flat expanse zoom past and soaked it in, preparing for a critical meeting with a powerful Shiite imam. As hard and uncompromising as the terrain, the imam was a descendant of the Prophet Mohamed, greatly influential among the disenfranchised masses. Demetrius carried in his pocket a message from his messiah.

A city of compact buildings sprang up from the sandy expanse after miles of nothingness. Traffic slowed, careful of the flow of pilgrims headed to the yearly celebration of Muhammed al-Mahdi, the Twelfth Imam, who disappeared during the ninth century and promised to return again to lead his people out from under Sunni domination.

Two high-ranking militiamen met the sedan at the outskirts of town. One man sat in the front passenger seat as the other scooted in beside Demetrius. The peacemaker simply nodded to acknowledge his escorts.

Inside Karbala, they cruised passed market stalls and vendors hawking produce. Young boys kicked around a soccer ball in a green field. Women covered in habaya gowns and hijab head scarves watched the expensive car pass, showing only cautious eyes.

At the mosque compound, a bomb detail swept the sedan, then guided it around the side of the grand building fronted by spiraling minarets and topped by an onion-shaped dome painted with real gold. Demetrius wore a traditional checkered keffiyeh head scarf and full-length white robe embroidered in silver and purple, a hint of old Persia that would appeal to the Shiite leader inside the mosque.

The escorts ushered Demetrius down a flight of stairs into an underground labyrinth of passages. The mosques of Iraq were centers of religion, and acted as seats of government, sometimes military. Avoiding the busy areas, they reached a heavy wooden door at the end of a long hall, deep under the building.

Inside, dim light cast weak shadows around a square, windowless room. Dirt floor showed near the walls at the edges of heavy patchwork rugs. A few pictures stood out on the unadorned walls, including one lone image of the Kaaba in Mecca. Everything about the room cried austerity. The escorts motioned Demetrius to remove his sandals and sit on throw pillows in the center. There they played the waiting game.

Strangers in parts of the Middle East must pass a test of wills before an audience is bestowed. Demetrius knew the game well. First silence, then small talk, and finally, business—if he passed the test. Impatient Westerners ignorant of custom felt the deep freeze. Self-important business people or diplomats who grew weary could go home with nothing to show for their effort except an insincere apology, delivered by an assistant expressing regret for a sudden change of plan:

“So sorry, but the sheik has a sudden family matter to attend and cannot meet as planned. Yes, you have flown thousands of miles and waited for hours, but you see, stupid, you haven’t stopped talking since arrival. And worse, you spit on our dirt where holy feet have passed—perhaps centuries ago, but ignorance is no excuse—proving yourself unworthy. You need us more than we need you. For centuries we bent to your will and custom; now you bend to ours, and if you don’t like it, we’ll take our oil and money elsewhere.”

Demetrius, facing his militia escorts, maintained a light smile. Except for declining an offer for water, the half-hour waiting for the important imam passed in silence.

The imam appeared young for one of his high position—mid-thirties—but deep creases in his forehead belied a lifetime of high intensity. His eyes carried heavy wounds and radiated injustice, purplish crescents of bruising hung beneath like rotted windowsills. Wild beard growth covered his heavy jaws and prominent chin with fuzzy hair never shaved or groomed, and his black robes shifted with his body to conceal the lumpy shape beneath. At all times—even when he slept, it was rumored—he wore a heavy black turban that touched his bushy eyebrows and pinned the tips of his gigantic ears.

Better for listening to God with, my dear Riding Hood.

Overall, the appearance gave Imam Abdel al-Fakr a severe air. A hungry wolf in human clothing filled in the picture.

A loudspeaker on top of the mosque blared the call to afternoon prayers. The imam and militiamen began ablations on their knees, facing Mecca. Demetrius—ignored—joined them and placed his forehead to the floor. Toward the end, he hummed a traditional prayer in Arabic, catching the attention of the imam:

“Lord, put courage into my heart, and take away all that may hinder me in serving you. Free my tongue to proclaim your goodness, that all may understand me.”

Demetrius stretched the vowel sounds, expressing their meaning in the emotion of his voice, restrained yet poignant. The Shiite imam picked up with the second verse, his voice not as polished but potent in its rawness:

“Give me friends to help me, that by working together our efforts might bear abundant fruit.”

Demetrius felt the first nibbles of his fish at the bait.

Imam al-Fakr motioned to sit across from him. The militiamen stayed a respectful distance away, ready in a split-second to lay down their lives in defense of their leader. Demetrius placed his palm on his heart then to his forehead, the traditional gesture of greeting, returned somewhat reluctantly by the imam, who stared nakedly for a long moment then averted his focus to over Demetrius’s shoulder before speaking.

“The heat of the day finally subsides. Perhaps Allah will bless us with rain to wipe away the dust.”

“Only the Prophet, peace be unto him, knows the heart of the All,”

Demetrius replied, modulating his tone to show deference when mentioning the holy title, “but I could smell moisture in the wind as we entered the city. The children and mothers will be happy for the relief.”

The imam asked, “You were treated well?”

“Your men made me comfortable.”

Even if he’d been treated like an Arab in New York City after 9/11, Demetrius would refrain from criticism or complaint. The complex code of correct behavior practiced among Shiite clerics is almost impossible for outsiders to successfully navigate, but so far, Demetrius impressed Abdel al-Fakr.

The imam clapped twice to summon a teenage boy from a side room, who quickly served a tray of dates, olives and flat bread, followed by another boy carrying a simple ceramic tea service.

“Join me,” requested the imam. Another milestone.

As was the custom, first the guest filled a small plate with food. Al-Fakr motioned for the militiamen to fill their plates next. He only drank tea. Demetrius took a bite from a date followed by flat bread, and chewed slowly, relishing the sweet-salty wash in his mouth.

“I apologize if the food is not to your taste,” said the imam, “but I do not know enough about you to have properly prepared. Some say you are a Turk, others a Greek. I see a little of both.”

Demetrius took a sip of tea, in no hurry before replying. “I am a little bit of everything. I know only that I was born near Antioch and raised by monks in Cyprus before rejoining the Order.”

“A shame to be denied knowledge of one’s roots,” said the imam. “How is a tree to grow if it knows not the seed from which it came?”

“I was fortunate to have been nurtured by Spirit, with the sun of the Maker always before me,” Demetrius replied humbly.

“Fortunate indeed.” Imam al-Fakr brought the teacup to his full lips and said, “I’ve heard as much, but you are an enigma. The Kurds and the Turks seem to trust you, which would seem impossible.”

“Only after much effort and proving of myself, I assure you.”

“Perhaps it would be better to let the blood shed and get it over with. It will happen at some point. The land is washed in blood.”

“The very soil cries out: Has there not been enough?” Demetrius placed his hand to his heart, feeling the loss.

“Only God knows,” said the imam.

“True.”

The imam’s guarded stare locked on Demetrius for a long moment before again averting to the side. Suddenly he waved for the militiamen to leave the room. He waited for several minutes before continuing the conversation, vision withdrawn deep within his own head, and when he finally spoke, his voice began restrained but ended with passion.

“People say I am a violent man, I must enjoy this mantle thrust upon me. When our enemy was Saddam and the Baathists, I had no regret for my resistance. Problem was, for every one of them we eliminated, they sought revenge on ten of us, usually against innocent men only wanting to raise families. After the Americans came again and Saddam fell, we had no choice but to fight. Did our Muslim brothers the Bosnians have a choice when the Serbs were destroying towns, creating widows and orphans? The Sunnis brought this war upon themselves, and we will have our final victory!”

The imam’s face shook. He clenched his hand into a tight fist and hissed, “I did not ask for this mantle, but I have worn it well!” Demetrius held his reply until the fist uncurled.

“Allah will find you blameless, and the unfortunate circumstances of this land will serve the divine will in the end. That’s how God works, making the most of the least. We can make a peace that will spread throughout the world.”

“And next you’re going to say you can do it?” Disgust flashed across the imam’s animated face. “Do you know how many envoys and diplomats have sat like you across from me, saying, ‘trust me-trust me?’ Lies and falsehoods! I curse them from my presence like mongrel dogs!” He then deflated and stared at the back wall.

“Those men came in the name of their governments, but I come in the name of someone we both know. I dare not let the name pass my lips,” said Demetrius.

“You will most assuredly tell me, or be tossed to the outskirts of the city,” the imam threatened.

“Yes, you will know. Directly. Right now.”

Demetrius reached into his robes and pulled out a rolled up copper scroll wrapped in black cloth. The imam’s reddened eyes narrowed suspiciously at the sight of the shiny antique object.

“Read for yourself.”

Al-Fakr accepted the scroll and unrolled it flat for evaluation. At one moment manic and the next depressed, he presented a classic case of bipolar disorder. A pity, thought Demetrius, because mild psychoactive drugs could treat the symptoms ripping apart the man’s head. Western medicine presented a simple answer to a complex problem. However, the fierce Muslim cleric would never take the devil drug into his body.

“It is blank. Do you jest?” accused the influential Shiite.

“A message is coming meant only for the descendants of the Prophet, peace be unto him. Keep looking.” Demetrius felt the magical moment of the new moon’s apex about to arrive, when the light inside of the specially conductive metal scroll shined brightest.

Face twisted into a grimace, Imam al-Fakr incredulously watched the reddish copper surface. His back humped from long nights reading scripture by candlelight, the painful knots justified as ever-present thorns to bear for his devotion.

An invisible presence familiar to Demetrius reached out from the sacred mountain to communicate. The candles flickered. The air felt heavy. The imam shook his head to clear it, blinked rapidly. He latched eyes onto one spot on the scroll, facial expression heightened like a moviegoer during the climactic scene.

A slash imprinted onto the flat copper surface by an invisible hand, and another, forming the beginnings of a line of Arabic script. “By the Prophet,” the imam whispered as he stared into the surface and saw the face of his messiah staring back. His trembling hand traced the surface—more letters formed. Astonished, he felt the indentations. “The Mahdi is close,” he read. “When?”

“He will appear when we prepare the way,” replied Demetrius.

“You are His servant?”

“The one who goes before.”

“The Baptist reborn....”

Tectonic forces shifted inside the Shiite cleric; a new zeal painted his eyes. He waited for more message, but the presence withdrew and the air returned to normal.

Demetrius imagined a seed planted, taking root, and spreading through all Iraqi Shiites, following the chain of minds connected through the imam. The peacemaker sowed and another watered from afar.

“Then we must act with haste,” said Imam al-Fakr. He kissed the hand of Demetrius. “I expected you to be an infidel, but I see now that you too are disguised, like the Mahdi, and must be careful how you speak publicly. Tell me what I must do.”

“Say as little as you can for now,” Demetrius instructed. “Peace is always good. The world should let me continue proving myself. Hold your knowledge until approached privately about seeing the triangle and circle to unite all. That is the Mahdi’s sign. Helpers will appear when needed, it is foretold.”

“Should I wear it?” The fissured face of Imam al-Fakr expressed hope, doubt and fear in quick succession.

“Under your robes, but fix the image in your mind,” said Demetrius. “Imagine it as a door. You know what is on the other side.”

The Shiite cleric implored, “When? When will I meet Him?!”

“At the apex of the next new moon you will get another message. Until then, calm yourself, and nurture the connection you have made this day.” Demetrius placed his other hand on top of the imam’s and stared into the bruised eyes, absorbing the manic energy. “Be well, brother. My mission carries me forward with haste.”

News of Demetrius’s private visit traveled quickly and quietly in the Shiite community, a sign of hope to some people, possible deception to others. Didn’t matter either way as long tongues wagged and minds fixed upon hope for the Promised One. The great incarnations manifest on Earth when enough voices join in the summoning, motivated by more than hope or need, but by burning desire. One voice at a time adds to the chorus until the cosmic scale tips.

God is ‘there’ to act directly on human events but is not a personality. It is Principle activated by Mind, connected to the human mind, and does not for that reason respond to the bleating of sheep or cackle of hyenas, but only to the pure and impassioned pleadings of the human heart. Otherwise, ultimately, why have such feelings in the human repertoire?

In case of emergency, break one-way mirror between matter and spirit to activate the Savior Switch. Heaven can always spit out another to crucify, or save humanity, whichever comes first.

Chapter 34

Akbar hallucinated that he saw a familiar face from Mt. Nemrut hovering disembodied in the dreaded dark of his dank prison with carpet stained by the blood of previous occupants. He turned the other direction and the faintly glowing face still confronted him. It spoke volumes with its silence at the villager’s rants.

The muffled quiet interrupted twice a day when a guard brought water and bread, sometimes weak tea and a meager portion of lamb meat. His captor, the imposing Iraqi father with a manly mustache and bulbous chin, tried to engage in conversation, but Akbar became dumb when the topic switched to what he had witnessed at the mountain.

During his saner moments as a free man, he had wondered if his notoriety might come back to haunt him. And he wondered repeatedly during the long hours of solitude, why hadn’t he been protected from being kidnapped? His thoughts returning to the first dawn when the spirit dramatically revealed itself.

The glowing face had lied. Surety turned to confusion and slowly coagulated into the cold feeling of betrayal. The ordeal became less about the momentous events of that first dawn, and more about himself.

A variety of guards rotated duties. Akbar gradually discerned two regulars: a thin-limbed young man who smelled of motor oil and sighed often; and, to the captive’s surprise, a distinctly sad-eyed teenage female. He guessed so many men had died in Iraq, women were performing some of their roles. He tried to speak, but they avoided making eye contact during food deliveries—all but the father—and exited. He had the feeling that they didn’t want to form any sort of relationship in case they had to kill him. No sympathy for the enemy.

All sense of time fled, and gradually so did his sense of reality. Phantasms kept ghostly company. At times he felt a sympathetic presence in the tiny room, as if apologizing for the new living arrangement. Akbar combed over the circumstances of his capture and discerned no logical reason except the notoriety of his face published by his cousin, Yousef. His captor had informed him as much, followed by more questions about the fateful dawn, and more silence in response. The secret of what he witnessed still safe, Akbar’s guilty conscience wondered if he had been too hard on Abby. New wealth had clouded the villager’s thinking, but in his mind it did not add up to karmic balance by kidnapping. The circumstances had grown larger than he could handle. Perhaps the bill had come due. He felt reproved by ringing in his left ear for missing the obvious. Was he even supposed to be keeping the secret?

“Yeah, well, you should have thought about that before picking me for the job,” he replied defiantly. “You and I, brothers in arms, infiltrated Iraq. Working from the inside—so inside we’re underground! Really holding up your end of the bargain. What did you say? You’ll have to speak human words; the images are vague. Are you trying to say I have no right to complain? If anyone has a right to complain,” his voice rose to an enraged shout in the room designed to muffle sound, “IT’S ME!!!”

Unknown to Akbar, a small microphone hidden in the ceiling clearly recorded his ranting and fed it upstairs. Three men listened a day later: the Iraqi father Akbar knew as his captor, a Sunni clan chief; a politician with a hooked nose and a bird-like, predatory face, a member of the Sunni bloc in the Iraqi parliament; and a former Fedayeen warrior under Saddam Hussein, a senior commander of the Sunni insurgency. He appeared serious, battle-hardened.

“This is the part here.” The clan chief held up his hand for the other two men to listen to Akbar’s recorded rant. “He says: ‘I thought you were supposed to be God.’”

“Who is he talking to?” asked the hook-nosed politician.

“He’s lost his mind,” the military man mocked.

“I know his whole life story,” said Akbar’s captor. “He teeters at times, but has no guile. His mind is present. He’ll tell us what we need to know.”

“Sunni?”

“Yes, a Turk. You knew that. It’s why we chose him.”

“Can we trust a half-wit to tell us Allah’s will?” The politician knew a lot of people who claimed to speak for God, none correctly.

“He saw something.” The clan chief’s simple statement meant a lot in a country where bodies regularly lay uncollected. “He lives near the mountain where this peace comes from. It is in Sunni lands. That means he is one of us.”

“People see things all the time,” said the insurgency commander. “My little cousin says he saw a UFO last week. I told him it must have been an American spy plane.”

Akbar’s captor turned deadly serious.

“Listen! I feel al-Muntazar could be reaching out to us from the mountain in Turkey, strange as it sounds. The scriptures say he will come disguised. We were led to a Sunni who knows if now is the time to make peace and prepare the way. You trusted me with this task, and this is what I report. Call together the Awakening Council. We can wait no longer.”

Umar al-Dulaini—clan leader, resistance fighter, devoted believer in al-Muntazar, the Sunni Redeemer—led Akbar out of the underground cell. The captive acted like a shy, thirsty animal given a bowl of water. Daylight pierced his eyes, legs wobbly from disuse. Al-Dulaini tugged at his elbow and encouraged him forward.

This is how they do it before you die, all smiles and friendly, Akbar expected. Then a concrete room and a man with a pistol: lights out. He would not be able to face possible execution, except for the bond of trust he’d established with his captor.

The older man became a sort of father figure during the long “conversations” which were really interrogations. Akbar knew what the oblique Iraqi wanted. Disclosure produced a conundrum. Akbar no longer desired to do the bidding of his mountaintop nemesis, but suspected that cooperation was his only way out. Somehow he had to break free of the poltergeist’s grip, made a lot easier with a bullet.

Akbar followed al-Dulaini to the end of a hallway at the back of the house, to a small room. The captive almost collapsed before entering. Instead of an executioner’s chamber, a washroom with high windows streaming sunlight welcomed Akbar. In the center, a stand-alone bathtub brimmed with soap suds. A woman covered by a black hijab, revealing only her nervous eyes, quickly exited—not a gun in sight.

“I’d rather be dirty,” Akbar refused. “It is a sign of my conviction.”

“Special visitors today.”

“My executioner?”

Al-Dulaini placed a reassuring hand on Akbar’s shoulder and said, “We would not go through the trouble of cleaning you first in my family tub.”

“I smell like I feel,” Akbar refused.

Dulaini frowned. Men in his captivity usually begged just for a drink of water before the bullet, and this one only faced freedom. He pointed to the tub, face darkened. No games today.

“Wash.”

Half-hour later, Akbar emerged wearing loose black robes and sandals left for him, face shaved clean and worn red. Beneath the robes his body also bore marks of vigorous scrubbing. Once he grasped the coarse soap in hand, he thought of himself as a snake shedding its skin; he would scrub off his old self, allowing the new one to emerge.

Al-Dulaini evaluated him. Akbar’s eyes had changed during captivity. Men often lose their fear after a few weeks, but this one had not even been tortured—except by isolation. Everyone knows a person will say anything to stop pain and deprivation. Unnecessary with the honest-faced Turk. Akbar kept his secrets for other reasons, and only his true and voluntary revealing would reunite the Sunni clansman’s fractured people. One longed for the days of Saddam, when at least stability reigned.

As Sunnis, the Dulaini clan had benefited from Hussein’s rule, but in return they danced with a devil, like the industrialists who grew rich in Nazi Germany, factories bombed to dust by the end. A price would be paid, and as the Sunnis had found out in the aftermath of Saddam’s fall, the retribution was eye for eye and tooth for tooth.

Umar al-Dulaini lost more members of his family to Shiite death squads and trigger-happy Americans than he cared to count. Neighborhoods where children once played lay desolate, whole families executed in tit-for-tat blood sport of ethnic cleansing. The entire upper and educated classes had either fled or been forced out by threat or bullet.

Buried beneath the mountain of gore, the lion’s heart of the Iraqi people beat hot with the blood of the Babylonian war god Tiamat, the spirit of chaos and death for the sake of death and chaos. The Shiite cleric Abdel al-Fakr’s gesture for the peace mediation of Demetrius arrived secretly as a messenger, because to do so in the open meant certain death for all involved. Al-Dulaini would have thought the gesture a way to lure him into a trap, if not for a recent incident.

While attending afternoon prayers he gazed up at the familiar crescent of Islam, and before his eyes it morphed into a silvery snake contorted into a loop. He blinked, wiped sweat from his brow, looked again and beheld a circle and triangle together. Surely mosque protectors would prevent the sacred crescent from being profaned, but the other worshipers were oblivious.

Al-Dulaini closed his eyes and still saw the sign burned onto his mind’s eye like a sunspot, and for the next several days it appeared as graffiti on walls, carvings on wood, etchings in sand. At first he thought he was losing his mind.

Then he understood: al-Muntazar, also known as the Mahdi, reached out to him. The Redeemer’s return was imminent, and events at Mt. Nemrut a sign as Demetrius proclaimed, who suggested Akbar, a Sunni Muslim, as evidence that their day had come. Then he had doubts.

When the holy words first fell from the Prophet Mohamed’s lips, he suspected deception, and struggled mightily before finally submitting to Allah’s will. Al-Dulaini dared not compare himself to the Prophet, but he recognized the similarity of their circumstances.

Finally, after much soul-searching, influenced by his conversations with Akbar, he reached the conclusion that—like the Prophet—he dared not disobey. A secret hope bloomed in his heart, which had almost completely calloused over from ethnic conflict. After a long war of unimaginable consequence, his people were willing to listen to the priestly peacemaker, Demetrius. The time arrived to find out if their hope for peace was to be realized.

Al-Dulaini waited patiently as Akbar ate and the Sunni Awakening Council arrived under the heaviest security they could muster for a meeting of the most influential Sunnis still alive and breathing in Iraq. The clansman gave Akbar time to enjoy a cup of coffee, then led him by the arm into a windowless inner room of the large house.

A dozen men sat on fat pillows beneath a wobbly ceiling fan on one side, among them the insurgency commander and the hook-nosed politician. A video recorder on a tripod sat on the middle of the floor, pointed toward a bare back wall. Al-Dulaini directed Akbar to sit on a stool in front of it, and waited for silence. He then spoke over a generator groaning noisily outside the house.

“This man, a Sunni Turk, was present the day the mountain of Nemrut is said to have awakened. I’m told he witnessed something miraculous, but he has kept his secrets. If we are to trust Demetrius, everything must come into the open today. He himself is not permitted to explicitly name the one he represents; we have to figure it out for ourselves. Our Sunni brother, Akbar, will tell us what we need to know. You have seen his face in the newspapers, and you know he was there when the mountain revealed itself. His Arabic is limited. I will translate from English for those of you who don’t speak it.”

Al-Dulaini motioned for a man to start recording, and said to Akbar, “These men will hear you describe what you witnessed on the mountain of Nemrut. My people must know what to expect. You are one of us, a Sunni, and we are your extended family. Give us your counsel on this most important matter.”

Akbar ignored everyone else—the harsh, evaluating eyes and dark faces—and focused on his trusted captor. The villager felt small, powerless. What had the right to take him away from his home, strip him of his innocence, and offer him up like a sacrifice? Time to break free.

“Before dawn that first morning last summer, I had a dream that a mighty voice told me: Come to where we can speak. I went to the mountain sanctuary, where I’d been many times before as a guide for tourists. There I saw something amazing. The statue came alive, shining bright. It said, “I have come to stop the wars and unite all peoples. Behold my glory!””

Akbar figured the better his story, the more likely his release. But as quickly as the thought came to him followed another: Did he want to see that face again in person? He became intensely aware of the camera’s glass eye recording his every word and gesture.

Al-Dulaini translated, finished and waited. Akbar remembered the morning when he returned home, and how Abby had pestered him into exploding. Turbulent emotions stirred a tear. Al-Dulaini saw grief and sincerity mixed with awe on Akbar’s face. So did everyone else.

The long arm of the mountain moved the pieces of the great game. Akbar no longer cared if he rotted in a cell, his life was no longer his own, therefore worthless, pride wounded beyond repair. He said, “Go to Nemrut and ask for yourself. I’m tired of being its voice.”

The Arab men talked among themselves. They might have believed, judging by the tone, but Akbar only knew a few words of Arabic. The group quieted and al-Dulaini addressed him.

“You say the statue spoke to you. How?”

“I heard it in mind as easily as I hear you.”

“Is it a golem?” The unfamiliar word stuck in the Iraqi’s throat.

“A what?” Akbar frowned seriously.

“A statue come to life?”

The question forced him to flashback to the dawn his life changed—the blinding light and the message it delivered.

“I don’t know how to say it. Think of a puppet. Just a thing with no life, but put your hand inside and it appears alive. Speak and it appears to speak. This puppet remembers its master’s hand.”

Al-Dulaini translated; the Sunni men discussed briefly. He then voiced their collective question.

“Whose hand controls the puppet?”

Akbar’s stomach knotted. He had always wanted to do something completely for himself and himself only, to leave behind the dutiful older brother mantle. No better time than the present.

“Up in the mountains we tell stories that the tallest peaks are children of God, slumbering since the creation of the world. You ask what I think, one of those children no longer sleeps.”

What the hell, he decided. Tell them what they want to hear.

“It’s the Second Coming.”

Voices erupted and conversation fired back and forth. Arms raised to the roof in vigorous defense of the arguments that erupted. Finally, al-Dulaini directed Akbar to place his hand on a Koran. All mouths quieted.

“Do you believe in Allah and his Prophet, Mohamed?”

“Yes,” Akbar answered.

“And what you say is true, you swear?”

“It is how I remember it.” More or less, Akbar added in his mind.

“Were you told a name?”

The Turkish villager looked at the camera, realizing his words would soon be heard around the world, his face forever associated with the story. The feeling stuck in his throat. He had to swallow hard before air would fill his lungs sufficiently to speak above a mouse squeak. Then he heard a familiar voice in his left ear whisper a suggestion on what to say, so he did.

“It is a name we all know in our hearts.”

Umar al-Dulaini asked for an answer to the prophetic signs in his life. He’d heard enough. He sent away the villager.

Akbar was free in the sense of no longer captive, but a small army of men surrounded the house, seen through the windows, so he didn’t push his luck by trying to leave. Where would he go?

He wandered into the kitchen instead and sat down at a small wooden table, alone. A burst of machine gun fire in the distance reverberated in his bowels. The shattered land spoke to him. Something inside came alive again. A thought arose of what he could do for himself to break free.

The Council members departed and al-Dulaini flopped down heavily next to Akbar, ran his hands over his face and said, “Today you go free. I will arrange for you to get home. You deserve to know why you were brought here.”

“I know.”

“You do? I guess you could figure it out.”

“What did you and our clan leaders decide?”

“We will give Demetrius a chance.” The coming of the Sunni Redeemer meant peace or a setup for final victory. Either way, they prepared in haste for the arrival. The Iraqi started to rise from the table but hesitated. “You don’t look happy.”

“I want to stay here,” said Akbar.

“You what! Why?”

“You need me to tell my story to others.”

“The video camera will do fine.”

“I speak good English. You can use me. Let me help.”

“We could use more men,” Dulaini knew well, after all the killing. “But why? You just spent months in my basement, the last occupant. The holding cell will be bricked up.”

Akbar replied, “That is my business. We’re Sunnis, right?”

“Yes, but people die every day in this land for no good reason,” the Iraqi warned.

“That happens everywhere. My parents died when a bus fell off the side of a mountain. One minute they were enjoying the ride, next they were gone.”

Perhaps by immolating himself in a land of death and grief, Akbar could hide from the guilt gnawing at his heart, largely forgotten until the long months in solitude and the interrogative questions about his life and his parents. They would still be alive if not for him....

Al-Dulaini rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“So?” Akbar asked for a decision.

“I will think about it.”

But the clansman had already made up his mind. He had to figure out where to keep the new member of his household. And how to keep it secret.

Chapter 35

Professor Marc Reynolds adjusted to his new notoriety on campus, even enjoyed it. Popularity has its perks.

In the small world of American University, within the big world of the U.S. Capitol, the media attention made him famous, and the goodies flowed. An academic paper he had coauthored, suddenly accepted for publication, had been booted around for a year looking for a home. His latest paper was ready for peer review, practically guaranteed publication in a top journal. University officials tripped over themselves to rush through his tenure. And a generous donor anonymously provided a grant to pay for years of research. The professor felt more like a rock star.

Most pleasing was his new girlfriend, Evelyn. A former graduate student from his department, she worked with the U.S. Geological Survey, and her job entailed frequent trips to Washington. While in town she dropped by his office to say thanks for the glowing reference letter that helped land her the job.

Marc could only think how lucky he was to lay eyes again on her French-Peruvian mixed features, hair like topsoil streaked with sandy wisps, sensual mouth, hazel eyes flecked with milk chocolate, strong body. And, he found out on their third date, a sexual appetite like a female Hugh Hefner. Smart, composed, cultured, funny, low-maintenance—Marc’s new girlfriend enjoyed dark beer, hot chicken wings and hockey night at The Greene Room—the local hockey fan hangout—as much as he did.

The kicker: Evelyn was highly selective about her men, and unlike Hef, monogamous. That touch of innocence iced the deal. Marc fell for her already, but knowing the game he acted accustomed to the adoration of prized women. Her toothbrush had its own slot next to his.

Even the name rang perfectly with a touch of class: “Evelyn.” That morning she’d departed after a stay-over. Marc didn’t even have to drive her to the airport. Still fresh in mind as he strutted across campus, he remembered her on top looking down—grinding her Latino hips, hair hanging over her face, smoldering eyes urging toward orgasm, body shudders and little moans. Her climax crashed, a wave higher and louder. First a breath-taker, then two quick ones, then a massive surge, ending with his explosion inside of her for thirty seconds of pure bliss. A few moments of cuddling followed before she showered and left.

Perfect.

Students enthusiastically greeted the dashing professor. Colleagues nodded enviously. The world smiled and Marc cocked a grin in return. He did not understand the hoopla about the statue or the mystery priests, and could care less. People were free to believe anything as long as his charmed life remained uninterrupted. Marc remembered an old expression about looking a gift horse in the mouth. When horses were used like cars, looking at the teeth was the best quick indicator of health. He supposed the updated version of the expression might be: never look a gift car under the hood. Not while the giver is around, at least.

And pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Marc’s state of semi-distraction when he entered the lecture room kept him from noticing the writing on the chalkboard and the fine haze of white dust hanging in the air. He gave a dynamic lecture as usual with video slides, to keep attention as much as possible in the wireless age. Of course, with his face all over the news programs holding forth on any question asked by the curious and rather dense interviewers, he didn’t have to try as hard. He knew the student lifestyle. It was one thing to interest them enough to come to class, and another to keep them awake and focused while there.

Professor Reynolds finished the lecture with ten minutes to spare at the end for questions about the impending final exam. He opened the floor for questions. The array of student faces stared back at him, unusually subdued.

“Come on,” he cajoled, “aren’t you a bunch of overachievers? Someone must be curious about the exam.”

A student in the back, the girl with raspberry streaks in her hair on the first day, now all blond, raised her hand.

“Yes?” Marc said.

“Does that phrase on the board have anything to do with the final?” Marc looked behind him. Scrawled across the little-used portable chalkboard in heavy white block lettering:

THE DEVIL SENDS THE BEAST WITH WRATH FOR HE KNOWS THE TIME IS SHORT

Rather childish lettering, noticed Marc, though he had seen worse from some professors. “I suppose it’s from a previous class,” he said. “Didn’t know we still use chalkboards around here.”

He grabbed an eraser, about to wipe away the cryptic message. A male student spoke to his back.

“That’s from an Iron Maiden song, Number of the Beast.”

Marc stopped, eraser in hand, and reread the passage. Iron Maiden—what a blast from the past. Closer to his generation, but heavy metal was never his taste in music. He felt lightheaded.

“It’s Revelation 13,” said Ryan, the ROTC student. “I don’t think they teach that here.”

Marc lowered the eraser and saw a strange white haze suspended in the air. He thought it might be chalk dust, but noticed it spread around the entire room, catching the light. “Revelation—is that from the Bible?” he asked, alarm rising.

“I can quote you the rest. Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of—”

“That’s not necessary.”

Suddenly very concerned but not knowing exactly why, except that some small voice had said there could be a price to pay for his good fortune—a voice previously ignored—Marc suddenly remembered some of the interviews he’d given, how he’d belittled the new religion from Mt. Nemrut. Belittled all religions. Regardless of what the professor knew or not, he took a scientific point of view. When interviewers asked about the mystical side of the Nemrut story, Marc all but accused anyone who disagreed of being crackheads. The risen statue was a ploy to get attention, and it worked, he said, influenced by the desire to publicly distance himself.

His loquacious sarcasm all at once felt like canines sunk into his ass. He had messed with the wrong people. It was one thing to spite that distant and probably unreal entity—“God”—and quite another to mess with something he knew to be carnal. Damn!

“That’s all for today,” he blurted to the class. “See you for the final.”

“I have a question,” said a student.

“E-mail me. Now please exit.”

Marc tried to hide his concern. The powdery haze hung ash-like, and it was everywhere. He assumed it must be construction dust, but no major construction was going on anywhere he knew of in the building. He could think of no other plausible reason until he remembered reading a journal article about weaponizing anthrax. It fascinated the professor. The deadly spores could be chemically bonded to lightweight particles and spread as an aerosol to hang in the air, waiting to infest passing nostrils.

Marc called Jim Martin and explained his strange suspicion. The head of the department discreetly shut the classroom. After eliminating other possibilities, and being D.C., the authorities responded quickly. An FBI team swabbed the room and tested with field-kits. Then all hell broke loose.

Folks in Hazmat suits took over, the campus evacuated. Marc wanted to call Evelyn but was told no contact with the outside world. His phone buzzed incessantly. Media people pounced.

Wearing blue medical scrubs, a woman from Centers for Disease Control informed them of the bad news. “It’s anthrax. We’ll have to do more testing, but it appears weapons-grade. Fortunately, exposure is easily treated when caught early.”

“You think I’ve been exposed?” Marc cried out, alarmed. His worst germ nightmare come true. Jim Martin rubbed his forehead and sighed.

“It’s almost certain,” she answered.

“And my students?”

“They’ll be treated. You should be happy. By recognizing the danger, you’ve prevented a catastrophe,” she pointed out. “But there are some questions.”

“Ask.” Marc opened his hands from his hips.

“I’m an analyst, not an investigator. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Professor Martin asked, “What about the campus?”

“With all the traffic in this building and how easily this stuff spreads, I’d say that Winter Break has come early. That’s not my decision,” said the analyst. “Hold tight until Homeland Security arrives.”

How a Bible scripture raised Marc’s suspicions perplexed the agents who, like Marc, saw no connection. Except himself. Explaining the hunch only led to more questions about the professor’s trips to Turkey. Soon the Secret Service got involved, followed by the CIA.

Marc revealed as little as possible for as long as he could, but after agents mentioned Evelyn, and that anything less than full cooperation would be considered obstruction (“Five years in a federal penitentiary, Mr. Reynolds. Think about it.”), Marc told the whole story best he could remember about the discovery underneath Mt. Nemrut. He recounted the summers of research, Darianna’s amazing transformation, and the Turkish colonel who had accompanied them.

The news about Colonel Muhammed sent a special agent rushing from the interrogation room. Marc had no idea where he was, except in a secure, nondescript federal building. Only later did he learn the colonel’s ultimate fate. The professor answered the same questions until the agents finally concluded they’d sucked him dry of information. Another anthrax attack in Washington....

The broadcast networks went bonkers. The American president made a statement promising to punish the perpetrators, but with no leads, the prospects for a quick arrest were pithy. Peter phoned during the second day of Marc’s interrogation and caught him alone in the cafeteria. Homeland Security gladly listened in.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, “I hope it has nothing to do with him.”

“Him?” questioned Marc.

“Them, I mean.”

“Them?!”

Peter’s voice crackled, but Marc thought he heard, “It’s going to astonish the world.”

Marc scanned the cafeteria to see if anyone listened and realized he talked on a radio transmitter. His anger rose from frustration at hours of grilling about every area of his life, personal life included. It was amazing what the agents knew, and they relished mentioning any dirty laundry, like Marc’s previous sexual encounters with students.

“Fuck, Pete, what have you gotten me into? You don’t mess with shit you’re not sure about. What do I do?”

“Just tell the truth,” Peter said unconvincingly from half a world away. “You don’t really know anything after taking that bump on the head, and it’s better that way. I haven’t been told how to handle this sort of situation. You don’t deserve to have your career hindered.”

“You’re damn right! I’m weeks from tenure, probably back to years again if I can get a job at all. I’ve got security creeps crawling up my ass. Do you know the average intelligence level of these goons?”

“I hope this misfortune turns around and works for you. You’ve been a good friend and colleague.”

Marc flipped closed the phone, poked at a half-eaten cheeseburger and pile of fries, pushed it away and left determined to sleep in his own bed.

When he finally arrived home late that night, little did he know, agents had conducted a sneak ‘n peak. They found his porn collection interesting for its preponderance of college girls and miniskirts, but nothing else to raise suspicion. Evelyn left a message while he showered, told him to hang in there and wait until she called again. She had been assigned to a job in Alaska, way out of wireless range.

Everything is falling apart, he thought.

After taking the horse pills the doctors called antibiotics, Marc lay in bed and wondered how his life became such a mess so quickly. His last thought was what could astonish the world—like Peter foreshadowed—any more than the story out of Turkey. Which the professor had come to feel ambiguous about, to say the least.

By morning, he felt sure as the sunrise that the thought warning him about the anthrax had come from somewhere other than his own mind. Until he could return to Mt. Nemrut and demand answers from someone who would know—Darianna!—he had to live with the cold fact that the power there could reach out and touch him anytime, anywhere, even to save his ass.

The wisdom of being more respectful in the face of real power penetrated his thick skull, some swagger lost on the altar of maturity. Marc Reynolds learned an important lesson the hard way.

Chapter 36

Jeremiah Fallin wore a path in the thick carpet in front of a muted plasma television mounted to the back wall of his office, four cable news networks displayed simultaneously. Under his breath he prayed:

“Hallelujah the Lord is great. The Lord is mighty. The hand of the Lord is strong. The sinners fall before thy terrible rod, hallelujah.”

Framed photographs formed a rapt congregation staring back from the walls: presidents, foreign dignitaries, ministers of state, Dolly Parton, Charlton Heston, all of the personages having obsolescence in common. The world had passed by the old-time preacher from the hill country of North Carolina, raised in a one-room shack, disciplined regularly by a retired Marine, nurtured by a classic southern mother who insisted that her pudgy youngest boy be raised in the house of the Lord. Patriotic, working class, die-hard Republicans from Dixie. Oh Momma, look at your youngest now!

The reverend remembered the early days pacing in front of small congregations while working into a frenzy, long before the hippies and the druggies, the gays and MTV. He kept repeating the Word until the Holy Spirit touched his constantly moving lips and brought forth soaring oratory that made Jeremiah Fallin a household name and spiritual counselor to powerful people. Keep the mouth moving, praising and beseeching—praising and beseeching and groaning. Clap those hands!

Yes, the ecstasy of the Lord descended from heaven and inhabited his doughy flesh, tongue loosed: “And the Lord came and smote the Edomites! And the Lord smote the Sodomites-ah! And the Lord created a kingdom on Earth-ah, and sent His only begotten so that ALL could have eternal life! Accept HIM and be washed in the blood-duh. Accept Jeeezus into your heart and be changed forever, hallelujah!”

Far back as he could remember, Jeremiah had mesmerized audiences, climaxing with an altar call and the joy of accepting new souls for Jesus.

“Reverend.” Roger Ecksby nodded toward the television. Fallin searched the remote for the mute button. CNN broke the story first, even though the ministry had sent word to FOX through the grapevine to keep an eye on one professor Marc Reynolds at American University. The Mighty Hand had struck.

A blond female correspondent stood on a campus lawn and began her report as Reverend Fallin mashed buttons. The sound came on with French subtitles.

“...have not confirmed the rumors, but a source tells CNN the attack is anthrax left in a classroom. That’s right, another anthrax attack in the nation’s Capitol, this time at a prestigious university.”

The reverend felt an odd beat of his heart—and another—and dropped the remote. Searing pain knifed into his chest, vision turned black. He regained consciousness when Roger Ecksby poured a glass of water on his face.

“Oh thank God!” the Nazarite shouted with relief. “I thought you had a heart attack. A bitter loss indeed during our hour of glory.”

Jeremiah looked like a man who staggers home piss drunk and crawls into bed, and awakens in a neighbor’s home with a shotgun pointed in his face. He rolled unsteadily off the floor. On the television, the correspondent poured on the drama, less than a minute gone by:

“...As you can see behind me, FBI and Homeland Security have swooped down and quarantined the campus, a massive undertaking with emergency response machinery kicking into action. We’re still waiting for official response from the White House.”

The anchor soberly interrupted.

“We’re now getting word that the attack targeted the classroom of junior professor Marc Reynolds, a geophysicist who made news this summer for being part of the excavation team at Mt. Nemrut in Turkey. Demetrius, the head of an ancient spiritual order known as The Way, appeared soon after, and sure enough, Turkey pulled back from invading Kurdistan. The peace efforts have spread into Iraq, raising expectations that the mysterious mountain priest can follow through on his promises. It would appear that someone is not happy with the turn of events....”

Jeremiah shut off the television, dropped into the big chair behind his big desk and stared at the ceiling tiles. His chest ached. “Reverend?” Roger Ecksby followed close behind. “Are you all right? I didn’t know what else to do.”

He wiped water off the front of his electric-blue dress shirt and asked somberly, “What did you do, Roger, what did you do?”

“W-We have struck at the Beast,” said Roger, his voice rising. “The Nazarites carried out our command, the command of the Lord!”

“Anthrax? We’re dead ducks. Did you know this is what they meant to do?”

Roger saw his leader losing faith, the deadliest sin of all. Those who lose faith in the end run the whole race only to falter at the finish, denied entry to Heaven, he believed. Only the most deserving workers were granted immortality. Eternal fires await the rest.

“I told them to expose the Beast. They saw the mark. We were the sign they waited for.” Roger grabbed the reverend by the shoulders, his simple black tie hanging in the sitting man’s face. “It is the will of the Lord, don’t you see that?”

Reverend Fallin saw the list of charges: conspiracy, terrorism, attempted murder with a weapon of mass destruction.

“We’re covered. These are J.C.’s own warriors,” said Roger. “The message they left will be transmitted around the world.”

“What message?”

“Revelation, chapter 13.”

“The Devil sends the Beast with wrath for He knows the time is short,” Roger and Reverend Fallin recited together.

“It is a human number. You said so yourself many times,” Roger reminded.

Indeed, the reverend had. That’s how we’ll be exposed, he thought. So be it. The Apostle Paul could have detoured from his execution in Rome; instead he bravely faced death in the name of his Lord.

“Remember John’s passage foreseeing the head of the Beast, wounded unto death but healed by the Devil’s miracle. Then look at the television and see it risen again on that cursed mountain. The passage is appropriate, because the words come true as we speak. Good Christians will see the danger.”

“We must call together the staff,” urged Roger, “to speak to the public. You should be on the air before the evening news cycle. People are going to ask why Christians should oppose Demetrius and his false beliefs. The Nazarites kept their end, now we must do ours.”

The reverend rubbed his chest over his heart. Next time, it was unlikely to restart on its own. In the face of mortal fear he drew upon his life experience and fell back on his point of strength: the tacit belief that he could do no wrong while serving the Lord, amen.

“We’re leading God’s Army, Roger. Do you feel his angels around us?”

Roger Ecksby felt something.

“Onward Christian soldiers, sir."

Later that night, Reverend Fallin lay in bed in a separate room from his wife, his snoring too loud for her. His phone vibrated on the nightstand at an hour long after he should have been asleep. Only one person would call at that hour. He didn’t even say hello before Roger’s voice shattered the silence:

“It wasn’t the Nazarites.”

Jeremiah sat up and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Someone else took over the operation. It came from the top, the big white house. They heard our message.”

“What? How?”

“The water is black. We’re speaking on open phones,” Roger’s voice warned from the tiny phone speaker.

The reverend worked over the information in his mind. “We don’t have anything to worry about, just don’t use names.”

“Emergency services in D.C. were already activated before the first report. They just happened to be drilling this morning for a biological attack.”

“That could be a coincidence,” conjectured the reverend.

“Better chance of winning the lottery twice. Praise the Lord, my friends in Alabama had something else in mind. Rest assured, we’ve been heard. This government won’t be seduced by charlatans.”

Reverend Fallin found himself impressed by Roger’s diction. His personal secretary might someday have a role in front of the camera. Soon after the conversation ended, Jeremiah fell sound asleep, visions dancing in his head of angels pouring vials of powdery white toxin on deserving sinners.

Chapter 37

Alive and well after the traumatic birth of Antiochus, Darianna sat on the Throne deep under Mt. Nemrut, her infant cradled in fuzzy purple cloth in her lap. She studied every inch of the one who called her out of ignorance to join him at the pinnacle of existence. Healing energy flowed up her spine, two snakes racing to the top, where her mind transferred the energy to Antiochus’s tender flesh. Every ordinary morsel turned to gold.

From the big blue eyes staring up at Darianna, a hint showed of the immeasurable intelligence contained within, shrouded in mystery. The essence of Antiochus resided in her lap, the fate of the great spirit and the precarious flesh interdependent. Above mother and child remained the rest of his spirit to be fused with the flesh, a dancing shadow at the peak of the silver pyramid.

He yearned to make the little limbs obey his command—to walk on feet, speak with tongue, feel with hands—and explained, until Darianna fully understood what existence is like away from the flesh, she’d never comprehend why spirit yearns to experience the brutal, short, cruel existence that characterizes many lives. Because the soul remembers the Garden and still seeks its pleasures.

Baby Antiochus reached up a tiny finger and touched Darianna’s forehead. She understood, no telepathic explanation needed: Awaken the mind’s eye, see from it, and allow it to rule.

The point warmed where he touched, spread into the bone, outward around her skull. She saw inside his master vision. More people were to awaken similarly, touched by the same power—awaken and find within themselves the resources to accomplish miracles. She saw their precious lives like weights on a cosmic scale, the mass of ordinary humanity on the other end, badly lopsided but reversing its previous trend.

Then all at once, the true genius of Antiochus’s vision struck her. Once the scale reached the tipping point, a species-wide, instantaneous change: mass awakening: transcendence: the beginning of the Age of Intention. Otherwise, as previously had happened: extinction.

Humanity would evolve in one mass leap, or perish.

Desperate times breed desperate measures. Pain and misfortune impel humans to seek better answers. Wishes do not pry open the inner eye, Darianna learned from her own experience long before she knew of Antiochus. Awakening is a process, the time and result dependent upon the ego’s ability to sustain transformative space. Most egos see no need to rise higher when the status quo benefits just fine. Other people answer the call out of trauma, seeking the way within if outer experience frustrates development.

The energetic images released from the archetypal mind can be overwhelming, and the few souls naturally attracted to the disciplines and teachings containing knowledge of the road to enlightenment face perils of ostracism, incomprehension, and ego inflation. Cult leaders and charlatans begin with the same special spark that produces saints and visionaries. For most people who touch on the deepest human experiences by dint of effort and leap of inspiration, transcendence becomes less about the incredible power accessed, and more about the individual. They find the Grail inside and forget whom it serves. So characterizes the Age of Iron.

Antiochus curled his little forefinger with Darianna’s. In seconds which could have been hours, she understood the complete thought. Another door of his limitless mind opened for her to share the vision, sure as the scars of the C-section already fading, almost vanished, that had opened for the rebirth of his human vessel. Sure as the spark of genius she saw in the baby pupils staring up from her lap.

Every day he advanced closer to the moment when spirit fully fused with matter, unleashing his full potential. Even his great Eye was blind to everything he could become.

Darianna foresaw multicolor light penetrating every dark hollow.

Chapter 38

The priest Aggememnon, naked and sweating profusely, ladled water to his mouth and poured the remainder onto hot sauna rocks, creating a loud hiss. The liquid instantly turned to steam, adding a smidgen of moisture to the dry heat of the cedar wood sauna, far in back of the Order of Three’s headquarters located at the base of a snow-capped Turkish mountain range. A peak to the south still hid the sign of the Second Coming beneath winter’s blanket; however, the old priest conjured an early thaw for Mt. Nemrut.

The powerful magic required depth of knowledge which Yousef, also naked and sweating buckets, could barely fathom. He imagined Aggememnon transferring the heat of the sauna to the sacred mountain, maintaining the same thought, feeling it with every sense, and knowing with certainty that the desired result had already been produced. Not even sleep disrupted the fearsome concentration.

The gargantuan gears of the planet responded with a blast of dry desert air up from southern Syria, the young priest Cipheus casually told Yousef over a breakfast of fresh eggs and hot grains. Clear mountain passes in a few weeks meant an early beginning to the visiting season. Yousef’s testing would begin. Now.

Ten minutes of deep breathing relaxed muscles and mind as the initiate pictured a continuous stream of light pouring into his head. It flowed through his body and surrounded him in a bubble—circulating, invigorating, focusing. He sustained the meditation image, fully lucid but disconnected from the nagging senses of the body. After nearly a half-year of practice, he no longer struggled like the first few months, when the lessons felt impossible to grasp.

Cipheus refined his student to compress years of teaching into months. Wisdom and insight comes to the calm mind, and a calm mind is an empty one—empty of discord and distraction, a place inside difficult at first to reach. Beneath the clutter is wisdom, guidance, insight, the young priest taught.

Yousef’s mind rebelled in the dry, quiet heat, but every day he took the teaching further. He considered himself a rather rough lump to begin with, but that reason and others made him valuable to the Order: If he could learn, anyone could. And better, he could explain in the ordinary language of personal experience.

Yousef’s purpose had another layer as photographer and archivist during the cold months, assembling a book to tell the story of the Order and its ancient wisdom. His publisher was only happy to accept the change of focus. Pre-publication hype promised a best-seller. Yousef figured, at least he’d done something valuable, even if the mental strength and acumen of his teachers far surpassed his own.

Aggememnon lowered himself on a white towel, planted his palms onto the hot wood between his legs, and lifted his hips to balance his body over his hands, legs pointed straight forward. Cipheus imitated, his early teen body responding with strong and agile movements, muscles strained with intense use, but his facial expression, like Aggememnon, showing none.

Yousef had been practicing the extended Crow Pose, but his core muscles were too weak to balance the bulk of his body in the air. He first deeply inhaled, then exhaled forcefully through his nostrils, to squeeze out the last drop of air and raise his energy level. Ready, he took a big breath, leaned forward onto his hands, scooped in his belly button, tilted his hips, and exhaled as he shifted his weight to his arms. Balanced on his palms, Yousef again exhaled and raised his knees up to his chest, unable to extend his legs but finally lifting them in the air. Excited by his accomplishment, he promptly fell over, laughing.

On the lower bench, Cipheus bent into Forward Fold and asked, “One who shows The Way must first...?”

“Know The Way,” answered Yousef.

“And one knows The Way by...?”

“Traveling it oneself.”

“Who knows The Way?”

“We all do. It’s ingrained inside.”

“Accessed how?”

“By practicing the ancient techniques.”

“Time-honored techniques,” Cipheus corrected.

“Time-honored,” repeated Yousef. Ancient has a bad connotation. He could not tell whether Aggememnon approved or not, the watery eyes closed to the outside world.

“Some examples are?”

“Everything begins with breathing, depending upon the inner state desired. Like right now I’m using Snail Breath to counter my body’s desire to raise its pulse and blood pressure in response to the heat, by breathing slowly as I can manage.”

Aggememnon shifted slightly; Cipheus understood.

“You’ll learn to loose the energy and detach from it, ride the wave rather than try to direct it, which never works for long. Go with the current instead of against it and you will be impervious to the elements, pain, temptation.”

“When do you think I’ll be more like the two of you?” Yousef asked.

“Continue as you have, and I’d say a year until attaining full control of your body,” guessed Cipheus. “The really interesting work begins after that, but don’t put a time expectation on it. Part of what’s wrong these days in advanced societies is we rush our students, making them mature at a predetermined rate. I’d make 29 the age of full adulthood, not for myself, of course.”

Yousef wondered, “Why 29?”

“It’s the duration of Saturn’s orbit, the planet of life wisdom. One cycle is usually needed to know what we’re doing on this planet.”

“I’ve always wondered whether astrology is real.” Yousef felt like he neared his heat limit, but he also wanted to prove his readiness by holding on until they took a break outside in the snow. Regular hot-to-cold shocks kept bodily systems running better, longer, as Aggememnon could attest.

“There is truth, but also much abuse. Better for you to avoid the subject until ready,” Cipheus advised. “Be honest if you don’t know an answer. People will come to the mountain and ask about a direction for their lives, assuming you must know. Tell them to try a variety of meditations until one works. If a belief system is appealing—say a Christian interested in Buddhism—take it as a sign of potential growth. For some people, the best place is their local houses of worship. They don’t need or want deeper experience, just somewhere to connect with other seekers for spiritual nourishment.”

“No astrology then,” Yousef affirmed, “until I’m ready to know, and when that time comes, the door will open.”

Cipheus nodded proudly. Aggememnon appeared unaware of the initiate’s answer.

“Who will know if they are one of us?” Cipheus quizzed.

“They’ll remember the old kingdom as if they’d lived in it,” Yousef said, who remembered his name and parts of his life as a priest and scribe when Antiochus ruled the land.

“And the specially chosen?”

“Have seen the sign.”

Yousef countered the panic of his overheating body with thoughts of a cool bath. Now believe it, he told himself.

“But everyone should at least participate in the group celebrations, respect their ancestors, and be good citizens of the planet,” Cipheus told his student. “What do you say to an environmentalist?”

“Soon the Promised One is coming who possesses the knowledge to break the world’s reliance on carbon fuels and a vision of how to create a sustainable future,” Yousef said proudly.

“No,” stated Cipheus.

“No?”

“You know what’s coming. Avoid specifics. Remember that their minds are still where yours once was. All we know is it’s coming. The many names are all one, incomprehensible for minds incapable of rising above their culture’s opinion, but we will eventually reach them. How do you reply to a Muslim who asks, ‘Is the Mahdi coming?’”

Yousef hesitated, unsure. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“Tell them to search inside themselves. The more they practice the breathing and meditation and tune into sacred Nemk-Ru, the better the reception. What about dreams—are they used as part of spiritual advancement?”

“Oh yes,” Yousef replied more confidently, while straining to block out the heat. “Everyone should keep a dream journal. Dream language can be archaic and emotional, full of symbolism. Instruction is needed to understand it.”

“You’ve reached your limit,” observed the young priest. “I think your progress is sufficient.”

Any moment Yousef suspected that he might spontaneously combust. When he hurried to follow Cipheus out of the sauna, Aggememnon gripped his arm, the bony hand shooting out and pulling the initiate closer to gaze directly into the priest’s pinpoint pupils surrounded by a soupy mix of iridescent colors. He asked, “What is God?”

The question demanded an answer, not a hypothetical what-if or summation of the popular opinion. What is God? The more one learned, the more there was to learn. Answers led to more—and more difficult—questions, and uncomfortable realizations about bogus but cherished beliefs.

In a recent dream that hinted at the answer, Yousef dug a hole into the earth to an underground chamber, where sat a sagely man with long white hair, representing the archetypal image of wisdom. Yousef had progressed far enough to be granted the answer to one question of his choice, and only if asked properly. Excited to have encountered such a guide, he remained silent until the fathomless, all-black eyes of the wise man opened. One question to ask, anything he wanted to know; the question just about everyone wants to know for sure.

Without opening his mouth, the sage advised, “It is better to focus on the questions and mysteries of one’s own existence than to waste energy on the incomprehensible.”

Yousef replied to Aggememnon by quoting the dream, and added, “I learned during my 40 days of silence that quiet is a great teacher. Answers to life’s questions are inside, and can be heard in silence. By being patient, the small voice becomes audible. Effort is wasted wondering about God when spirit inside is much more accessible. I never would have understood without you. My life was too busy.”

Aggememnon gave his approval. He spoke his final message to make a lasting impression:

“We don’t need you to be one of us; you must be one of them. You wear the robes, but your role is to find other old souls and help them discover themselves. Remember that.”

He then leaned back against the hot cedar planks to resume his inner concentration. Yousef and Cipheus bolted out the door and jumped in the melting snow.

****

Out of the corner of his randy eye, Abby spotted Medra bent over removing a big pan of nan kasoki Kurdish flat bread from the oven. He’d grown accustomed to the smell of cooking and the sight of females in his home. An almost identical but unrelated pair of village women cluttered the tight kitchen with baking materials strewn on every surface. More room was needed; more of everything: pantry space, water pressure, cleaning and kitchen supplies, dishes, bedding, wash area.

The village women warmly greeted Abby the young innkeeper and pattered over to poke motherly at him with stubby fingers. He watched Medra’s every move, drawing furtive looks between the mother hens. Abby’s love interest accompanied him for mushroom hunts. She even laughed coyly at his goofy jokes. Sometimes, though, Medra looked at him with frightened eyes and scurried away before he could utter a word. After the early spring thaw, the girl returned looking like a woman, and he wanted her—presuming he could afford her—but felt unsure of Akbar’s hopeful return and the coming tourist season, already getting busy; worried about how to run a growing business and the price of wheat in Egypt.

The budding man direly needed a counselor or best friend. Uncle Hassan, wounded by sudden and unexplained separation, grieved his son, Yousef.

Soon after the spring thaw, Temel returned to Mt. Nemrut with a squad of Turkish soldiers, and informed Abby of a video circulating on the Internet that showed Akbar in Iraq. When Abby asked if his brother appeared well, Temel covered the truth with another by saying the video helped persuade some parties to put down their weapons. People in the cities were talking about nothing else but the peace movement, and even the recalcitrant Turkish military had changed its attitude.

Looked like another big season at Nemrut Dag.

Abby digested the news, and, a few days later, felt a little better about Akbar’s plight. The innkeeper’s improved mood made the plump mothers happy. He expected to hear word about another missing relative and received it when informed that, while in town, a visitor had come by asking for him. “Dressed in lovely white robes. I saw him a while ago around back, sitting on a big rock. He looked, you might say, dreamy,” said the village mother, conveying her judgment of all men devoted to something other than home and hearth.

“Did he look about 13?” Abby asked excitedly.

“No, quite a bit older than you.”

“A Turk?”

“Yes.”

Abby knew who it was.

Out of the house he hurried into the cloudy spring day. Winter broke earlier than expected, and the land turned green once again, decorated with splashes of wildflowers in captivating hues of orange, violet, yellow, blue. Summer would burn off nature’s plumage by July, but until then the landscape enlivened.

A thin stream of visitors already journeyed through Karadut, taking advantage of the brisk, beautiful weather to visit the mountain before the summer crowds returned bigger than ever, as Abby expected. A young American dropped out of college and moved into the inn’s dorm-style rental space, only appearing late at night or at breakfast before joining the people already camped on Nemrut, where nights on the mountaintop still dipped below freezing. He said he wanted the best seat for the Second Coming, and was welcome. The Turkish government relaxed restrictions after the threat receded of war with the Kurds, and foreigners were invited to visit, camp, or move in, just bring your Visa card and clean up your mess. The cash harvest attracted a brigade of Turks to reap.

Abby found Yousef sitting on a car-sized flat rock, staring off into space.

“Hello cousin,” Yousef spoke before Abby made a sound.

“Yousef? You’re so different.”

“Am I?”

“I never knew you were religious,” said Abby.

“Spirituality isn’t necessarily religion, and religion isn’t always spiritual.” Yousef sensed the question plaguing Abby’s heart and answered, “Akbar is out of our hands, serving a great purpose. I send him energy every morning and night.”

“What happened the day you disappeared?” Abby got right to the point.

Yousef explained the fateful day, and summarized the winter months in a few sentences as a time of study. “I asked again about Akbar. Cipheus said to tell you to take heart, everything would work out the way it should. Live your own life the best you can. Looks like you’ve already been doing a good job of that.”

“I thought sacrifices were supposed to be voluntary,” Abby shrugged off the compliment and focused in his Sagittarius way on what was presently most important.

“I can’t judge what is right or wrong for anyone but myself. All I know about Akbar is he bears a heavy burden, but he doesn’t carry it alone.”

Abby watched the play of thoughts on Yousef’s face, not yet perfectly calm, distinctive of the priests of the mountain. “Your father was well the last time I talked to him. He brought me a haul of supplies. He doesn’t understand why you left.”

Yousef breathed slowly, feeling melded with the big rock beneath him, draining the blisters of regret on his sense of mission.

“I’m going to visit him, to take care of affairs before coming back for the season.”

“He has your car.”

“Good.”

“You just dropped your life,” Abby said, trying to figure out why. “I don’t understand.”

“Abby of many questions, not everything can be explained to your satisfaction.” Yousef remembered when Cipheus similarly answered his questions.

“Can I join you and the priests?”

The brief times Abby sat in front of the risen statue produced no discernible difference. No voice, flash of light, or vision of world peace—just a huge piece of beautifully carved, weather-blasted limestone sitting on a gigantic perch, and a lot of people intensely focused on it.

Yousef exhaled, a bit frustrated. So many questions; he had better get used to them. “Here’s your opportunity. Rent us some space. We’ll pay triple, because you will use the profits generously.”

“I’ve made a point of charging only what’s fair,” Abby replied.

“Peace has no price.”

Abby had another piece of information to puzzle over. He would find out one way or another what Yousef really meant. If Abby couldn’t join the priests of the sacred mountain, they’d join him. Even better to answer his questions and pursue young love with Medra. The mother hens were sure to be unhappy with a house full of holy men and nary a Mary or Martha to tend to them.

Oh well, can't please everyone.

Chapter 39

Madam Catherine took the message while bathing in a kidney-shaped tub, her eyes covered by cucumber slices, an old Russian aging remedy: Her English guest would arrive soon at the estate.

The madam chose simple over complicated any time. Little bottles of high-tech aging elixir costing more than a fur coat were overindulgences for the super-rich when veggie slices worked fine for tired eyes. Catherine owned a company hawking obscenely expensive garbage to those who could afford it. She remembered a French name far down the subsidiary chain, run by never-met employees.

No one could be expected to memorize so many names, but she did—and the names of every old soul around the world working together under her command for the return of their king, her eternal man: Antiochus.

Events unfolded as expected. Positive media attention was gained by the risen statue at Mt. Nemrut, returned to prominence on its throne. Catherine used her vast wealth and influence to manage the story. The ensuing cessation of tensions between Turkey and the Kurds pleased world powers, forcing them to say “peace” and “Nemrut” in the same sentence. The next phase required her to take a more direct role: remembering what it’s like to be a woman.

Not that Catherine had completely forgotten—except for a few business rivals, the men she dealt with regularly were all subordinates. A woman at the top has no peers. The madam widow’s wealth narrowed her eligibility to maybe one in fifty million men of her Russian culture, where financial status dictates courtship, but she wasn’t looking. She had a man. An eternal man reached out after her Boris died and she inherited a financial empire too complex for one person to grasp the entire scope.

She cursed her deceased husband passionately for failing to better prepare. Few people in superb health with the best medical care think much about mortality before age sixty. Certainly not Boris, who played tennis year-round with partners half his age and performed a hundred push-ups and a hundred sit-ups as soon as his feet touched the ground every morning before dawn. Blessed with the vigor of ten men, intolerant of sloth or weakness. Boris, who had disinherited two sons from a previous marriage; they would rather sleep until noon and chase skirts all night than make their demanding father proud.

Boris—who planned and prepared for everything, worked 18-hour days and could still make love for an hour before bed, scared the hell out of subordinates and peers, and carried in his head all of the little details to maintain control of one of the world’s largest conglomerates—dropped dead on a tennis court from a massive heart attack.

Catherine suddenly found herself tossed into a tank of circling sharks that smelled a meaty meal. They would have feasted, if not for the intervention of her ancient king.

One night, a few weeks after Boris’s death, the new widow drank too much wine and swallowed some pills she found in the bathroom. Sometimes too wired to sleep even after two or three love-making sessions, Boris took a little white pill to help go under. She took one, waited fifteen minutes, took two more, went to bed, and woke up being sucked down into a pond of black pudding.

Catherine clung desperately to consciousness, the bed a coffin, the lid about to shut. Her vision narrowed until all she saw was a small patch of ceiling. She imagined that the servants would rather let her die, considering her recent wickedness. She regretted her treatment of them, and swore she’d be better. Someone just please save her! The madam’s mind worked fine, but her body lay unresponsive to commands. Grasping hands pulled on her. Stricken by terror, she fought to stay afloat.

The voice of Antiochus entered her mind: Let go and come with me.

Catherine saw herself in a murky lake, only her mouth and nose sticking out of the dark water. She trembled terribly inside, yet her body lay still as a corpse.

Do not fear. You will understand.

“Boris!” she cried in her mind. “I’m sorry for my weakness. I can’t hold on!”

Yes you can.

The reply, Catherine felt, had many layers of meaning. Not only could she stay alive, she could run her late husband’s financial empire.

You have done it before.

The madam widow saw a version of herself torn from the pages of history: a strong woman, a shark stronger and smarter than the others, feared, respected, and loved all at once. What was her name back then? The knowledge could be reclaimed, if only she would...

Let go.

“You are not Boris,” Catherine accused the voice. “Who are you?”

One who knows you better than any other.

A sudden, terrible insight: she’d taken the pills on purpose, albeit unconsciously. Part of herself wanted to die instead of face her many challenges. She loathed her weakness. Boris would never have loved her if he had known a quivering child hid beneath her tough veneer. She wanted to scream. Antiochus said:

You are strong enough. Believe me.

No longer able to resist, Catherine let go of consciousness and slipped beneath the waters to journey back in time to the era of a storied kingdom ruled by an awe-inspiring king. A time when she was his mistress, entrusted to speak in his name and run palace affairs during his long absences. She helped rule his kingdom; now, he would help run her financial empire, and together they would command the greatest kingdom ever.

But a long journey remained and many obstacles to overcome. No more weakness; Catherine had learned from the best. The time arrived to put her knowledge to the test.

Catherine left instructions for her English guest—executive producer Alistaire Campbell of the BCC—to be made comfortable in the back garden when he arrived, and checked herself one last time in a full-length mirror.

The last glow of youth had vanished with her 40s, and what attractiveness remained was aided by a lift-and-support bra, knee-length skirt and pink blazer she chose for the occasion. But compared to her Russian countrywomen, Catherine more resembled a man: strong chin and jaw, stocky build, hair made for the function of protecting the head against bitter winter winds, not improving its appearance.

The madam looked in the mirror and brushed her hair forward to frame her face and soften the boxy edges. Some women were born fine, delicate, round in all the right places. Not her. Verily, Catherine knew herself to be a man in a woman’s body chosen for its ability to sway the male mind, but unable to completely conceal the masculine heart contained within. She figured if a man could make himself into an attractive enough woman to fool other men, she at least had better natural equipment.

When her guest departed she would reshape her hair into its usual no-nonsense style and don a pantsuit, preferably power red. She would play the relationship game only as long as needed with the Englishman, a charming gentleman for sure but a schmuck at heart, an unfortunate trait common of his breed. She first needed a moment to transform the inside of herself.

The sound of her approaching helicopter compelled Catherine to move away from the mirror, out into the woods behind the manor house and up a gentle incline into a patch of pine trees, opening to a natural clearing. Around the edges she had built the first circular level of a tower, each rock found in the woods and placed by her hands. Buying a tower to the sky violated the spirit; she owned skyscrapers. This sacred space she infused with energy from her own hands, and with it she communicated directly with the only man who could tell her what to do, the only power she willingly served.

Catherine lacked time to fully prepare, only a quick touch of the divine. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the tower’s smoky quartz floor, she faced southwest toward Mt. Nemrut. An etched silver triangle the size of the floor pointed that direction.

Soon after closing her eyes, the distance between the two points ceased to exist and her spirit lover licked her face. No words were needed; they only regarded each other to know everything that needed communicated. Catherine’s eternal king pulled her mind into his point of view to remember a moment they once shared together, many centuries ago:

An important ally had met the grave the old-fashioned way: died on the crapper. The chosen successor, known to be weak, wouldn’t live until the flesh fell from his father’s bones. Antiochus needed him propped up a while longer as a neighboring ally put together an invasion force during the winter rest between annual spring campaigns, but the king was needed at home to purge the ranks and shore up allies. He came calling in the middle of night for his mistress, full of sweet talk.

Back then, during their first lives together, Catherine swore at first that she would never get involved with his machinations, but Antiochus lured her in. She remembered feeling inadequate in the games of power because of her roots as a slave. That was before a fair prince purchased her, brought her into his household, and unleashed the potential he saw in her defiant eyes. He taught her the ways of power, the control of people by persuasion or force, and the methods for manipulating the fundamentals of causality. Protest all she wanted, her mentor first trusted her to run his house, then his kingdom.

She also shared his bed.

In that life more than two thousand years ago, Catherine protested all of the way out the door about being away from her great love for so long. As always, he convinced her to go a little further, discover more about herself, and marshal more gusto in his name. She remembered his sandy mane and perfect skin. The blue eyes that changed color from indigo to sky blue depending on his state of mind. How his full attention felt like lying in the world’s biggest bed surrounded by thousands of candles.

Antiochus sometimes dropped profound insights during casual conversations, hairs shed for lesser minds to argue over. Other times he existed on an entirely different level than the rest of humanity, a raving lunatic running the streets, or disguised as a commoner to visit the underbelly of his kingdom. To dismiss him as mad was to fall into his trap. He always won in the end. His mind defied all words to describe intelligence: genius, brilliant, erudite, sage. The few humans like her allowed to see his true nature concluded he could be nothing less than divinity descended from Mt. Olympus.

Catherine understood the message and bid farewell. The contact with her lover at the sacred mountain receded as quickly as it came. The birds chirped, she noticed. The sun felt good. She felt wonderful, ready.

In the rose garden behind the manor house, on a sunny but cool day an hour by helicopter from Moscow, Alistaire Campbell waited for madam Catherine. He chose a mauve suit for the occasion, stuck between presenting himself in eggshell white or navy blue. He stood when she appeared unexpectedly from the woods instead of the manor house. They shook hands a little longer than just business associates.

“We finally meet,” Mr. Campbell beamed.

“Welcome to my home,” Catherine replied graciously.

The BCC executive glanced enviously around the immaculate manor grounds and community of supplemental buildings. Catherine read his thoughts.

“The estate was originally a gift to a loyal man of Peter the Great, plucked from the West to help form Peter’s inner circle of nation-builders. You might know of him; he was a Scot.”

Alistaire felt the heat of the test, and tests he always passed. —Peter the Great. —A Scott. Campbell—a Scottish surname of infamy—finally felt his roots in the Russian soil.

“Patrick Gordan?”

“Granted estates in return for his years of mercenary work for Peter. Gordan had a hand in bringing Russia out of the Dark Ages. I like to think of this home as a symbol of the time when people acted more honorably.”

“You are appropriately named, lady Catherine,” complimented the BCC executive.

“I am not a subject of your lovely queen, Mr. Campbell,” Catherine riposted dryly, “but if we must use titles, you can call me madam, to respect my deceased husband. Please sit.” She tucked under her annoying skirt and did her best to look proper.

Alistaire laughed; the corners of his eyes crinkled into dozens of lines. He resisted the urge to smooth down his already flattened hair and said, “I have friends in Buckingham Palace. A knighthood, perhaps?”

“Leave fate some room to maneuver, thank you. You have been helpful already.”

“I only followed your lead, and your leads have been invaluable.”

“Important information trusted to the right person. Any questions at work about the source of your inside information?”

Said Alistaire, “The few people at the BCC who had to know thought the satellite images came from MI-4. It helps that I’m known as a former spy. Tell me, since we know each other better now, how did your bird happen to get the best view of the fireworks in Turkey last July? Even the Americans are envious.”

“State secret. If I told, you might have to stay here forever.”

“Not a bad proposition.” Alistaire’s eyes hinted.

“You might grow weary of the limited accommodations.”

“I don’t see how.”

“You are a charming man,” said Catherine. “I am pleased that the BCC saw the benefit of granting my request for your personal presence.”

“How could they say no after you provided that generous grant? I must confess, working with your assistant as an intermediary has been—” Campbell hoped she would save him from having to say it.

“Vladimir is unusual, not only because he is albino,” the madam filled in. “I think you will appreciate to know, he is my best-compensated employee.”

“His salary must be impressive,” the wealthy BCC executive ventured, duly impressed.

“No salary, but he can have whatever he wants. Jumbo jet? Go buy a jumbo jet. He has a card in his pocket which will buy anything, and an army of professionals who will work their hearts out at his request.”

“He must be exceptional.”

“Competence is rewarded. I don’t suffer fools,” Catherine added some tart to her sweet—like most Libras, finding balance between extremes sometimes by going to extremes, measured and rationally, “and I surround myself with the very best.”

“I noticed,” Mr. Campbell understated.

“Then forgive my bluntness. You do not really know the story,” Catherine informed the news executive. “But I will tell you. You have heard of the Second Coming?”

Alistaire felt like James Bond receiving instructions from his female boss, M. “I don’t recall my Anglican church mentioning such unpleasant subjects much, and when they did, it was about an apocalypse.”

“Before you get the wrong idea, many stories exist to explain what we witness. One like no other is coming true right now.”

“I need to get myself back to church,” Alistaire quipped, trying to also sound receptive to the idea. If that’s what the madam wants.

“Look here,” Catherine corrected by leaning forward and touching his jacket over his heart. “Spirit speaks here, where you too can connect. You will find something, if you take the steps to reach it.”

“The first being?” Mr. Campbell asked as he reached for the hand that slipped away before he could touch it.

“Visit the sacred mountain for yourself.”

“I did, once, long ago on a family vacation. I remember how impressive it was. My reporter Cameron Starr tells me the people up there really believe they’ve been visited by the supernatural. He’s skeptical, but loving the exclusives.”

“I would be surprised if he wasn’t,” said Catherine, deliberately ambiguous.

“Not the brightest, but he looks great on camera,” the news executive summarized his true opinion of his star employee. “I’m fortunate he was in Turkey when your assistant—what’s his name?”

“Vladimir.”

“—when Vladimir dropped those satellite photos in my hands. Then it was off to the races.”

“Fortune comes to those who wait,” hinted Catherine.

Alistaire hoped so as he said, “Now please tell me how I can be of further assistance. Let me say first, you spoke of reward. I have everything I want that money can buy, and my power is unique to my position. I’m not particularly religious, and I would be doing my job as a news executive by covering this story and cultivating an important source. What I’m trying to say is, my interest is personal.”

The madam widow felt no real attraction to her guest, Alistaire. Soon she would find him predictable like most men, then boring, then gone. She’d get what she needed before cutting him loose.

“The heart of a woman my age takes its fondness slowly, and the coming months are crucial to Demetrius’s peace efforts.”

“You know him?” Campbell desired to learn more about the peacemaking priest with little bits of information about himself floating around the news world like remora waiting to hitch a ride on a passing shark.

“He is an acquaintance from way back.”

That information sparked a plan in Alistaire’s head for a programming schedule packed with angles: current news, features, history, spirituality. Plenty of fodder for the popular imagination. People ate up stories related to anything second coming, tripping over themselves in a mad chase after prophecies and signs.

The winds coming from Mt. Nemrut attracted viewers across demographics and produced numbers which opened advertiser wallets, many initially leery of the religious overtones. But once advertisers saw that the public focused more on the peace aspect, the contracts were signed as fast as they could print. Like a disciplined political campaign, Demetrius repeated three themes: commonality of humanity, seeking answers within, and respect for tradition. Alistaire could make each its own series. He needed to get the peacemaker himself, who hadn’t sat down with a top interviewer for an Oprah-moment, on camera.

“Should I give him your number?” Catherine offered. She’d plucked the thought straight from Alistaire’s mind.

He saw nothing but good times ahead. Working behind the scenes inside a quasi-private organization gave him unprecedented opportunity to coax and shape a worldwide story, he knew as well as Catherine. The slick executive producer had always wanted to start from the ground up, more like making a movie than the news, but the differences were often blurred. Eyeballs were all that mattered, and he had the subject line guaranteed to attract millions of viewers: the Second Coming, broadcast exclusively on the BCC. God must want it that way—his Anglican God of mild pronouncements and reciprocal payoffs.

Alistaire Campbell gazed across the table at his new crush and thought God would have to accept the ultimate Anglican sin exciting the Englishman’s heart: lusting after a widow.

Chapter 40

Demetrius gained the first advantage by being present in the studio with the popular television host for the debate—“Showdown!” blazed the teasers—while Reverend Fallin beamed in by satellite.

Dressed elegantly in silver and black, the peacemaking priest could read the audience, taste the air, sense the undercurrents. He had prepared all his life—many lifetimes, in fact—for his role on stage by performing in theater and opera. Small venues, infrequent performances to stay sharp. Few stood a chance onstage against the accomplished thespian, especially the aging reverend written off as irrelevant. A reverend baited into playing the role of foil.

Demetrius would convince many skeptics and fence-sitters of his message, thanks to his opposition.

The garrulous host, born Lawrence Kukosperovsky but known as Larry Casper—his Romanian-brown hair blown dry by a jet engine, it appeared—opened the live show with Reverend Fallin. Demetrius sat in a studio chair across a wet-looking black table from Casper, intently observing.

“Reverend Fallin, you’ve had some harsh things to say about Demetrius and what I think is fair to describe as his peace movement. Take as much time as you need to explain to us why you don’t like this man.”

Reverend Fallin adjusted his bulk on a small, armless chair provided by the Raleigh, North Carolina network affiliate for the remote broadcast. He would have insisted on something more accommodating to his size, but traffic delays on the I-440 beltline left him with no time except for a touch-up before going on-air. Where was Roger Ecksby when needed? In Alabama, with the Nazarites.

The reverend appeared uncomfortable for his big opportunity to confront the enemy. A lighting engineer who detested the famous televangelist aimed a spotlight to strike his eyeballs. Having conveniently gone on break, the engineer watched the live broadcast over a triple cheeseburger, and cackled to himself that the ol’ Bible thumper looked like a shifty pink fat grizzled barn rat, while munching on an animal-turned-food product slathered in processed fat.

“I can do that for you and your audience in a few simple sentences,” the reverend declared, “because to those with eyes to see and ears to hear, Demetrius represents a false religion born of a wicked king named Antiochus, who is equated with the Antichrist for his evil deeds against the Israelites. To claim affiliation I think is the first sign of the underlying corruption, but any religion that claims supremacy over Jesus is false. Don’t believe the deceivers during the last days, warned the Son of God, for they’ll be many and will promise great things. But they’re servants of Satan, the Wily Serpent, and mustn’t be heeded. It doesn’t get any simpler or truer than that.”

Larry Casper wheeled on Demetrius and said, “Reverend Fallin has been preaching the gospel for 50 years, and has millions of followers who believe he speaks for God. How do you answer his accusations?”

Demetrius picked up on the next beat.

“Let me first clarify, the great king and visionary who forged the peace Covenant and commemorated it on sacred Nemrut is not the Antiochus the reverend referred to, but the mistake is easy to make. Many kings of the dynastic line were named Antiochus. Just imagine 11 generations of George Foremans.”

The studio audience roared with laughter. Laughter equals trust; good guys make us laugh. George Foreman named five sons after himself. The subtle-but-easily understood joke endeared Demetrius to his listeners.

Larry Casper took in a windy breath to speak. Demetrius smoothly talked over him.

“I appreciate that the reverend has been so honest about his views, because I am given the opportunity to address some wrong perceptions. We aren’t asking anyone to give up their religion. To the contrary, we encourage even agnostics and atheists to consider the wisdom of carrying an attitude of respect toward all beliefs. No one source has all of the answers, but belief in something greater than ourselves stretches back to the origins of our species. The Way teaches that all religions share beliefs and values all people can embrace.”

“For example?” the host cutoff Reverend Fallin’s retort.

“Honesty in our relationships and in our commerce, but especially with ourselves. Self-deception is the most dangerous kind, as the world has found out in Iraq—a war the reverend enthusiastically supported. Small lies breed greater ones. Did you know that the Prophet Mohamed, before his first divine encounter in the cave, was known as an ethical merchant, upright and willing to do the right thing even if it meant loss of profit?”

“I did not know that.” Larry Casper sounded genuinely enlightened.

“I have mentioned mutual respect as one of our values, which goes in hand with orderliness. We also encourage dialog before conflict, recognition of our common humanity and frequent commemorations to rejuvenate the spirit. Most of all, we urge people to have their own experience of connection within themselves, with each other, and with their God. Then words are no longer needed. Answers are inside, yet sometimes we need something outside as a reminder. I tell many people I meet—especially young people looking for answers—to give their local places of worship a try. Find one that has something good to teach, or explore them all. In the seeking we find answers. Reach out and you’ll be met.”

“Sounds pretty reasonable,” Casper rushed in to lead the conversation. “Reverend, what have you got to say?”

A consistent pain bit into the rear cavity of Fallin’s head, beaming directly from an annoying stage light. He made a mental note to complain to the station manager.

“Wolf in sheep’s clothing,” he replied. “There’s one true God and his only Son, Jesus, who gave his life on the Cross. ‘Come unto me all ye who have sinned to be forgiven,’ said our Savior. Mohamed is another in a long line of false prophets. There’s no escaping the eternal fires for those who follow anyone but Christ.”

“I can hear the Sisters at Our Lady of Saints saying amen,” segued the host. “It’s hard getting around the traditional Christian argument. Demetrius, Christian doctrine says that anyone who adopts your way is going to get their goose cooked in the end—if the nuns who provided my early Catholic education are correct.”

Pained disappointment showed on the peacemaker’s face. So many misconceptions in the world, thought millions of viewers watching the live exchange. Now enlighten us.

“Our way adds. We do not subtract, narrow or monopolize. People are free to believe whatever they want as long as it is personally enriching and based on truth. Hellfire and damnation, I’m afraid, are old superstitions we’re still outgrowing. No loving Creator would place us children into such a perilous situation, ignorant of its true nature, then condemn us for eternity.”

Demetrius paused as applause swelled. He stole the moment to add, “Jesus taught important truths about loving our neighbors and our God, and his sacrifice on the cross changed the world. But the records left behind by later followers and edited by an early church on the road to Roman power are incomplete. In fact, the original message has been badly distorted, especially relating to women, sexuality, reproduction.”

“Well said,” Casper approved as the audience clapped. “Previous guests on my show have argued similarly that the Church went awry many centuries ago by distorting Christ’s teachings. Reverend, you’d tell us Jesus and the Trinity demand our exclusive loyalty. None of this stuff about respectful acceptance of foreign beliefs.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, hold on,” said Casper, “what would you tell Muslims with their own name for God—Allah—which they claim is the same Judeo-Christian deity derived from father Abraham? See, Demetrius, I do know a little something about our brother Muslims.”

“I applaud spreading the knowledge,” said the mountain priest.

“Reverend?”

“The underpinnings of the Christian faith haven’t changed in the past few minutes,” Fallin answered testily. “We haven’t hung out a sign that says, ‘Come on in, believe whatever you want. Maybe Jesus meant this and maybe he didn’t mean that.’ We’re not going to sit around all day and snipe about every little inconsistency until the church is in an uproar. The Apostle Paul told us that some people don’t belong in the Body of Christ, and some are bound for Hell.

“Demetrius is playing with fire by spreading his false beliefs. The Devil is behind his power, same as the Dragon is behind the Beast. Members of my congregation are asking questions, and I see all the fools drawn to that idol statue on the mountain. It reminds me of the scriptural warning against the peacemaking deceiver who comes during the Last Days, spreading a false religion. I look at Demetrius and see the fulfillment of the scriptures,” the reverend’s voice dropped darkly, “the bad ones.”

“I can’t believe my ears.” Casper the host appeared astonished—as much as his molded face was capable of expressing. “Are you calling him the Antichrist? That would be a first for my show.”

“Any Christian familiar with the scriptures should be leery of Demetrius,” warned Reverend Fallin. “We’ll see from his actions who he really is.”

“My actions speak for themselves,” Demetrius replied immediately. “So far we’ve made peace between two peoples who claim Mt. Nemrut as their land. We’re making progress in Iraq. People awaken to their true spiritual selves. What’s not to like?” He asked the camera lens, then the audience, then the host, and continued:

“The reverend is looking at the wrong scriptures relating to us. He should consult the part of his holy book promising a united world. It is coming. Many people out there know what I mean. They feel a connection, and they know there is more to life than appearance. They might see a sign, a circle and triangle together.”

“Sounds to me like you’re pulling a John the Baptist on us here and heralding the imminent arrival of a savior,” said Casper.

Demetrius explained, “Many cultures and religions share the belief in the Second Coming. We use different names and altered stories to describe the same thing. The belief is freely accepted or thrust upon us. The native peoples of Central and South America know what I mean. Expecting Quetzalcoatl, instead they got his false white brother bearing a cross, foreseen a thousand years prior. On the very day the prophecies said he would arrive, the Spanish found Central American shores. In Hindu tradition, the name is the Kalki, the final avatar. The Buddhists call him Maitreya, or Amida, the Great Teacher. Muslims call him the Mahdi, and on and on.”

Demetrius faced the camera and his audience, tugging on their minds with force of persuasion. “Join us by holding sacred Nemk-Ru to its promise,” he said. “Add your heartfelt calls with ours.”

“Jesus is Jesus,” Reverend Fallin blustered, “not some ninny. You’re a blasphemer, and so is your father, the king of lies and deceit. Do not listen to this man!”

“We have a civil discourse on this show,” rebuked the host.

“Let him speak,” Demetrius invited. “His ignorance speaks for itself, and I say ignorance in the sense of being uninformed. Reverend Fallin is a spiritual seeker like myself. Under different circumstances he might have been an influential voice for enlightenment, but he stuck with the first version of the truth told to him as a boy. Way out in rural Carolina, momma at his side, friends and neighbors from all around come to hear the fiery Baptist preacher fill heads full of apocalyptic visions. The reverend climbed a few steps up the spiritual ladder, and from there he thought the view looked just fine. He need climb no further.”

The host missed a beat, waiting for Demetrius to continue. So did the hushed audience. Everyone knows of someone holier-than-thou who thinks their shit don’t stink, don’t even try to convince them otherwise or else face a withering wave of condescension. Demetrius wanted to cement the association with Reverend Fallin and his evangelical movement.

As much as Casper found it distasteful, ratings soared when guests gored each other—especially a fat target Reverend Fallin. Secularists despised the old-time preacher. The host could already imagine which segments of the showdown would be viewed repeatedly on the Internet. Some 14 year-old would slow-mo the juicy parts, add flames, graft a set of horns to the reverend’s head, and get viewed a bazillion times. What a world.

“You are an insulting man,” Fallin accused Demetrius. “Laugh now, people, but what we have here is the son of destruction, the king of deceit, master of lies and slave of the Dragon, Lucifer.”

“Reverend,” Demetrius shot back, adding a touch of southern drawl,

“what we have here is failure to communicate.” The studio audience went wild. Casper signaled to kill his camera, afraid he might crack up laughing on live television. Demetrius had slipped in a beautifully-timed zinger, destined for pop culture immortality as a moment everyone had to see.

Reverend Fallin looked ill. Casper mercifully decided to break.

“I think now is a good time to hear from our sponsors. When we come back, we take your calls. Stick around.”

After the show, Larry Casper caught up with Demetrius and ushered him into a dressing room larger than many London flats, complete with tanning bed, entertainment center and make-up mirrors. The diminutive host paddled around releasing nervous energy until settling on entertainment. He powered on a viewing station and grabbed a game controller.

“Ever play video games?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Demetrius answered.

“Might seem juvenile for a man my age, but it keeps me in shape—tennis, golf, bowling. A real workout. If you don’t mind, I’m going to vent.” The monster-size screen flicked to a golf game. Casper invited, “Sit down, if you’ve got a minute.”

“Time I have, but I prefer to stand after sitting for the last hour.”

The host replied gustily, “Me too, I know what you mean. Thirsty? Hungry? Twenty minutes and I can have the best food in the city delivered right here. There’s a full bar in the cabinet. Anything.”

“I find myself more than satisfied at the moment,” Demetrius placed his hand on his heart. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I suppose you’re a busy man these days and don’t have much time for a little old television broadcaster like me. And don’t say that’s kind of me to say; I mean it. I think what you’re doing is great. Many of my friends in the biz feel the same way. We’re tired of the cowboy games. It’s time for adults to run the show.”

“Amen,” said Demetrius, trademark little smile curling the corners of his mouth, “as the good Sisters would say.”

Casper swung an imaginary golf club, launching an impressive tee off. “If only I could hit that way in real life,” he said.

“You can.”

“Ha, not with these hips. I’ll stick to virtual reality. Let me ask you something. Between you and me, look from the perspective of one raised in the Catholic church. Attends his entire life; doesn’t ask many questions of the way things are done because it’s a waste of time, not going to change anything. One acquires a pretty broad knowledge of church teachings after all those years, and I can tell you, even with your eloquent explanations you still fall outside of the doctrinal lines.”

Casper raised his hands like he held a watermelon lengthwise, his habit when explaining a big thought, and continued.

“Traditionalists object to your message because they see it as just another challenge to establishment. Some even brand you heretical.”

“I’m sure they’d love to bring back the Inquisition for cases like mine,” humored the priest.

“That’s right. No getting around it.”

“Christians and others are going to feel challenged by us. We’re spreading. That makes the old powers nervous, because we threaten their supremacy. The product they’re selling is freely available. Realizing that we all share one religion undermines the arguments of those who war in its name—around half the wars ever waged, all because of differences in religion.”

The game reminded Casper to take his approach shot to the green. He chose a 3-iron for a 5-iron shot and landed in deep rough far beyond his intended target. “Damn, thought I could finesse it. Now that’s more like me.”

“I think you reached for immediate gratification. Should have played it safe and accepted par,” Demetrius suggested.

“You do know something about golf.”

“And I bet you have more on your mind than a game. Let me guess: You’ve seen the mark of our king.”

“See, there you go again,” flustered Casper. “The biblical Beast has a mark. Talk to my people like that and they’ll brand you the Antichrist, like the reverend did.”

Demetrius ran his fingertips over the triquetra medallion hanging from his neck. “Call it a symbol because it represents,” he said. “Or a sign because it foretells. Not a mark that brands, an important slip to avoid. Thank you for the advice.”

“You’re welcome. To answer your question, I have seen your sign,” admitted the host. “Very odd situation. I know this is going to sound totally cliché. Driving into the city today, I looked up and saw this funny cloud. The sun beamed through onto my vehicle and followed me all of the way into the city. Guess what the cloud sort of looked like?”

“So now you’re past wondering if it’s real, and wonder if it’s right,” Demetrius followed along. “Yes, it is real, and yes, it is good. And is it of God? More so than you can know at the moment.”

“Who is coming? I mean, is it Jesus, or someone else?” Demetrius did not reply.

“At least tell me if this is the sign that I’m being called for some reason,” the host pointed to Demetrius’s medallion, “because if not, this an unbelievable coincidence. I might have to get my eyes checked.”

“Lawrence, I can say without a doubt that you are called.”

“I see,” said Casper. “I really don’t know what to think. My heart and my head are in conflict. I can hear the Sisters.”

“You should come to the mountain. I’ll accompany you,” Demetrius offered.

“What will I find?”

“What is looking for you.”

Casper shuddered.

“You can save par here,” Demetrius changed the subject.

For a second time, the garrulous host missed a beat, rare for a man who modeled himself after the original silver tongue of the boob tube, Johnny Carson. Ball in the deep rough, stand of trees blocking the cup. No chance.

“Play it safe, that’s what you said, right?”

“Sometimes we must seize opportunity. Use a pitching wedge and hook strong to the left,” Demetrius recommended. “Really nail it. The ball will miss the trees and die in the wind above the cup.”

“That’s assuming a lot,” Casper talked to both levels of the conversation. “The perfect wind has to come along to attempt something so daring.”

Demetrius grabbed imaginary blades of grass and approvingly watched them drop.

“And the odds are stacked against,” said the host. “Only a pro would consider the bold attempt, and only if they’re willing to lose.”

“Success is inevitable when Spirit leads,” the peacemaker extolled.

Casper tried to hand the controller to Demetrius. “This is your show—you take the shot.”

“No, friend, your time has come. I know the mind of the one who needs you, and it is our hope that you will speak to your community. Some people will never accept us, for reasons we well know, but the right voices will reach the right ears. You mentioned a couple of weeks ago on your show, you are planning a trip to Greece this summer. Detour to Turkey afterward. All of your questions will be answered,” Demetrius averred.

Impressed, Larry Casper prepared to swing.

“If I make this shot....”

Chapter 41

Jeremiah Fallin dismissed his staff from the meeting in his office. Beyond his usual exhortations to follow the Word and obey God, his parting prayer soared like the days of old, reaching for the heavens to come down and enter the hearts of mortals. Most eyes in the room were wet when he finished.

With unusual fervor he touched on all of the usual points— man’s inherent wickedness; salvation through the blood of Jesus Christ; the call for all Christians to testify in His name. The trivialization of Fallin’s beliefs on Larry Casper’s show vexed him and served to increase his passion, making obvious the need for stronger action. His tone took a militant edge during the meeting-turned-revival. Some participants characterized it as a call to war.

After Fallin pronounced the last syllable, his secretary Roger Ecksby ushered everyone out. Paula dawdled to leave last. She touched Roger’s shoulder to get his attention. He shied away.

“Tonight there’s a campfire hosted by the youth ministry. I thought you might like to bring your guitar. Join us,” invited Paula, worried about Roger being so isolated lately while hatching strategy with the reverend. The pair frequently whispered in each other’s ears, shadows crossing their faces. She wasn’t the only one concerned about their conspiratorial behavior, even in the name of fighting the Antichrist, an interpretation of events which some of the ministry staff were secretly beginning to doubt. Plus she liked Roger, but as he became consumed with his work, the feeling she once sensed growing between them froze over. That bad business in Turkey. Paula thought the only good turkey was a cooked one.

“Not tonight. The reverend and I have much to do,” Roger barked, closing the door on her questions and activating the safety lock.

That was close, he thought. Pesky feelings almost got in the way of the mission. He rubbed his bare arms to ward off the chill of the heavily air-conditioned office, and turned on the television to FOX News.

He muted the commercial, opened a notebook computer and navigated to a live camera feed showing the east terrace at Mt. Nemrut. He saw a mass of people parked near the pagan statue, lined up like dominoes ready to fall. The heathens had a little surprise coming when the Lord smote their golden calf. Roger checked the time.

“One hour. You said strike, and tonight the Lord’s might will be revealed. We will succeed where our political friends failed. They didn’t come in the name of God. We do.”

“May His will be done,” said Reverend Fallin. Demetrius would pay for humiliating him on television. Today, the charade ended. “Pray for them, Roger. We must pray for their souls. I’ll be in the shower.”

****

The painted sign by the side of the rocky road announced: “Mt. Nemrut National Park: 3 miles—5 kilometers.” The two Nazarites in the front seat of the rented sedan stared forward, both 30-something men with Cajun-narrow eyes and deep auburn hair hidden under ball caps. They appeared almost identically bland and pasty. Dressed like tourists, they hadn’t come to Turkey to enjoy the hospitality.

Originally, they had considered a car bomb for their mission, but the logistics were bad. For one, to construct it in a foreign country, and two, get it all of the way to the top of the mountain near enough to blast the idol statue to the next valley. Grenades seemed like the next-best choice until live testing revealed the flaw: timing. Set the fuse too long and the grenades bounced off and rolled away before exploding. Too short and game over—that’s not a firecracker in your hand. Took half a crate of grenades to blast a crude replica of the risen statue to dust, and between the two Bailey brothers they expected no more than four lobs before being engaged by Turkish troops.

Grenades could be obtained easily enough overseas, but the Nazarites wanted to send the strongest possible message, leaving no chance for the idol to rise again. They needed a good old-fashioned boom and chose two, four-pound blocks of plastic explosive rigged with simple timers, more than capable of doing the job.

The brothers’ jobs running a family demolition business prepared them for the mission and provided a shortcut through Turkish customs. The Lord couldn’t have picked better hands to carry out the Nazarite mission.

Born woodsmen, the Baileys expertly handled explosives. They did stints out of high school in the Army, in demolitions, and were a rarity in their rural Alabama community for being fathered by a Nazarite during his junior and senior years of high school, before swearing to celibacy. The boys weren’t particularly bright with academics, but they were thorough and capable adults. When their inner sanctum of fully-initiated Nazarite members—Paul’s Circle—met to discuss who would strike for the Lord, they need not even draw lots. The brothers felt in their hearts that they were called. Not so much that they heard a voice or saw a vision; they knew everyone’s strengths and weaknesses in the brotherhood. Once Brother Roger explained suicide wasn’t the objective, the last obstacle fell.

Think of it like the Sonderkommando ramming their fighters into Allied bombers over Germany and parachuting out, only to hop into another plane and fly again, said Roger Ecksby. They might not live, but they proved their courage and devotion to their homeland by not being afraid to die, either.

The Bailey brothers were not afraid to die. God willing, they would strike with the fury of the Old Testament Lord and live!

****

Underneath the surface, in the King's burial chamber below the pyramid of rocks, Marc explained for Peter and his fiancé Evelyn how the horoscope mechanism worked, concealed inside of the life-size silver statue that once stood over the secret passage into the heart of the mountain. The somber air punctuated his mini-lecture.

“The correct position of the gems opens a valve between two cavities inside. Dense liquid—probably oil—releases down into a chamber in the front,” Marc pointed at the statue as if Peter and Evelyn possessed x-ray vision, “and the shift in weight causes the statue to roll forward on a slight slope built into the floor. The room looks level but is actually tilted. The front loading of the weight and the slope of the floor combined to move the statue.”

Peter asked, “Is it on rollers or something?”

“That’s my best explanation without flipping it over,” said Marc. “The whole paper is speculation, but academics make careers out of educated guesses.”

“When is your paper supposed to be published?”

“I don’t know, everything is still sketchy. The security creeps eventually cleared me of any involvement with the anthrax attack, and the university gave me an award. But the taste lingers.”

Evelyn squeezed Marc’s hand in support.

“The authorities still don’t know who did it?” Peter, who had followed the news best he could, knew that no arrests had been made.

“They aren’t saying if they do.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I made my own choices,” the humbled professor acknowledged, “and I paid for some of them. I’d feel better if someone could tell me who did it. Darianna might know.”

“Let’s go down there.” Evelyn stared in fascination at the dark square hole at the top of the passage down into the mountain.

Marc read hesitance on Peter’s face and answered, “We don’t have time.”

“Please?” Evelyn batted her irresistible eyes at Peter. Why not? He had to make a supply run anyway.

“You have to keep a secret,” said Peter.

“Don’t get her hopes up.” Marc knew though he was already defeated. He really didn’t want to face whatever was down there, but couldn’t say no.

Evelyn pinched him beneath the ribs. Peter dug out flashlights, grabbed a backpack and led the way.

The long descent into the dark maw ended with a string of lights where Peter had been working to document the many symbols and writing carved into the ancient rock. With a flip of a switch, the thin chamber with a high ceiling illuminated, revealing the hulking Guardian on the other side at the top of the white marble steps. It's black crystal talons, sharp as ice picks, and two monstrous canine faces erupting from one head threatened all who dared to approach it.

“Only a few people even know about this room to begin with,” Peter said to Evelyn. “We’re trusting you.”

She touched her index finger to her lips. The innocence of the gesture reminded Peter of Darianna at that age, but his wife lost her innocence forcibly, long before they met, she told him the night he asked her to marry him.

“It might not be a secret once my paper circulates,” Marc pointed out. “I was as vague as possible about the location, but it has to be obvious.”

“I don’t really care who knows, I like being able to come and go as I please. The soldiers on guard at night usually sleep, and I’m the only one down here other than those two,” Peter pointed to the barely visible dark passage beyond the Guardian. “And they’re about as safe as it gets.”

“They?” Marc raised an eyebrow. “You alluded to this on the phone. Darianna and...?”

“That’s an even bigger secret.”

Peter led them to the wide base of the half-circular marble steps, the narrow top blocked by the Guardian.

“If my hunch is correct, you’ll find out soon enough. Do you remember now what happened?”

The professor drew a blank.

Peter explained for Evelyn, “When we first came down here, no one could get beyond that statue until my wife figured out the mystery.”

Evelyn looked closer at the nightmare carved from darkest crystal, like moonless midnight captured forever in place. “It’s fascinating,” she said.

“Go ahead, approach it,” Peter gave permission. “The discomforting sensation becomes tolerable with practice.”

Evelyn began confidently walking up, turned back wide-eyed at the two men when halfway to the top and beginning to feel the resisting force, and stopped well out of reach from the Guardian’s outstretched arms. The two hideous canine faces erupting from a central point made her squirm to look away.

“You never told me about this,” Evelyn probed Marc as she descended back down the steps in a hurry.

“I forgot,” he said.

“Marc was knocked out,” Peter told her.

Evelyn rubbed her boyfriend’s perfect hair and said, “I’m here to look out for him now. No big bad statue will get you. So how does it work?” she asked Peter, concealing her true thoughts behind a mask of feminine perfection.

“No idea,” Peter answered, and dropped the stuffed backpack. “On the way back to the surface I’ll tell you what I think. Tell you this, it’s been here since long before our current understanding of the rise of civilization: 20,000 years or more.”

“Don’t you need your pack?” Marc reached for it.

“It’s for Darianna. She must feel unsociable,” Peter shrugged, refusing to show the sadness of separation he felt. “She knows we’re here. If you want your answers, go talk to her—if you can.”

Marc asked, “Remember the name Darianna used for the statue?”

To Marc and Evelyn’s surprise, Peter replied, “It doesn’t like its name spoken aloud.”

Marc arched an incredulous eyebrow. Silver light flared from behind the passage protected by the Guardian. The air vibrated.

“Happens sometimes.” Nothing Peter hadn’t seen before.

Marc decided to ask Darianna another time.

****

Darianna cradled baby Antiochus. Soon he would be too big to comfortably hold. The tender body had aged two years in eight months. She scarcely felt the time.

Whether awake or asleep or dreaming, her mind focused solely on nourishing the flesh blossoming under her masterful care. She felt its every heartbeat, draw of breath into delicate lungs, pump of blood through developing arteries. In her mind’s eye she saw neurological synapses form and make new connections in response to fresh challenges. Vocal cords thickened as her child mimicked fundamental sounds. Muscles and tendons strengthened when he struggled up and down the steps of the Throne, determined to make his vessel respond to command.

Antiochus flowed energy with Darianna to shape his balky flesh, toiling night and day to acclimate with his new home. Darianna’s awareness penetrated every cell with healing, enhanced by the focusing properties of the pyramid room walled with silver. They drew mother’s milk from Earth’s roots and gave life to the God-Child. She ceased to exist in any other way.

The beautiful child opened big blue eyes. Darianna locked gazes. Higher awareness showed in his fresh features; awesome intelligence stared back, a hint that Antiochus had taken a major step in transmutation. His black pupil reflected the vast and eternal mind that had called his queen out of time to rebirth him.

She wept with joy. Antiochus wiped the salty excretion and put it in his mouth.

“Today I demonstrate my command by defeating my enemy,” the small mouth formed disconcertingly mature words. “Then the path is made straight.”

“You said ‘I’. You’d never referred to yourself in the first person until now,” Darianna noticed.

Baby Antiochus reverted to coos and giggles, and just as quickly back to full awareness.

“I. I am! Do you want to know who would dare oppose me?” He struggled to form words involving subtle tongue movements, but she understood him, and soon so would the rest of the world.

“I’ve seen only possibilities. Who?”

“Fools.”

****

“...Fools,” agreed Ruth and Shiri Hasmon, staring over the vast assembly meditating on the east terrace while facing the statue of another Antiochus. Its living awareness, however, came from the pyramid chamber of power below the mountaintop.

“I wish David was here to see this,” said Shiri. “Pictures don’t compare to feeling the energy.”

In Israel to teach summer college courses, David Gilaadi struggled to keep a foot in the academic world after graduation.

Ruth caught sight of the three priests—Aggememnon, Cipheus, and Yousef—on the Fire Altar. Their idol statue gave the Israeli a creepy feeling of being watched, no matter where she found space to stand on the east terrace.

The diversity of the throng struck her sister Shiri: male and female, young to old, skin shades from bone white to tar black. Rich and poor. Visitor and native. Never had she witnessed such a mixture in one place. The picture of harmony made her question whether the sisters were mistaken about which Antiochus led this movement, the Scroll of Philipp turning up when it did coincidentally?

“There’s no chance what is happening here is unrelated, is there?” Shiri had to admit she agreed with the overall message broadcasting to the world from the sacred mountain. Who could oppose peace and reconciliation? Some Israelis spoke openly of asking Demetrius to help with the Palestinians.

Ruth panned across the crowd and asked in reply, “How many people do we know who feel the same way as us? Think of the warning from Judas Maccabeus in father’s dream before our poppa was murdered. Think of Rabbi Yochanan and the other rabbis dreaming dreams and having visions.” Ruth snapped her fingers. “Think of the date when all this started last summer. We’re witnessing deception on a global scale.”

“If only those fools sitting in front of the statue knew the source,” said Shiri, wishing.

“Maybe it’s our job to inform them,” Ruth proposed.

“Right now. We’ll just walk up and say excuse me, wake the hell up.”

“How long before security carted us away?”

Ruth elbowed toward a pair of Turkish soldiers positioned to the side of the terrace, rifles slung, and two more on the Fire Altar scanning over the crowd. They appeared bored. A rope barrier supported from poles driven into the rock prevented people from climbing onto the massive stone slabs supporting the risen statue, effective enough to keep away the curious but not the determined.

Ruth said, “We could climb up the base of the statue like desperate devotees, slavishly seeking approval.”

Shiri imitated humping like a dog.

“Let’s go find Abby, our young innkeeper who is ensnared in all of this. He had something he wanted to show us.”

****

Journalist Cameron Starr surveyed “the seekers”—his nickname for the gathering of souls camped on top of Mt. Nemrut and the surrounding hillsides—one last time. Tired after three days of filming a documentary, and seeing nothing new to report, Cameron suggested hopefully that the crew wrap. The director agreed.

Cameron couldn’t wait for a hot shower and a real meal. Not that they had roughed it like a lot of the campers—the production truck had a refrigerator and microwave, among other amenities—but the international correspondent preferred four-star hotels. He desired to vacate, pronto, back to London. They had seen all they came to see, but he had a sinking feeling they’d be back.

Cameron left behind his coworkers to think about the wrap-up segment. In the raw, he might look at the camera and say, “Boss, why’d you send me way out here again, anyway? It’s an honor to be picked for your personal projects. And the golf trip to St. Andrews was fabulous. But three days up here—and counting?”

Three days interacting with a remarkable and eclectic group, admittedly, not the crackpots Cameron expected to find. The consolation failed to lessen the feeling that he was being taken for a ride instead of giving one. He had done everything asked, yet a rookie could have reported basically the same story: A bunch of people think they’ve been called to the mountain sanctuary to await the coming of something they can’t explain but expect to be world-changing.

The journalist had plenty of raw material to consider for the wrap-up: a French teenager describing how her teachers expressed support of The Way’s emphasis on good citizenship and change through cooperation; the Nepalese man seeking Vishnu’s incarnation, an avatar said to be reborn at the end of time to lead mass spiritual transformation; the Ethiopian holy man pursuing the magic symbol seen in the smoke of a ceremonial fire. Dozens of stories floated through Cameron’s head—how did he weave it all into a single narrative?

Summation: “Ladies and gentlemen of the television audience, this is what’s happening where you aren’t right now. But I’m here, and that’s why you love me,” Cameron joked with himself, asking why he was not home enjoying the company of his beautiful wife and daughters. Dare he describe what he’d seen so far with the strongest journalistic word possible: phenomenon?

The consensus in the media industry was against a description so strong. Not yet. “Let’s use sensation,” Cameron decided, talking to himself as he walked briskly through the crowd.

“Here we are in the middle of nowhere that’s become somewhere, and not just somewhere but the happening place to be. We have a peacemaking priest of an ancient religion revived in the nick of time to save the world from self-destruction. We have a growing and devoted movement claiming the mysterious events as harbingers. We have a statue attracting hordes to see the “sensation.””

The big boss, Alistaire Campbell, agreed with the phrasing, Cameron considered as he descended past the parking area and onto the main road. He needed a good stretch of his long legs and wanted to test himself against the uneven terrain. Mr. Campbell made clear his views. He pushed them by assigning his hottest talent—lucky Cameron—for the upcoming television extravaganza. The executive producer backed his bet with heavy on-air promotion, a splash across the front page of the BCC website, and daily teaser reports to be used as part of a documentary combining history with current events. He had the entire industry eating from his hand.

And what did he do next? Up the ante.

Cameron began to suspect the reason for his boss’s enthusiasm might not be all journalistic, or even business. Now there was a story for an enterprising reporter in no need of a job. Opposing Alistaire Campbell would be like standing on the rubble of the World Trade Center and saying, “Wait, everyone, do we really want to fly off the handle?”

Cameron’s instincts tingled. He had to be careful how closely he became associated with the story, in case it all came tumbling down. But he’d already come so far, and wondered what would happen if someone exposed Demetrius as a defrocked Albanian monk once caught plugging a goat. People were digging. Every major news organization had someone investigating to land the story of the century, but so far no birth records, no traffic tickets, no credit history or land titles or marriage licenses or former neighbors. Demetrius and his two Brothers simply appeared one day. After nearly a year of investigation, someone should have found something. Which left the other possibility much more likely:

Demetrius and his movement were for real.

If so, Cameron told himself, he should feel damn lucky. His rise owed major thanks to breaking the story and the exclusives fed by the mountain priest. Tying their fates together?

Cameron set aside the question. He upped his tempo when he saw the footpath used the previous summer, the first time at the mountaintop. Even if he got lost, the peak’s distinctive triangular peak could be located easily enough, so he cleared his mind and attacked the trail. The thinner air required more work by the heart and lungs, the uneven footing adding extra stress to the lower body, the sudden drop-offs lending extra excitement to the run. In no time he was up to speed, loving the challenge and so zoned-in, he almost plowed over three people stopped on the trail.

“Mr. Starr?” Abby recognized him. Ruth and Shiri recognized Cameron as the BCC correspondent with access to inside information.

“You are...?”

“Abby.”

“Brother of?”

“Akbar.”

“That’s right. How are you doing these days?”

Abby almost smiled at the irony. “This is some coincidence. I was explaining to the Israeli sisters how we found Akbar’s sunglasses here, and presume this is where he was taken.”

“Taken?”

“You know the word.”

“Kidnapped,” Ruth clarified.

Cameron, until that moment wishing only to extricate himself from the situation, suddenly felt a cold knot tying up the pit of his stomach.

“Why? Who did it?”

Abby shook his head sadly. “We don’t know, but he’s been seen in Iraq. The Sunni are using him for something.”

"A pawn,” said Shiri.

“Well, I hope he returns home safely.”

Cameron suddenly tied the information together in his head. It explained why the Sunni’s changed their tune and supported Demetrius’s peacemaking in Iraq: He led them to a fellow Sunni, Akbar, as a witness. Kidnapped?

Ruth said, “You first reported the story.”

“Soon followed by many others.” Next, Cameron expected them to blame him for Akbar’s disappearance.

“What do you think of all this?” Ruth meant the overall events.

“The goals of priests are noble. It’s a sensation.”

“What if I told you it’s all a fraud?”

Cameron crossed his arms. “Prove it,” he challenged.

“The first time I saw you here on television, I was sitting in a hospital waiting room, to find out if our uncle survived the targeted suicide blast which killed my father and three brothers in Jerusalem. At the moment of their deaths, our father was reading an ancient scroll about the secret burial place of Israel’s ancient enemy, Antiochus Epiphanes. Guess where the location is?”

“Here?” Cameron took the bait.

“Here.” Ruth didn’t know for sure, but neither was it the time for equivocation. “Guess when the trouble started?”

Cameron wiped sweat from his impressive brow. He’d cooled down from his run and regretted it. “I bet you’re going to tell me last summer.” “The very day you first so breathlessly reported from here.”

“And gee,” Shiri sarcastically noted, “no one in the mainstream media has said a thing.”

“Look into it,” Ruth encouraged.

“Well, it’s quite a story if true,” answered Cameron, thinking: fat chance. “You are?”

“I’m Ruth Hasmon. This is my sister, Shiri Hasmon.”

Shiri slipped the journalist a business card. “Contact us for the real story.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Cameron noticed the Jerusalem office address on the card, and chewed on his thoughts as he walked away. With Abby and the Hasmons close behind, the journalist quickened his pace back to the east terrace.

The harried director fussed about Cameron’s appearance when the journalist returned, the camera waiting on a tripod for the finishing shot. He decided, since no one else had provided a skeptical voice, to remind viewers, no story is complete until the end, and while a sensation, all sensations eventually expire—unless they become phenomena.

****

A kilometer from the mountaintop, the Bailey brothers encountered lines of vehicles on the side of the road, and parked.

“The Glock pistols were good thinking,” Earl said. “Rifles woulda raised a ruckus before we got near the top.”

“I spotted folks with backpacks,” said Jonas as he turned off the ignition. “How fortunate.” He jangled the keys. “Above the visor.” Assuming one or both of them made it back alive.

They opened the trunk and strapped on duel under-shoulder pistol holders. Beneath the spare tire, a large padlocked toolbox contained four matte-black Glock 9mm pistols, quickly holstered and covered with reversible windbreakers. Around their waists they cinched fanny packs loaded with extra clips, and finally: the two explosive charges rigged with timers preset to 30 seconds, one each concealed in a backpack.

The brothers would activate the timers and toss the packs onto the high platform, where the head of the idol statue stood on its throne. The Baileys assumed ten or fifteen seconds of confusion, leaving fifteen or twenty seconds for someone to try to climb up and toss the backpacks away, if they dared, under heavy fire. The brothers could escape in a fusillade of bullets, or reverse their jackets and caps and blend with the stampeding crowd. Ideally, no one got killed except maybe some military grunts, and the Baileys made it home heroes, a crippling blow delivered to the Beast.

“Ten minutes to get back,” Jonas ordered.

“We’ll be at each others sides the whole way,” said Earl.

Jonas sternly slapped Earl’s chest. “Ten minutes, hear me? If I’m not back, you get home. And know what I want you to do then? Get a wife. Don’t look shocked. Have some sons and name one after me. I’m serious.”

Earl hugged his older brother, an awkward moment. Feelings weren’t Jonas Bailey’s strong point. A few pats, then back to business.

An extended white Econoline van pulled to the side of the road. The Kurdish driver—Azeel—whistled cheerfully, his pockets fatter with every run to the mountain. He hurried to open the passenger door and loose a flock of Argentinian tourists. The family man went about his business, knowing what his labor supported back home.

“Hurry up!” urged Earl Bailey.

Jonas removed the red vinyl pocket New Testament he had carried since junior high school. In almost every margin, notes and inspirations were penciled. The rolling-paper thin pages symbolized a large part of his life. It couldn’t be left behind; instead he slipped it back into the inner pocket of his jacket over his heart, where it belonged, to protect him as it always had.

With everything secured, pistols loaded and concealed, they waited for the tour group and joined the flow of souls migrating to the mountaintop.

****

Ruth saw their chance. “Check out Starr getting ready for the camera,” she said to Shiri. “Let’s see if we can get into the background shot. We’ll do something—protest somehow. Something is better than nothing.”

“They’ll edit us out if we do anything obnoxious.” Shiri demonstrated with her middle finger. “They’ll understand that in English.”

Holding hands to avoid separating, the twin sisters slipped into the flow of people, which at mid-afternoon had peaked at several hundred coming or going at any moment. A knot of warm bodies jostled for position by the barrier around the base of the risen statue’s stone slab platform. On the Fire Altar sat the priests with an eclectic group of meditating students. Ruth and Shiri stood behind, watching the BCC production crew perform a lighting test. They spotted Abby with a Turkish soldier—Temel—leisurely guarding near the rope barrier, another soldier on the other side also paying cursory attention. Abby, standing next to Temel, waved back.

“Those are the Israelis I told you about,” Abby told Temel. “They wouldn’t stay at my inn, not with the priests there, but it’s full anyway.”

“Then what are you doing up here?” the young soldier asked, leaning on his rifle while enjoying the brisk breeze and intensely blue sky. As much as he complained, the assignment had perks. Complaining was part of the military.

“I had to get away for a while,” said Abby. “The women run the place. I just live there.”

Temel slapped him on the back and asked, “How about the young one?”

“Medra?”

“She has eyes for you.”

“Sometimes I think she likes me,” Abby tried to understand, “but sometimes she doesn’t say anything, or even act like she knows me.”

“Does that happen when the older women are around?”

“Come to think of it,” Abby realized.

“Village girls act disinterested to avoid stirring trouble among the old hens, who might connive to sabotage a young couple. It happens,” Temel warned. “Watch out for the wombs with cobwebs.”

The explanation fit perfectly. Abby returned Temel’s slap on the back.

“Thank you, my friend. You are good with the ladies.”

“I have many sisters,” explained Temel, “and aunts and nieces and female cousins....”

****

The Bailey brothers first walked the entire site, east terrace to west terrace and back to east, and spotted five pairs of soldiers: one pair by the stone platform on the east terrace, one on the Fire Altar, one on the north terrace watching the main approach, one on the west terrace, and the last pair posted at a canopied command post to the side of the parking area, lounging in the shade. The brothers guessed that a few people in the crowd were certain to be Turkish secret police. “They look relaxed,” said Earl.

“Yep,” Jonas agreed. “Only a few are holding their field rifles.” He gave final orders. “Two-shot bursts. Don’t burn your ammo just because you have the clips. Stay ‘til it blows, then we dash. Avoid dropping civilians if you can, but mission first. Jesus will forgive us. Let us pray.”

They grasped hands and placed their foreheads together.

****

Cameron maintained his best camera-ready smile, waiting to begin filming. The director waved away Ruth and Shiri loitering in the background. Cameron exhaled in frustration at another delay, opened his mouth to politely ask the Hasmon sisters to get the hell out of his last shot, and saw two backpacks tossed from the crowd. Both packs landed on the statue platform. Both then rolled off with the momentum and skipped all of the way back down. Cameron whipped to his videographer.

“Did you see that!”

Earl Bailey jumped the barrier and grabbed the closest pack. Jonas saw on his brother’s face that he planned all along to sacrifice himself to ensure success; no bailing out of this sinking plane. Next-best choice: provide cover fire.

Jonas reached across his chest inside of his jacket and drew the pistols. Temel scrambled while his partner prepared to fire. Jonas squeezed the trigger twice and killed the soldier with a perfect double-tap to the chest and head. Instant death.

People scattered. Jonas crouched, aimed, and missed with two shots at Temel before being engaged by the pair of soldiers on the Fire Altar. Earl struggled to reach the risen statue by climbing the back of the support platform, protected from gunfire.

Temel pushed Abby to the ground, sprang forward and grabbed the other backpack. A quick look inside confirmed his fear: a bomb. Jonas Bailey raised a pistol to fire, but terrified fleeing tourists momentarily prevented his shot.

Abby scooped up Temel’s heavy AK-47 rifle as best he could and fired a bone-rattling burst, distracting Jonas for Temel’s get-away. He then dropped the rifle like a poisonous snake and fled in the chaos.

Temel looked for somewhere to toss the backpack with the bomb. South, away from my people, he heard in his mind. The young soldier scrambled that direction.

Ruth and Shiri fled with the frightened hoard.

Cameron Starr took cover. He noticed that his videographer, courageously or foolishly, held ground behind the camera despite the whizzing bullets. He’ll either get a Pulitzer or a flight home in a box, Cameron would later claim to have thought at the time. However, the higher-functioning mind shuts down and pure instinct takes over when the concussions of weapons fire assault the senses.

Jonas, pinned at the base of the statue, ducked for cover and reloaded both pistols. Earl above him fired until both pistols emptied, then clutched the backpack, pressed himself against the risen head with his eyes clamped shut and recited the Lord’s Prayer. The Turkish soldiers were not advancing, time almost run out to prevent detonation. Hallelujah, the Nazarite mission would strike a death blow for Jesus!

Jonas triggered until dry-firing, dropped the pistols and used the lull to safely scamper up. Earl angrily pushed him away when he reached the top.

“Save yourself!”

Jonas accepted his imminent death and embraced his brother frontally, the backpack bomb wedged between them.

“I was hard on you, but our daddy’s family had the alcohol demon, and I couldn’t let you become like them.”

“God put us together,” said Earl. “I’ll see you in Heaven.”

They grasped hands and sunk to the ground. The incredible intensity drew out every moment. Seconds ticked away like minutes—agonizing, elating minutes....

Temel reached the inaccessible south face of the mountaintop, whirled the backpack and threw it. It sailed away when the explosion hit. One second, two.

Jonas frantically unzipped his backpack and checked the bomb. The timer blinked zero. Earl opened his eyes.

“Cover me!” yelled Jonas. His brother peeked over the edge of the platform. Cameron saw the baseball cap-covered head of Earl Bailey take a bullet between the eyes.

Earl slumped dead. Jonas frantically tried to figure out what went wrong.

Ruth and Shiri, swept along in the rush, found Abby on the path to the parking area. They pulled to the side, poised between fight, flight or freeze. The gunfire stopped.

Jonas Bailey heard stones rolling and spotted the top of a helmet. The best he could tell, the detonation cord must have been defective, though he had triple-checked it. He threw the backpack, felt around for Earl’s pistol, found it, and stuck it to his own temple.

Click. Click.

Light exploded in the elder Bailey brother’s head. The burly Turkish sergeant stood over his unconscious body, ready to deliver another blow with the butt of his rifle.

Cameron’s videographer lofted the camera and ran forward. The journalist reluctantly followed. He crouched, running across the terrace from the Fire Altar.

The sergeant yelled orders as soldiers swarmed. They covered the dead Turkish soldier, and lay Earl’s dead body next to Jonas, bound and limp. Cameron and his cameraman saw the sergeant inspect a small red Bible taken from Earl’s pocket. A soldier dashed away toward the north terrace, quickly followed by two more. The sergeant demanded Cameron’s presence.

“Show the world what terrorists tried to do,” the sergeant spat at the bloodied bodies of the Bailey brothers. He picked up the unexploded backpack and opened it for the camera. “This is what.”

Narrated Cameron, “The timer reads zero. A terrible tragedy avoided. Miraculous.” He promptly forgot everything else he’d learned that day. Ruth, Shiri and Abby stalked back to the east terrace, but were met by two soldiers ordering them away.

“I must find out what happened to Temel,” Abby said, and tried to push passed. One of the soldiers shook his head regretfully; Abby’s childhood friend did not survive. He caught sight of Cipheus and desperately hollered his name. The young priest waved him over.

“See?” Abby implored the soldier restraining him.

“You only,” the soldier relented. He swept away Ruth and Shiri. “We saw the brave Turkish soldier run away with the backpack, then heard the explosion,” Cameron continued narrating. “I can’t believe what just happened. This sensation the world is experiencing here in remote Turkey has officially become a phenomenon.”

The journalist’s mouth moved on autopilot as the camera panned across the landscape, showing people trapped between the action and the exit. “Come out!” Cameron shouted, doped on the leftover adrenaline rush. He said to the camera, “I remember my first time up here last summer, when Demetrius led the Festival of Lights. He was an unknown to the world back then. He told me: ‘Cameron, you feel the gusting wind and see the many candles lit for this special night. Not one will blow out. Not one.’ He offered the demonstration to prove his efficacy to me, and it worked. I’ll never forget.”

Cameron faced the lens, thinking hard about how to conclude. “He’s in Europe at the moment, using his impressive skills of persuasion on the remaining EU countries with reservations about granting Turkey full membership. After what happened today, the fence-sitters will have to reevaluate the wisdom of their position. The only other choice at this point is to turn back the way we came, and no one wants to confront the abyss again after walking away from it.”

****

Peter sensed a change in the air as soon as he reached the surface with Marc and Evelyn. No soldiers guarded the underground entrance. He noticed an acrid smell and the lack of sound from the crowds above on the east terrace. He heard nothing, in fact.

Following behind Evelyn, Marc saw Peter’s expression and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Smell that?” Peter remembered hearing a rumble on the way up from the deep, thinking it was his imagination.

Marc turned serious when he caught the acrid whiff of battle. He crept up the back trail leading to the east terrace, motioning Peter and Evelyn to stay a few steps behind. As his eyes rose above ground level, he caught sight of people grouped close together near the statues, though no one else. The crowds were gone.

Seeing no danger, he jogged around the Fire Altar to the back of a group of people standing like trees over a dead branch. With Evelyn and Peter close behind, Marc finally saw the sergeant. Then saw blood on the ground. The BCC videographer caught the “What the fu--” expression as it dawned on Marc’s face. The professor wrapped his arm protectively around Evelyn.

Peter saw a young local Turk—Abby—and asked, “What happened?”

Abby’s face struggled to form a coherent expression. “A bomb killed my friend,” he said sadly, “and the other didn’t explode. It’s a miracle more people didn’t die.”

“The miracles are starting to add up.” Peter directed his statement at the limestone face of King Antiochus that lorded over the east terrace. Down below, another King Antiochus heard him.

****

Roger Ecksby recognized the red New Testament pulled from the pocket of Jonas Bailey. Without a doubt it contained enough information to quickly and easily trace back to the Nazarites—and back to Roger and the reverend. What a stupid mistake!

Reverend Fallin rooted in place, afraid to take a step any direction. FOX News broke a special report: “An attack at mythic Mt. Nemrut. We’re just getting the video feed, but you can see clearly on the live Internet broadcast that—”

Roger and his reverend had seen it all. The pagan idol still stood, another miracle added to its legend.

Fallin paced across the spacious office. All those years; all that work. He followed the same internal voice as always to reveal scripture and truth. Why, he wondered, would it be wrong now? What did the Lord want? On the screen flashed the faces of the Bailey brothers from their passport photos, enhanced clearly enough to recognize on a busy street.

“It won’t be long until they come for us. It’s best to accept the inevitable. We have failed,” said the reverend.

He turned away from the television to see Roger, face oily and expressionless, slip his hand into his pants pocket.

“You are right as always, reverend. It is inevitable.” Roger stared at the screen without really seeing it.

The coverage changed to Rome, the Turkish embassy. In split-screen, the viewers saw a podium covered with microphones. A news conference hastily assembled. Reverend Fallin turned up the volume, unable to help himself.

“...Demetrius will speak any moment. He had planned to announce Italian support for Turkey’s acceptance into the EU, now that the Vatican has voiced approval. But of course the news of the hour overrides everything else. Here he comes now.”

Demetrius entered the scene from a door behind the podium, dressed in an olive suit, burgundy Italian shoes and cream dress shirt. The silver triquetra medallion around his neck caught the camera flashes. No half-smile or merry wink as usual in his gray eyes; instead his expression reflected the fires of a primal forge. He waited until the room silenced before beginning.

“Today the enemy of reason has shown its true nature. It was inevitable. Some powers of this world feel threatened by us, and whatever they feel threatened by, they try to destroy under the guise of piety. They failed because The Way is not something physical which can be blown up; it lives in the hearts and hopes of all who seek peace, live honestly, and aid their fellow human beings. I call on everyone to use this moment as a renewal of faith in our common goodness. We will overcome radicalism, to evolve as a species and achieve a world order based on enlightenment and brotherhood.”

Jeremiah dropped heavily onto the couch next to Roger, dreading every word.

“I call upon the perpetrators to come out of shadow and explain yourselves. Whatever misconceptions you have need to be corrected, to right your wrongs and open your eyes to truth, evident for the world to see: We come in peace. But as the terrorists in Iraq and elsewhere have been learning, there’s nowhere to hide. Spirit sees into every heart. All corruption will be exposed.

“I have spoken with Turkish authorities. The origin of the two suicide attackers has already been traced with the help of U.S. security officials, and the responsible party will receive a knock at his door very soon.”

Demetrius stared into the camera lens at Jeremiah Fallin and hammered the final nail. “Innocent lives have already been lost. Surrender and we’ll clear up this mistake.” Then the peacemaker departed as reporters shouted questions at his back.

“We have an entire legal department and a network of the best attorneys in the country,” Reverend Fallin encouraged his trusted secretary, Roger. “We’ll fight like dogs. What can they prove? Nothing we don’t tell them. Nothing. We’ll drag it out for years, and every time a camera is rolling or an ear listening, we’ll proclaim the corruptness of these people and their so-called sacred mountain.”

Roger sat still. Jeremiah hauled himself off the couch and paced. The security door buzzed.

The conspirators looked at each other, knowing what the sound meant. They couldn’t see, or talk to, anyone on the other side. Repairing the camera and intercom had become low priorities as Ministry revenues plunged. Nothing but trouble would be in the office complex late at night, buzzing at the door.

Reverend Fallin wrapped a tie around his neck. He still smelled of aftershave. He would at least look dignified. Smile and show them Jesus, he thought.

Roger Ecksby stared in the mirror over the reverend’s shoulder. He’d had nightmares about what was going to happen next, in prison. Nightmares he couldn’t allow to come true for either of them.

“They’ll humiliate you at every turn. You know who controls this world. They won’t just bury us in the deepest hole, they’ll bury us with some sicko pervert. A ruler like you mustn’t ever be profaned. That’s God’s law.”

Jeremiah worked his tie. The door buzzed insistently.

“What choice do we have? Make them prove whatever they can,” he replied. “Remember the Maccabees. All odds were against them, too. Maybe we’ll get bail.”

Reverend Fallin had to be spared knowing his last moments had arrived, Roger knew as sure as he breathed. No more prayers, no more talk. The Nazarite would fulfill his duty to protect the reverend’s soul from stain and his body from sodomy.

Jeremiah had a sneaking suspicion when he caught Roger’s eye in the mirror.

“You aren’t going to crack, are you?”

Roger peered fearfully toward the security door’s open button. Problem with the office is it had no windows, no other way out than the door, and anyone outside knew someone was inside when the security locks were engaged. His heart beat so hard he feared it might crack a rib. “I knew what I was signing up for,” he managed to say.

“Good. Then get ready, I need you strong. This is your chance to stand before the cameras and proclaim your love for our Savior.”

The buzzer: longer, urgent, piercing.

“I am strong. My arm is a sword.”

Roger stepped behind Reverend Fallin. The same face that had led millions of souls to Jesus, helped elect presidents, and counseled the powerful went immediately slack after Roger pulled a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson revolver from his pocket and stuck it to the reverend’s head.

A blue trail of thin smoke drifted from the snub barrel. The buzzer rang frantically. He considered putting the life-taker to his own head, but that was crazy. The news people would find something in his past and explain him away. No, Roger would carry on the message. His tongue would loose when he took the stand. He was St. Paul going to Rome to face Caesar, execution the final stop. The Nazarites all hoped for martyrdom. Reverend Fallin didn’t have long to live, anyway. Or so said the whisper in Roger’s left ear. He dropped the revolver next to the television remote on the couch.

The buzzer stopped. Roger’s face felt slick with heavy perspiration. Long stains spread under his arms. The smell was god-awful. He opened the door.

Paula, ashen-faced, tried to push through, but Roger blocked her path. No SWAT team behind her, instead a handful of the concerned congregation. They all knew immediately what he had done, but they would never understand why.

Paula broke free and dashed into the office. She screamed at sight of the body. All those judging eyes—he couldn’t stand it!

Roger Ecksby fled into the night.

Chapter 42

News of the reverend’s fall struck the American president hard. After all, Jeremiah Fallin had baptized him into the evangelical faith.

Like most people, the president agreed that some of Reverend Fallin’s statements could be construed as outrageous, but anything can sound outrageous when taken out of context, he knew as one frequently misunderstood. Fallin had harvested many souls for Jesus. For a noble man to die in such a disgraceful way....

Terrorists.

The surviving Bailey brother confirmed the story after a little talk-juice—as the CIA boys liked to call it—slipped into his veins. Stuff could turn a raging radical into a babbling schoolboy, and Jonas told a tale of religious and political intrigue. The president’s condolences to the reverend’s family would have to be expressed privately, the whole mess swept under an extra-large rug.

The parties responsible would be subjected to the harshest justice, the president promised publicly: Biblical. Agents did not find anthrax at the Nazarite’s compound, but the cultish religious group was tied by leaks in the conservative media to the attack on Marc Reynolds at American University. To think such devoted Christians could be so misled.

After dinner and a late briefing the president watched a baseball game with the first lady. She noticed as they lay together that he felt less tense. Cracks still showed around his mouth and eyes, but eight turbulent years in the world’s highest office will do that. They enjoyed the gentle drone of the game.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he began to speak his mind during a pitching change. “With everything that’s happened lately, and all that we’ve learned about what these people can do, I’ve decided to throw my full support behind Demetrius—for whatever that’s worth as a lame duck, or so they say. I’ve got game left.”

The first lady hugged his chest, pleased.

“Don’t have much time left on this big ride to make things right,” he said wistfully. “The only possibility of that happenin’ is with this one-named fella. Something about him just feels right. And with the reverend gone, I’m free to bet the pot.”

“You see? Help comes from unexpected places.” She rubbed him soothingly. “I knew everything would work out. What do your generals say about Iraq?”

“Sporadic fighting, mostly criminal stuff. Demetrius knows some people with an uncanny way of helping our military boys locate true bad guys. My sunset approaches, but I feel better now leaving the world in good hands.”

The first lady slipped her middle finger into the top of his slacks. He knew what that meant.

“When surfing the Internet at night, I’d drop into chat rooms and tell people that everything was going to work out,” she admitted. “I got shouted down a lot, pretty tough to do on a computer screen. But I also met people who believe what started in Iraq was necessary to lead to a larger peace. I wanted to shout back: my husband the POTUS and I agree! My only hesitation about really believing in the mountain awakening came from what the reverend said about the Antichrist and all that, but the poor man must have been losing his mind.”

Let’s hope I’m not losing mine, thought the president.

Chapter 43

Raja Gopinath first saw the symbol of the sacred mountain in a monumental dream that jerked his body lying beneath luxurious silk sheets.

A steam locomotive laden with bells and whistles clamored by his vision, making a nails-across-chalkboard sound. Coffins trailed behind instead of railroad cars. Unusual, coffins were not the burial custom of his people, the Hindus.

The image disturbed him. Raja wanted to leave the scene, but something about the engine drew his attention. The point of view changed to the front: a face molded into the black metal—his face floating in the center of a triangle superimposed over the tubular engine, a runaway train roaring forward.

Raja awakened from the disturbing dream in his high-rise apartment feeling suspended in the air by a thread. His concubine, a delicate teenager he’d rescued from the slums, slept soundly beside him. The boy lacked the same tolerance for wine and the ability to shake off its side effects. Raja let him sleep.

He had a clear conscience, the Hindu nationalist wanted to believe, but the symbolism of a train of the dead reignited on old internal debate. He had only encouraged his people to defend their national identity. They took the actions resulting in massacre.

Silk robe piled on the tile floor, he stood in the shower just out of reach of the hot water, his soft brown skin coating pleasantly with steam. Wash away the doubts, he asked the cleansing cloud. And now for some pain—shape those brows!

Pluck! I’m comfortable with the bargain, Raja insisted. Appearances are everything.

Pluck! The Muslims had it coming.

Pluck pluck! I’d be wallowing in filth otherwise, scrounging gruel with animals and bugs. Now I help others rise out of the slum, in return for certain favors....

The rubber met the road. If he acted solely out of impersonal interest, his self-justifications withstood scrutiny, but add indulgence and the scales tipped, luxury bought in pounds of flesh. No denying he served himself first and foremost. Tweezers hovering over his black-ringed eyes, seen up close in a steam-free mirror, he finally allowed the acknowledgment of his sin to come into full light of day.

Raja put down the tweezers to confront the water. Blazing hot it met his skin. Wash away the sweat and grime, he asked. Cleanse foul coatings figurative and literal.

Pores wide open, he embraced the truth and turned up the heat. His speech to the thronging rally probably incited a mob to surround the train full of Muslim pilgrims passing through his province and burn them alive. He didn’t say: Attack the train and hack to death the fleeing survivors. Raja called his people to protect their national pride. When the Muslims stole Pakistan, they chose sides. They don’t deserve to shit in one of our holes or spoil our air with their treasonous emissions. If they want to live in our country, he said, they should know who runs the show. Never forget Mumbai!

Off went the Hindu mob, rampaging through women and children, and the Muslims had their revenge in innocent Hindu lives taken. The pattern repeated, elevating people like Raja to positions of power, able to touch a common vein of anger among the people. With power came wealth. Nothing could be proven. No crime, no court.

Raja looked at himself and said, “Split those hairs all you want, you know better. You can’t continue on this path to power with a monkey riding on your back, cackling the whole way. Admit it.”

He did, and turned the decorator shower handle to all hot water, benefiting from a high-temperature water heater. Ahh! His scalding skin loosed the last tiny fractions of grime to wash away down the drain.

Raja gradually turned the water to ice cold and reveled in the ecstatic sensation of his pores sucking closed, the heat leaving his skin. What a rush! Now to decide what to do.

He feared facing death with all those haunted spirits he believed were waiting for a chance at revenge. Going to the police and confessing to mass murder wouldn’t absolve him. The provincial authorities were controlled by nationalists, and they would bury him alive before he could get the third word out of his mouth. He could call a press conference. Or he could try to make it better with discrete donations to the widows and orphans. A good idea, but not enough by itself to balance the scales.

Breathing in deep pants, Raja toweled off and applied lavender oil to his entire body, slipped on draped silk comfort, and walked into the kitchen. A television tuned to the BCC while he brewed tea and opened his journal. The dream he duly entered, but left out the interpretation. He never knew who might get their hands on his private writings.

Raja stashed the journal in a locked kitchen drawer, then wandered into the living room with his tea. The busy day of deal-making and glad-handing could wait while he stretched out on a soft leather couch, luxuriating in the cool feel on his skin, still pulsating from the shower treatment. His excited phallus invited his hand for a pull or two.

On the television, a report from Mt. Nemrut in Turkey, Raja heard in one ear. He opened his eyes and saw Demetrius on the Fire Altar, speaking to the crowds. The guilty Hindu politician riveted on the shiny medallion around the peacemaker’s neck: The same symbol from his dream.

The excitement in Raja’s phallus drained away, but another kind blossomed in its place. He called his travel agent and made reservations for two.

Chapter 44

Abby shifted the orange school bus into a higher gear for more power to haul the full load up a straight, steep stretch to the mountaintop for the Festival of Lights. The ungainly vehicle coughed in response to the amateur driving. Cipheus walked up the aisle between the rows of seats to the front of bus and placed a hand on the driver’s shoulder.

“We have plenty of time,” said the young priest.

“But the checkpoint,” Abby worried.

“The path is clear ahead for those who know The Way.”

Improved security since the attempted bombing of the risen statue, plus the assembly of notables expected for the Festival and the massive volume of people, created long waits as soldiers searched vehicles and dogs sniffed for explosives. But the soldiers at the checkpoint waved through Abby’s carriage, aware of how he had tried to save their deceased comrade, Temel. They called Abby a hero, when Abby knew the real hero to be the childhood friend who sacrificed himself to save the statue and nearby people.

Plenty of time.

Yousef, a guest at the Inn of Brotherly Love, taught Abby to relax with deep breaths while focused on one thought, so he repeated a mantra—God is Good, Good is God—until it carved a smile on his face. The bus chugged along, and the heavy vibrating sound crowded out all other thoughts except driving.

Cipheus steadied Abby and turned to his passengers, among them Raja Gopinath with his “younger brother” in the back. Odd how the priest in beautiful white robes met Raja’s eyes in the crowd and later slipped an invitation into his hand. The special guest from India presumed everyone else enjoying the free ride was similarly chosen.

For six days leading up to the Festival of Lights, during the holiest week of Nemrut’s ancient midsummer tradition, Abby hosted the special guests of the mountain priests. The expanded house brimmed with deep conversations and frequent eruptions of sparkling laughter. To accommodate, the Order hired a clan of Kurdish carpenters to expand the kitchen, install more plumbing for washing and prep, and build an underground cooler. The skilled carpenters also corrected a potentially fatal flaw that would have inevitably led to the whole structure sliding down the gradient it was built upon. Akbar’s first crew, cobbled together from locals, neglected to account for the potential weight added by dozens of guests. At the request of the kitchen ladies, the affable carpenters installed a front porch and added a coat of pine green paint to the old wooden building, to blend with and compliment the mountain scenery.

One more hour of the carpenters’ time and they fulfilled another request: dividers in the big A-frame room. Abby initially objected, wanting to preserve the openness and communal feel of the space, but the clever craftsmen devised a solution: two-meter tall stretches of heavy fabric beginning at each wall, meeting in the middle to form a cross, installed on nearly invisible hangers for easy modification on all eight ends. The dorm-style space converted to four sections in moments. For themselves, the crew constructed a temporary open shelter in the back, and rigged a row of hammocks that became a permanent addition. Anyone who wanted to sleep in a hammock had to dress for the nightly mountain chill, but otherwise enjoyed immensely peaceful rest while suspended off the ground. The serene mountain views invited long naps and snapshots.

The Inn of Brotherly Love became the second-most popular attraction around for visitors and natives alike during the midsummer season. Days of music were followed by nights traveling back and forth to Nemrut Dag for the festivities lasting sometimes until dawn. Everyone had the time of their lives. Tremendous excitement mounted. The countdown progressed to the Festival of Lights, crowds thickened in anticipation of the big night. The mountaintop filled with curious and reverent souls.

A global television audience to dwarf the Superbowl was expected to tune into the exclusive BCC broadcast that night.

The bus ascended the final stretch when Cipheus turned to the passengers. Not just any passengers—each chosen to play a special role, whether they knew it or not, in bringing about the new, united world. They were about to find out their calling as the doorway of time opened to divulge its secrets.

“We’re almost there,” the young priest announced. “Join me if you like by uttering the sacred sound of God in all languages. Whether al-lah, Krish-na, Bud-dah or Jehov-ah, the ‘ah’ sound is shared. It is the note which began it all, the root of the song that plays forever. The same sound in the names of almost all supreme deities. It already echoes in our hearts. Let us open our mouths together.”

Cipheus softly emitted a perfect alto B-flat note. It resonated as he opened his throat and increased the volume until the sound figuratively tore the roof off and echoed into the upper rafters of the heavens.

Such shocking perfection inspired a chorus. Raja added his tenor in hope of bringing home to India a way to cool the ardent nationalist fervor he’d unleashed, and atone for the many deaths caused. The beautiful chant expanded like a bubble to inspire more minds to right their wrongs and participate in humanity’s great change. Higher in volume all voices joined, bouncing out of the open windows, reaching the peaks and valleys of the surrounding landscape.

Heads in the crowd turned to locate the elusive source of the sacred sound as it drove toward the parking area to announce the beginning of the sunset Festival of Lights at Nemrut Dag.

The chorus sustained the uplifting note until the bus reached a cordon of soldiers and the door opened. Cipheus asked for everyone to file out, directing them to show their VIP passes at the information tent on the north terrace. Back to reality. Move feet.

Finally: Abby.

“Park this beast, then find me on the east terrace.” The young priest sounded surprisingly modern sometimes. Abby saw a flash of enthusiastic teenager in him, old soul or not.

“I was thinking about going home and driving back later. Been a long week.” Abby felt some truth to the excuse.

“I request your presence as my guest. You’ll wear ceremonial robes. Also, you can stand next to your cousin, Yousef, so you won’t feel out of place. We’re giving away a thousand robes, each handcrafted by an artisan paid a year’s salary to contribute their artistic vision. This is part of your reward.”

Abby said, “I accept no reward until Akbar’s safe return.”

“Blessings hard to gain are also easily lost, and one of the worst offenses is equivocation,” cautioned Cipheus. “To each their own, Abby. We all choose our own path whether we know it or not.”

“Maybe,” Abby equivocated.

“Maybe?”

“There’s not enough time before sundown, or a place to park.”

“Ask the soldiers at the checkpoint.”

“I’ll do it—if there’s space.”

Abby, approaching the point of tears caused by a mixture of grief, gratitude, awe, and ambivalence, closed the door on the priest’s insistent smile.

****

Standing tall and distinguished, armed with a welcoming gaze, the High Priest Demetrius greeted festival-goers entering the east terrace. His special guests arrived throughout the day, planted seeds returned for more nutrition from the source. Among them: Julius Espanoza, the Spaniard and master EU diplomat, who escorted a select group of power-brokers. They were all very pleased to meet Demetrius, effusive in their praise. Whispers among the jet-set placed his name on the lips of the Nobel committee.

The moment to be bold—to remove the shade from the lantern and let the light shine—finally arrived.

BCC production crews manned cameras fed to a satellite truck in the parking area. Cameron Starr’s gleaming smile occupied the main lens to narrate the live broadcast. The mighty “OHM” bouncing off the landscape from the bus reminded him of the falcon call in northern Iraq that added to Demetrius’s legend among the Kurds. The memory led the journalist to summarize the past year for viewers.

The world had turned a corner after Demetrius appeared on the scene, and, in one year, accomplished everything he promised. War in northern Iraq averted, he worked his magic further south in the war-torn land, succeeding where all others had failed. His wry wit and humility opened doors wherever he knocked, and his uncanny foreknowledge led to inevitable speculation about his true identity. Could he be a Merlin, a Rasputin, a Cayce, and a John the Baptist all rolled into one?

What could he possibly do as an encore to top his accomplishments? Cameron teased the television audience with inside information of a major announcement during the speech that night. Just wait, Cameron relayed Demetrius’s promise of bigger things to come. Even the skeptical journalist started to believe.

Alistaire Campbell monitored the production from a phone with a video feed, seated on one of two circular risers assembled at either side under the risen statue. The executive personally escorted the BCC’s most generous benefactor, madam Catherine of Russia. To his right, Catherine wore one of the thousand artisan-made robes. After all, she’d paid for them. She searched the crowd for the most important guest of all to join her.

****

Young Antiochus, strapped to Darianna’s back, enjoyed himself marvelously. Careful to avoid speaking, he mentally directed her through the shifting crowd while teasing her behind with baby kicks. Imagine the surprise of people expecting ‘momma-dadda’ if he opened his mouth and said, “What are you looking at?”

Too early to show himself.

Some sounds and movement were still too difficult, the flesh unable to comply with his commands. Soon soon soon! His body sprouted like an early spring garden already grown into summer, but for the time being, the mountaintop sanctuary marked his physical limits.

Antiochus observed the overflow crowd on the west terrace, gathered in front of an extra large, elevated video monitor. Designed specially to be viewed at a full 180 degrees, it rendered images to appear three-dimensional. Accompanied by surround-sound speakers hidden in the landscape, the decibels were limited only by what the unsteady ground and ancient artifacts could safely tolerate. As a precaution, the industrial strength sub-woofers were positioned as far away as the sound team dared. The speakers emitted a B-flat note below the range of hearing throughout the day. A deep receptor in the mind responded to the subliminal sound by opening the inner doorway to spirit.

The sound of rotors bouncing off the mountains directed the concentration of Antiochus to a most important soul for his future plans, presently inbound. Turkish Prime Minister Recep Erbakan’s fruit had ripened on the vine. Antiochus knew well his thoughts, desires, secrets.

The devout Muslim and squeaky-clean politician had few secrets. Pointed in the direction of answering his prayers to lead his country into the First World, he fulfilled the promise Turkey has long symbolized as a bridge between East and West. The Islamic world needed an example to follow for integrating Western systems and secular values. The moderate Islamist leader provided it.

A BCC camera, suspended on cables overhead the Fire Altar, captured the view of the inbound helicopter, while a mobile camera unit worked the crowd, a roving eyewitness filling time for Cameron. The lead-in viewer special drained his supply of background material, and the anchors back in London ran out of guests to interview, but the skilled crew found good visuals among the elaborately dressed festival-goers. Candles sprouted to life across the landscape as the sun hid behind the mountaintop, casting a spectacular shadow over the Fire Altar.

Darianna and Antiochus joined Peter hidden behind madam Catherine and Alistaire on one of the round platforms. Kurdish Governor Zebari sat in front of them with his closest associates. The surrounding mountain rises glowed with knots of chattering people holding candles.

Demetrius pinned on a wireless lapel microphone and placed a majestic Persian headdress over his salt-and-pepper hair as Prime Minister Erbakan and his entourage were last to settle in the seats reserved for them. An old soul planted as a worker in the production truck spoke in Demetrius’s ear. The receiver: an implanted upper molar tuned to an ultra-high frequency, connected directly to the auditory nerve. Mr. Campbell picked the helper at Catherine’s recommendation, to provide instant feedback from BCC focus groups watching live.

In the back corner of the production truck, the helper—slender, fidgety, fresh out of graduate school—monitored live video feeds and instant polling results. “Roger that, Mr. Campbell,” he said on cue, pretending to talk through his headset to the powerful BCC executive when really he spoke to Demetrius. “Bird is ready to fly.”

Demetrius stood atop the center of the Fire Altar, bowed his head slightly to the risen statue and folded within himself. The anticipation level rose in response. A moment of nothingness to rejuvenate for the task ahead. Demetrius the Peacemaker. Demetrius the miracle worker. Demetrius the leader of an exponentially expanding movement finally gaining the full attention of the world, or so summarized Cameron. The main camera focused on the priest’s long face, his eyes closed, waiting. Waiting for the perfect moment.

Finally clothed in his own robe, Abby rushed to join Cipheus and Yousef beside a deep bowl of fragrant oil mounted on a tripod in front of the statue platform. Across from them, chanting softly, Aggememnon stood beside an identical iron bowl, his eyes rolled back seeing only visions within. The soothing sound of his chant carried to the ears of Turkish Prime Minister Erbakan and his chief of staff, Aydin Arturo.

The political whiz-kid leaned over and said softly, “Who would have thought a year ago that we’d be sitting here now?”

At that moment, seated on the other platform, Kurdish Governor Zebari—his old friend Fuad Ahmed beside him—caught Erbakan’s eye. They exchanged polite nods of recognition.

The sun completely disappeared under the horizon. A light breeze gusted. Demetrius opened his eyes to the mass of faces spread below him, and began the Festival of Lights by dramatically thrusting open his hands toward the sky, long arms embracing the night. He focused all attention and sustained it until his hands drifted downward.

A complete hush swept over the crowd. The heart of the mountain pulsed up the legs of Demetrius. Everything sensed—the day, the people, the cosmos—he drew together into a faster and tighter rotating ball contained within his solar plexus. It built like a whopper of a static charge until finally loosed with the mental command:

“Our Will Be Done!”

An X marked the spot at the front of the Fire Altar for the priest to face his audience from the best camera angle. All of his mastery came down to the next moments, every gesture magnified before the world’s eye. Not a word wasted, or worse, uttered without conviction. In preparation he studied how American presidential candidates presented themselves to the public between the primaries and the general election, similar circumstances. Demetrius—someone that everyone had heard about in at least fuzzy detail—presented himself that night as candidate for world peace.

He raised his arms and projected himself into all hearts.

“Friends. Special guests. First, a moment of silence to acknowledge the people who have passed from earthly life during the past year, especially anyone taken from us by violence.”

The priest lowered his eyes and his arms. Behind him, hidden in the shadows, Alistaire Campbell shared initial viewer numbers with Catherine, displayed on his phone. Very pleasing indeed.

After an appropriate pause, Demetrius lifted his voice to strike a new note. “Tonight we come together exactly one year after restarting the Festival of Lights, and we see that our call for peace has been heard.”

A cheer erupted, which might have continued indefinitely, but his practiced voice, aided by high-technology, carried easily over the valleys and rises.

“A year ago I stood on this spot and promised that anyone who embraced The Way would experience blessings in their lives. Not just individuals but groups, countries, peoples. A year later, war is no longer on everyone’s lips. We’ve come a long way together. And we have a long way to go before fulfilling the ultimate promise embodied by this sacred place, preserved in the vision of its founders:

“Unity.”

The word carried around the sound system, delivered to the bowels and repeated off the hillsides:

Unity.

“This spot is where East first united with West, harmonized by celebrating our similarities and embracing our differences. Truly, the world would not be nearly as fascinating if we all were the same ethnicity and skin color, or if we spoke the same language, wore the same clothes, ate the same foods, sang the same music, or worshiped the same way in the same sanctuaries. Looking back, we appear to have splintered from one family which had a bad disagreement and went separate ways—like Jacob and Esau of the old Biblical tale of twins, yearning for reconciliation but afraid to take the first step. Here at the sacred mountain, our earthly family reunites.

“Wherever you are tonight, please turn with me and face the Seat of the Gods as I, Demetrius, High Priest of Nemk-Ru, offer the annual invocation with my Brothers for another year of peace and prosperity. For all the people of these lands, and for everyone, everywhere, who joins with us.”

Night overtook dusk as the three mountain priests lit their bowls of oil. Blue and orange flames flickered to life, illuminating the faces on the terrace and the towering stone visage of the risen statue overlooking all. Young Antiochus bounced happily in Darianna’s lap. Yousef and Abby hurriedly relighted candles, no magic keeping them burning.

The Order of Three joined together on the middle of the Fire Altar, palms open before the statue, faces consumed by passion. Demetrius addressed the audience at his back:

“The language of the invocation is from a distant era, when words contained more potency. Allow them to echo inside and inspire an attitude of reverence for the powers which watch over us. If you wish to do more, ask those powers to show us a path to a better way of living, that grounds us in our roots and prepares for the future. You can quote the scriptures. Feel the yearning, the need. You know. We must make straight the path.”

Demetrius heard in his ear, “Positive response spiked with that last inclusive statement, Mr. Campbell.”

Inclusion. Unity. Demetrius knew the triggers. Now make them feel awed!

The decorated heads of the priestly trio tilted back slightly, their arms spread to embrace their king. In unison, they began with the elemental sound—AUM or OHM—vocalizing low to high octaves.

Volume rose. Force built. Tens of voices around the terrace joined the priests. Hundreds. Then thousands of voices from all points surrounding the mountain produced a sound that rattled the ground and lifted toward the star-dotted sky.

The priests abruptly began a rapid-fire sequence of sounds, a crazy acid jazz riff cadenced to a military march. They touched the notes of the B-flat Mixolydian scale, built speed, slowed down, the root unresolved, teasing then meandering away onto another musical path like an indecisive virgin. Rhythmic. Flowing. Evocative of the solemn ceremony of Latin Mass. Thoughts bypassed words directly to feelings when the brain processed the soaring notes.

Rising over the musical pattern, Demetrius held a perfect D note. Of the twelve notes comprising the lexicon of Western music, D resonated best with the peacemaker born under the sign of Gemini. Aggememnon, a Virgo, hit the low F and sustained it. And Cipheus, the Pisces, followed with an ear-shattering, falsetto B-flat to finally resolve the major chord and release the tension of the listeners.

People staggered as the last echo reached into the darkening night. The festive crowd erupted with applause. Demetrius held his hands high at their mercy, until the roar subsided to a few hoots and hollers. Super-seriously, he pronounced each word Shakespearean:

“This is not a rock and roll concert.”

His mouth twitched; the corners curled into a joyous smile, raised by invisible strings.

“Laugh everyone—you’ll live longer!”

Cameron Starr could only marvel at the perfect pitch and delivery of the priest. No Teleprompter or notes, only pure oratorical bliss. Made anyone sick with envy who’d ever tried to make a living speaking to a camera.

Demetrius lapsed into contemplation. The collective mood ebbed. A touch of sadness entered his voice.

“It has become painfully obvious that bombs are not the best solution to radical threats. Bullets will not penetrate every mind ensnared by false promises. Missiles cannot destroy every haven of hatred. To succeed in a new era of peace, the roots of the problems causing our conflicts will be addressed. On all levels from the personal to the international, clear eyes will see ourselves as we are now, what can be, and the steps necessary to get there. We have to begin at the ground and work our way up to the highest levels of civilization—questioning, reworking, rebuilding until we get it right. To create a safe and free world that lives up to our human promise.”

The amazing orator added new strains of hope to his vocal melody, encompassing his listeners, eyes sweeping over his audience and drawing everyone into his embrace.

“Tonight, I announce the next step to achieving the vision of unity symbolized by the sacred mountain: peace delivered to the world from the heart of Nemk-Ru—world peace! We offer a Covenant to provide mutually assured security. The world operated during the Cold War under a belief that mutually assured destruction created peace. We turn that foolish notion on its head. The tenets of the MAS Treaty are simple. Every signer pledges to do everything in their power for mutual security, under a banner of mutual respect. At the very least, conflicts are avoided before they start. No one tangles with a group ready to stick up for each other. But I’m not talking about another NATO.

“The Treaty, backed by the power of Nemk-Ru, is a Covenant rising collectively out of each individual who makes the pledge. Then groups can pledge together: anyone who works together, worships together, lives, makes music, or plays sports together—anything that draws us to share of ourselves and inspires cooperation. From groups we will work all of the way up to nations and groups of nations, and together we will do what some say is impossible.

“All things are possible to those who join with us.”

Eyes moist, Demetrius beheld the statue high above and whispered, “Thank you for keeping your eternal promise.”

“Did you get that?” Cameron asked into his microphone. Only the production crew was listening at the moment.

“Better believe it,” came the reply.

The fidgety production helper watched the instant approval numbers from inside the truck. “We have a hit. The audience is eating it up and asking for seconds,” he said through his headset.

Time to move on. The MAS Treaty needed no further explanation at the moment. The dozens of political convention speeches Demetrius studied drove home a key point to a successful unveiling to the public: keep it short, sweet, simple. No more than thirty minutes in the modern era, and he had the perfect change of pace: the MAS Treaty in book form, heavier than a backpack stuffed for a long day on campus, a meter tall by three-quarters as much wide when closed, carried at either end by Cipheus and Yousef. The cover gleamed with reflected candlelight. The terms of the Treaty were embossed on the silver surface in Greek and Persian lettering.

“I will accompany the MAS Treaty around the world to affirm the names of those who pledge for peace. To the four corners we will go, and in one year return here to celebrate the first day of world peace,” proclaimed Demetrius. “One year, friends. One!”

From inside of his robe he produced two cigar-sized silver pens, in his possession since ink first left the inkwell.

“I will be first to add my name,” he said, and opened the cover. The overhead camera zoomed in. Beginning in the center on the top line, Demetrius signed his name forward and backward simultaneously, a pen in each hand. He had time to pull more out of his hat, and paused dramatically, looking back and forth.

“...He might be looking at Turkish Prime Minister Erbakan,” Cameron guessed for viewers, “or Kurdish Governor Zebari, his first partners in peace.”

Demetrius extended two hands in invitation, one each to the two leaders. Though he spoke with restrained emotion, his resonant voice carried to all ears around the mountaintop:

“The two of you helped make this night possible. Many others had to be convinced along the way, but you first showed the courage and faith to bring the peace of Nemk-Ru to the world’s doorstep. I ask you to be my witnesses.”

The two men—a quick-thinking, gregarious Kurd, and the comparably small, serious, and studious Turk—rose together. Applause swept them to the Fire Altar.

They shook hands with Demetrius as a trio, reminiscent of scenes from Camp David. The air buzzed. Approval voiced in the hearty cheers of thousands of people holding winking candles, spread out in all directions around and below the mountaintop.

“Tonight we sign as individuals,” said Demetrius. “Next year, with the support of your people, we sign as nations.”

He held forth the thick silver pens for everyone to see, raising more hearty applause. The ground reverberated. The heart of the mountain burned hot, flowing energy to the surface and super-charging the atmosphere. The statue of Antiochus glowed ghostly.

Young Antiochus pulled on Darianna’s hand. With a long look from his big blue eyes he said to her: “See what I can do? Imagine a world enlightened. Imagine and believe—soon it will be true!”

Darianna saw the grand vision coming together, her heart alternately overflowing with joy and breaking with postpartum grief. Peter recognized her symptoms, begged her to seek help, but she insisted Spirit would sustain her. Peter remembered how she’d even once called Antiochus their child during a moment of semi-delirium. He grieved for the loss of the spouse sitting beside him, distant as the other side of the world, disengaged from Peter and everything else except her devotion to one being. Not a wife in the sense of the word he knew, yet he clung to the role of caretaker and protector by hauling supplies down into the mountain for her, and by extension, for the clone.

That’s what Peter called the enigma. It summed up in his mind what sat on the other side of the woman he adored. Clone. He had no idea what really inhabited the space. Spirit. King. Savior. God. Abomination? So far he saw only good fruit from the vine, but something out there in the big universe had reservations. Or was it just him?

A thousand more blank pages waited to be filled with names when Demetrius toured the world with the Treaty and greeted the masses. Which leader, wondered the peacemaker, gets the first pen? Which one is receiving more energy? Which one is sure to follow the other? The Turk had more to lose, his dream of entry to the First World almost achieved. The Kurd had more to gain as his popularity soared, but Zebari had no aspiration to more than what he already was—unless asked by his people.

Like a divining rod, the pen in Demetrius’s hand turned the Kurd’s direction, but then it swung back toward the Turk, caught in a crosscurrent. The priest made no move or gesture to indicate a preference.

Roar of applause piled higher, enhanced by the sound engineers. The pair of political leaders—total opposites, nothing in common, never would have met otherwise—shared an intense sensation of being extremely present. Always able to find the humor in the moment, Governor Zebari leaned over and spoke in Prime Minister Erbakan’s ear, captured as the defining portrait of the night:

“At least he’s not handing us daggers.”

The prime minister stared back crossly.

“You know,” Zebari pretended to slice his palm. “Signed in blood.”

Erbakan realized how badly he’d misunderstood. He fumbled for a moment to say something, handed a pen to Governor Zebari, and took the other for himself. Cameron stuck a microphone out to catch the pious Turk’s first words:

“You go first. Together we sign with the hope that we have been blessed with a permanent end to the conflict between our peoples—and between all peoples.”

We have our winner, Demetrius told Antiochus telepathically. He heard agreement in reply from his twin of mind, his ruler from the ancients who taught the secrets of immortality:

Our time has come. This is only the beginning.

####

Read the next thrilling novel and find out what Antiochus and Demetrius have in store, in Something Coming Book Two: The Second Coming of Antiochus. It's a bit shorter in length than this book, and hits fast and hard now that the characters and plot are developed. You're in for a wild ride! But beware, you won't be able to put the book down.

Please write a review if you've enjoyed what you've read so far, and visit me online. Thank you for your interest in my work! -J.M. DeBord

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