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"Who are you?" Scofield asked.
"Name's Raymond Dyals, retired navy."
She watched as recognition clicked in Scofield.
"Okay, Mr. Dyals, and by the way you must have discovered the fountain of youth."
"You'll be surprised what I've discovered."
Scofield's eyes flickered. "Then you and I definitely need to talk."
SIXTY
OSSAU
MALONE DECIDED TO ACT. HE SWUNG THE GUN AROUND AND FIRED two rounds across the cloister garden. He had no idea of the assailant's position, but the message was clear.
He was armed.
A bullet bisected the doorway and sent him reeling back.
He determined its origin.
From the second gunman, on his side of the gallery, to his right.
He stared up. The gabled roof was held aloft by trusses formed from rough-hewn beams stretching the room's width. A jumble of broken rocks and debris littered the floor and lay piled against one of the decaying walls. He stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket and scrambled atop the largest chunks, which provided him two new feet of height. He leaped up, grabbed the cold beam, swung his legs upward, and straddled the timber like a horse. He quickly wiggled his way closer to the wall, only now he was ten feet above the doorway. He sprang to his feet, crouched, and balanced on the beam, regripping the gun, his muscles like bundles of tightly bound cord.
Shots rang out from the cloister. Several.
Perhaps Henn had joined the fray?
He heard another impact, similar to when Werner tackled Dark in the church, along with grunts, breathing, and fighting. He couldn't see anything except the stones on the floor below, cast in dimness thanks to only bleak light.
A shadow appeared.
He readied himself.
Two shots were fired and the man rushed into the room.
Malone leaped from the beam, crashing into the attacker, quickly rolling off and readying himself for a fight.
The man was hefty and broad-shouldered, the body hard, as if there were metal under the skin. He'd quickly recoiled from the assault and sprang to his feet-without the gun, which had slipped from his grasp.
Malone raked the side of his automatic across the man's face, sending him into the wall, dazed. He leveled the gun and prepared to take his prisoner, but a shot exploded behind him and the man dropped to the rubble.
He whirled.
Henn stood, gun aimed, just outside the doorway.
Christl appeared.
No need to inquire why the shot was necessary. He knew. But he wanted to know, "The other one?"
"Dead," Christl told him as she retrieved the weapon from the floor.
"Mind if I hold that?" he asked.
She tried to banish the surprise from her eyes. "You're a distrustful sort."
"It comes from people lying to me."
She handed him the gun.
STEPHANIE SAT WITH DAVIS AND SCOFIELD, UPSTAIRS, WHERE THE main lobby emptied into an alcove dotted with plush upholstered chairs, a panoramic view, and built-in bookshelves. People were studying the titles, and she noticed a small sign that said everything was available for reading.
A waiter sauntered over, but she waved him off.
"Since you're obviously not Admiral Dyals," Scofield said, "who are you?"
"White House," Davis said. "She's Justice Department. We fight crime."
Scofield seemed to repress a shudder. "I agreed to talk with you because I thought you were serious."
"Like this bullshit here," Davis said.
Scofield's face reddened. "None of us considers this conference bullshit."
"Really? There are what, a hundred people in a room right now trying to channel some dead civilization. You're a trained anthropologist, a man the government once used on some highly classified research."
"That was a long time ago."
"You'd be surprised how relevant it still is."
"I assume you have identification?"
"We do."
"Let me see."
"Somebody killed Herbert Rowland last night," Davis said. "The night before they killed a former navy commander connected to Rowland. You may or may not remember Rowland, but he worked with you at Fort Lee, when you uncrated all that crap from Operation Highjump. We're not sure you're next to die, but it's a good possibility. That enough credentials?"
Scofield laughed. "That was thirty-eight years ago."
"Which doesn't seem to matter," Stephanie said.
"I can't speak of what happened then. It's classified."
He voiced the words as if they were some sort of shield, protecting him from harm.
"Again," she said. "That doesn't seem to matter, either."
Scofield frowned. "You two are wasting my time. I have a lot of people to speak with."
"How about this," she said. "Tell us what you can." She was hoping that once this self-important fool started talking, he'd keep talking.
Scofield checked his watch, then said, "I wrote a book. Maps of Ancient Explorers. You should read it because it contains plenty of explanations. You can get a copy in the conference bookstore." He pointed off to his left. "That way."
"Give us a synopsis," Davis said.
"Why? You said we're all nuts. What does it matter what I think?"
Davis started to speak, but she waved him off. "Convince us. We didn't drive all the way here for no reason."
Scofield paused, seemingly searching for the right words to make his point. "Do you know Occam's razor?"
She shook her head.
"It's a principle. Entities are not to be multiplied without necessity. Put more plainly, no elaborate solutions where simple ones will do. That applies to almost everything, including civilizations."
She wondered if she was going to regret asking this man's opinion.
"Early Sumerian texts, including the famous Epic of Gilgamesh, talk repeatedly of tall, god-like people who lived among them. They called them Watchers. Ancient Jewish texts, including some versions of the Bible, refer to those Sumerian Watchers, who are described as gods, angels, and sons of heaven. The Book of Enoch tells how these curious people sent emissaries out into the world to teach men new skills. Uriel, the angel who taught Enoch about astronomy, is described as one of these Watchers. Eight Watchers are actually named in the Book of Enoch. They were supposed experts in enchantments, root cuttings, astrology, the constellations, weather, geology, and astronomy. Even the Dead Sea Scrolls make reference to Watchers, including the episode where Noah's father becomes concerned that his child is so extraordinarily beautiful, he thinks his wife may have lain with one."
"This is nonsense," Davis said.
Scofield repressed a smile. "Do you know how many times I've heard that? Here are some historical facts. In Mexico, Quetzalcoatl, the fair god, white-skinned, bearded, was credited with teaching the civilization that preceded the Aztecs. He came from the sea and wore long clothing embroidered with crosses. When Cortes arrived in the sixteenth century he was mistaken for Quetzalcoatl. The Mayans had a similar teacher, Kukulcan, who came from the sea where the sun rises. The Spanish burned all of the Mayan texts in the seventeenth century, but one bishop recorded a notation that survived. It talked of long-robed vi
sitors who came repeatedly, led by someone called Votan. The Inca had a god-teacher, Vinacocha, who came from the great ocean to their west. They, too, made the same mistake with Pizarro, thinking him the god returned. So, Mr. White House, whoever the hell you are, believe me, you know not of what you speak."
She'd been right. This man liked to talk.
"In 1936 a German archaeologist found a clay vase, with a copper cylinder that held an iron rod, in a Parthian grave dated from 250 BCE. When fruit juice was poured inside a half-volt current, that lasted for two weeks, was generated. Just enough for electroplating, which we know was done during that time. In 1837 an iron plate was found in the Great Pyramid that had been smelted at over one thousand degrees Celsius. It contained nickel, which is most unusual, and was dated to two thousand years before the Iron Age. When Columbus landed in Costa Rica in 1502, he was received with great respect and taken inland to the grave of an important person, a grave decorated with the prow of a strange ship. The funeral slab depicted men who looked quite similar to Columbus and his men. To that point, no European had ever visited that land.
"China is particularly interesting," Scofield continued. "Its great philosopher Lao-tzu talked about Ancient Ones. As did Confucius. Lao called them wise, knowledgeable, powerful, loving, and, most important, human. He wrote of them in the seventh century BCE. His writings survive. Do you want to hear?"
"That's what we came for," she made clear.
"The Ancient Masters were subtle, mysterious, profound, responsive. The depth of their knowledge is unfathomable. Because it is unfathomable, all we can do is describe their appearance. Watchful, like men crossing a winter stream. Alert, like men aware of danger. Courteous, like visiting guests. Yielding, like ice about to melt. Simple, like uncarved blocks of wood. Interesting words from a long time ago."
Curious, she had to admit.
"Do you know what changed the world? What altered, forever, the course of human existence?" Scofield did not wait for a response. "The wheel? Fire?" He shook his head. "More than those. Writing. That's what did it. When we learned to record our thoughts so that others, centuries later, could know them, that changed the world. Both the Sumerians and the Egyptians left written records of a people who visited and taught them things. People who looked normal and lived and died just like them. That's not me talking. That's his stevetorical fact. Did you know that the Canadian government is, at this very moment, probing an underwater site off the Queen Charlotte Islands for traces of a civilization never known to have existed before? It's a base camp of some sort that was once on the shore of an ancient lake."
