He followed its descent toward the station below, taking in the rolling hills toward the village of Umbria, where rows upon rows of olive orchards were left behind. Tom’s gaze returned upward, and he watched as the line passed through the rampart, which surrounded the entire city, in a tunnel, where Tom took advantage of the darkness to kiss Genevieve.
As the light rose, she pushed him away with a mischievous smile and a reprimand. “There’s work to be done.”
“No reason we shouldn’t enjoy ourselves in the process.” Tom squeezed her hand. “Besides, how often do you think Sam’s going to ask us to go to a romantic Italian village and pretend we’re on our honeymoon?”
She kissed him on the lips and then smiled lasciviously. “For the sake of keeping up our cover.”
They waited as the masses of tourists disembarked, and then followed.
Dominating their vision of Orvieto was the 14th century cathedral. Soaring skyward the glittering, golden-faced Duomo’s walls were made of long rungs of greenish-black basalt and white travertine. Tom casually followed the crowed through one of the three large bronze doors that remained permanently open.
He stepped through the doors.
Tom swept the interior of the cathedral with his eyes, devouring its rich history dating back to the renaissance. The apse was commanded by a large stained-glass quadrifore window. Made between 1328 and 1334 by Giovanni di Bonino — a glass master from Assisi — it draped sunlight onto the golden mosaics, giant frescoes, and rows of pews. Cylindrical columns also consisting of alternate rows of travertine and basalt, led to the trussed wooden ceiling. Above which, the transept was roofed with quadripartite, or four-celled stone vaults.
He walked silently down the aisle.
Above the altar, a large polychrome wooden crucifix hung and behind that, a series of damaged Gothic frescoes dedicated to the life of the Virgin Mary. He followed the wave of tourists and pilgrims who flocked to the two large frescoes that lined the San Brizio chapel to the right of the cathedral. They depicted a vision of an awe-inspiring Last Judgement and Apocalypse, below which were fiery scenes from Dante’s journey into Hell.
Genevieve glanced at the image and then back at Tom. “Do you think it’s some sort of sign?”
“What?” Tom studied the image in greater detail. “You think it’s a reference to Apocalypse we’re trying to avoid?”
She shrugged. “The thought crossed my mind.”
“It seems unlikely that Luca Signorelli, the master who’d been commissioned to paint the frescoes, had any idea about an asteroid that was set to return to Earth every thirteen thousand years. Do you?”
Genevieve handed him the visitor’s guide to the cathedral. “Maybe he did?”
Tom read the note out loud. “At the close of the 15th century, Orvieto experienced a series of events which presaged evidence of divine displeasure. Terrible rainstorms, plague, civil strife, the threat of invasion, and appalling apparitions in the sky were seen as apocalyptic warnings.”
“Any guesses what that means?”
“None. I’m a helicopter pilot, not an archeologist or historian.” Tom looked around. He’d seen enough of the historic cathedral. “Sam told me to look for a receptacle for the sacred stone. His guess is that it will be underground. He has a theory that because the stone is made of blackbody, which draws in all mass around it, the most powerful way for the stone to be set up would be to have it imbedded in rock.”
“Like a five hundred feet high volcanic plug that Orvieto rests upon?” she asked.
“Exactly! We’ll search the catacombs first.”
She smiled at his simplicity. “All right.”
The five bells started to ring in E-flat.
Tom looked at his watch. “What do you know? It’s midday, shall we find some lunch?”
Genevieve nodded. “Sure.”
“Great. I’m starving. Then let’s find the receptacle for the sacred stone.”
They walked down Via Ripa Serancia, a narrow cobblestone street, which made its way toward the south-eastern edge of Orvieto. He glanced at a sign for a restaurant called, Le Grotte del Funaro, and then back at Genevieve. “What do you think?”
“Everything looks good in Italy.”
Tom opened the door, and they entered the small restaurant. Built into the mountain, the walls were a mixture of tunneled tuff and golden sandstone.
A waiter brought them a menu. Tom glanced at it, and then ordered the special of the day.
A new patron entered the restaurant. He had dark olive skin, and his face wore the dark unshaven stubble of two day’s growth. He was impeccably dressed in an Italian made suit. A slight bulge beneath his left breast pocket suggested the possibility he was carrying a holstered weapon. The man took a seat at the table farthest away and ordered something in fluent Italian. Tom noticed that he refused the complimentary glass of local Tuscany wine, opting for a glass of water instead. Tom couldn’t be sure, but the man appeared distracted, constantly glancing up in their directions.
Tom unfolded the tourist map. Inside he wrote, is the big Italian guy trailing us? He handed the note to Genevieve and said, “Where do you want to go next, beautiful?”
Genevieve ran her eyes across the tourist map. She casually glanced at the stranger and wrote a new message. “How about here?”
Tom looked at the message. He’s not interested in the food.
“We’ll keep our eye on him and try and lose him when we’re finished.”
She nodded.
A moment later, a solidly-built man as white as a ghost walked in and ordered a drink. He was wearing dark sunglasses, and took a seat four rows back from them.
The man removed his sunglasses, revealing somber blue-gray eyes.
Chapter Forty-Three
The Cessna 172’s altimeter read 8,000 feet. It was a STOL — short take-off and landing — taildragger with an oversized propeller. One of the last models that still used two large wheels up front and a single one at the back, making it much more capable when it came to landing off the beaten track — or in this case, in the sand.
Through the windshield, Sam stared at the seemingly endless vista of sand dunes. From the air, it was easy to see how the Kalahari Pyramid had remained buried for so long. Next to him, Billie sat silently watching the landscape go by, her face a unique mix between wide-eyed wonder and truculence. For two people who’d spent most of their lives searching for the same ancient race, they struggled to spend more than a few hours together in the confined space of a small cockpit.
His eyes swept the flight instruments before darting across to the GPS. It showed them approaching the coordinates. He reduced the single engine back to an idle, dipped the nose, and commenced his descent.
Billie turned to face him.
She smiled, but her voice was belligerent. “Tell me again, why you sent Tom and Genevieve to a romantic medieval village in Italy to search for answers, while you and I get to take the deserted pyramid in the middle of a very hot nowhere.”
“What?” Sam asked. “I thought it would be nice for them. Besides, they’ve been working pretty hard without much of a break lately — in case you forgot, they spent most of last year trying to find and rescue you.”
“Sure. How long are you going to keep reminding me that I owe you one for getting me out of the Amazon jungle where I was being kept prisoner?”
“As long as I can.” He pushed the yoke forward, away from his chest, and the aircraft’s attitude dipped into a steeper rate of descent. “How long do you think I can get away with it?”