“But wasn’t it destroyed by the Assyrians?”
“You probably mean the Babylonians.” Lumbroso smiled. “The one fact that is consistent in all sources is that the Ark wasn’t in the temple when Nebuchadnezzar sacked Jerusalem. The Babylonians made detailed lists of their plunder, but the Ark was never mentioned. The famous Copper Scroll-one of the Dead Sea Scrolls found in 1947-states explicitly that the Mishkan, the portable temple for the Ark, was removed from the temple before the invasion.
“A few people think that Josiah hid the Ark somewhere in Israel, but the inscription on the sundial reflects the legend that it was taken to Ethiopia by Menelik the First, the son of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. The Romans knew that when they wrote the inscription.”
“So the Ark is in Africa?”
“It’s not exactly a secret, Maya. You can go on the Internet or read a dozen different books. The Ark is currently being kept at the Church of Saint Mary of Zion in the northern Ethiopian city of Axum. It’s guarded by a group of Ethiopian priests, and only one priest is allowed to go into the shrine.”
“There’s one problem with your theory,” Maya said. “If the Ark is in Ethiopia, then why hasn’t Israel done something about reclaiming it or protecting it?”
“Ahhh, but they have. In 1972, a group of archaeologists from the Israel Museum flew to Ethiopia. They received permission from the Emperor Haile Selassie to examine certain historical artifacts. At the time there was a major drought in the province of Wollo and the emperor was desperate for international aid.
“These archaeologists traveled to the monasteries on Lake Tana and to the city of Axum. But, strangely enough, they never issued a report or any other public statement. Two weeks after their return to Jerusalem, Israel began to send military and humanitarian aid to Ethiopia. This support continued after the emperor’s death in 1975. It still continues today.” Lumbroso smiled and finished his cappuccino. “The Israelis don’t publicize this aid and neither do the Ethiopians. Because, of course, there’s no political reason for giving the money-unless you believe in the Ark.”
Maya shook her head. “Maybe a few historians have thought up this theory and a few Ethiopian priests want to believe it. But why didn’t the Israelis just grab the Ark and take it back to Jerusalem?”
“Because the Ark goes in a temple which no longer exists. The Dome of the Rock currently occupies the site: that’s where the Prophet Muhammad ascended into paradise. If the Ark were returned to Jerusalem, then certain fundamentalist groups-both Christian and Jewish-would want to destroy the Dome of the Rock and rebuild the temple. That would start a war that would dwarf any previous conflicts.
“The men and women who lead Israel are devout Jews, but they’re also pragmatists. Their objective is the continual survival of the Jewish people-not the start of World War Three. It’s best for everyone if the Ark stays in Ethiopia and that people are encouraged to believe that it was destroyed thousands of years ago.”
“And what happens if I go to Ethiopia?” Maya asked. “I can’t just walk up to this shrine and demand to see the Ark.”
“Of course not. That’s why I have to go with you. For the last few years, I’ve bought artifacts from an Ethiopian Jew named Petros Semo. I’ll ask him to meet us in Addis Ababa and help us talk to the priests.”
“And the Ark is an access point that will take me to the First Realm?”
“Perhaps any of the realms. The texts can’t agree on this matter. The general conclusion is that you have to send your spirit first and then follow it. I think that means you have to want to go there-want it with all your heart. We have left both history and science far behind at this point. If you step through this doorway, you abandon our particular reality.”
“But will I find Gabriel?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what if I can’t find him? Can I return to this world?”
“I don’t know that either, Maya. If you study the classical myths about the underworld, they agree on only one thing-you have to go back the way you came.”
Maya looked out at the piazza and the beauty that had captivated her only a few minutes ago. She had promised Gabriel that she would always stand beside him. If she refused to honor her own words, then that moment between them lost its meaning.
“So how do we get to Ethiopia?”
Lumbroso stuffed the photographs back into their envelope. “First-we order another cappuccino.” He nodded to the waiter, and then pointed to their empty cups.
35
It was early spring in south England. When Michael stepped out onto the third-floor balcony of Wellspring Manor he could see that pale green leaves were beginning to appear on the beech trees that covered the surrounding hills. Directly below him, the guests at the afternoon party were leaving the house and wandering through the rose garden. White-jacketed waiters were serving glasses of sparkling wine and canapés, while a quartet of musicians played The Four Seasons. Although it had rained yesterday afternoon, this Sunday was so clear and warm that the sky looked vaguely artificial-a blue silk tent set up to shelter the party.
Wellspring was another property owned by the Evergreen Foundation. While the first two floors were dedicated to public activities, the top floor was a private suite guarded by the security staff. Michael had been living at the manor house for the last eight days. During this time, Mrs. Brewster had fully explained both the public and private goals of the Young World Leaders Program. The army colonels and police officials who were sampling the bite-sized crab cakes in the rose garden were visiting England to learn how to defeat terrorism. During three days of seminars, they learned about Internet monitoring, surveillance cameras, RFID chips, and total information systems.
The garden party was the culmination of this learning process. The leaders would meet corporate representatives who were eager to establish this new technology in underdeveloped nations. Each leader was given a special leather folder to hold the business cards handed out after the first glass of wine.
Leaning over the edge of the balcony, Michael watched Mrs. Brewster move through the crowd. Her turquoise blue skirt and jacket stood out among the somber business suits and olive green military uniforms. From a distance, she appeared to be a catalyst molecule dropped into a beaker filled with different chemicals. As she met and talked and parted with a kiss, she formed new connections between the young leaders and those who wanted to serve them.
He left the balcony, passed through some French doors, and walked into what had once been a master bedroom. Now his father lay on an operating table in the center of the room. White plaster Cupids gazed down on him from the ceiling. Matthew Corrigan’s head was shaved and sensors had been inserted into his brain. The body’s heartbeat and temperature were continually monitored. One of the neurologists had announced that the lost Traveler was as “dead as you can be and still be alive.”
It bothered Michael that he kept returning to his room to see the motionless body on the table. He felt like a boxer who had backed his opponent into one corner of the ring. It looked like the fight was over, but somehow his father had sidestepped and danced away from him.
“So here’s the famous Matthew Corrigan,” said a familiar voice.
Michael made a half turn and saw Kennard Nash standing in the doorway. Nash wore a blue business suit with an Evergreen Foundation pin on the lapel.
“Hello, General. I thought you were still on Dark Island.”
“I was in New York last night, but I always show up for the final ceremony of the Young World Leaders Program. Besides, I wanted to inspect Mr. Boone’s recent acquisition…” Nash strolled over to the table and studied Matthew Corrigan.