Chapter 34

Dazed and bruised, Peter and Davila lay on the hard, earthen floor of a subterranean chamber. Above them, the fire raged on. From some dark passageway, cool air surged in their faces, rushing up through the trapdoor to feed the flames.

Peter staggered to his feet and pulled Davila with him. Together, they stumbled down a flickering passage lined with pipes and electrical conduit until they came to a metal door. Opening it, they stumbled into the vague outline of a room. Peter groped for the light switch and flipped it on.

It was a living space of sorts, a tiny underground studio apartment equipped with a kitchenette, twin bed, dresser and a small writing desk. Davila dead-bolted the door behind them, while Peter hurried across the room to a second door, which stood ajar. Beyond it, the passageway continued. He shut the door and locked it. Then they both collapsed on the bed and caught their breath.

At length they sat up. They could no longer hear the fire above, only the steady hiss of air flowing beneath the doors. Peter's head throbbed. Nausea snaked its way up his gullet. His wrist ached, sprained during the fall, but not broken.

Davila sat expressionless on the edge of the bed, her swollen face streaked with soot and dried blood, her rain parka tattered and pocked by sparks and embers.

"Are you OK?" said Peter.

She said nothing.

He went to the kitchenette and soaked two clean rags with cold water. Draping one over the back of his neck, he sat next to Davila and reached out to wipe her face, surprised he could stand the sight of so much blood. He had scarcely touched her when she grabbed his wrist. Her free hand shot to her ear, fingers clutching the tiny metal gryphon still dangling there. Ripping it loose, she flung it across the room and buried her face in her hands.

It was then Peter saw her left middle finger, swollen, purple and bent at a sickening angle. Getting up again, he began rummaging for materials to make a splint. He had just found a piece of cardboard and some masking tape when Davila let out a muffled cry.

She still sat calmly on the bed, but now she cradled her left hand in her lap, the middle finger now straight.

Peter sat beside her, and without a word she laid her injured hand on his knee, palm down. Shaping the cardboard into a finger-length trough, Peter slipped it into position and began securing it with tape.

"Who was that man with Gryphus outside the cottage?" she asked.

"Jason Dayan." There was no doubt in Peter's mind. "Gryphus must be working for him. You heard what he said about killing on someone else's orders, eradicating some rare genetic mutation from the human gene pool."

She took the tape from Peter and finished the job herself. "He was lying."

"Lying about what?"

"What he said about me and the Mossad. I don't work for them. Not anymore. I'm inactive."

"What about your phone?"

She looked up abruptly. "I had no idea it was transmitting data to anyone. But now I know why the battery kept draining."

"Is Davila your real name?"

She clenched her jaw. "No. After I was released from hospital, I took a new name and a new job with the IAA so I could continue my search for the ossuary."

"And what about your dad? Did he really kill all those people?"

A hard slap spun Peter halfway around, ears ringing. Slowly, he turned back, rubbing his cheek. "Did I deserve that?"

Something in her expression said that he did. Then, as if nothing had happened, she got up and began throwing open the kitchen cabinets.

Peter wiped his face with the damp rag. "What are you looking for?"

"Jonas Markussen knew where the Mustard Seeds were, and I think this room was his, a hideout of sorts. He was reaching for the trapdoor when he died."

Peter went to the desk and opened the drawer. Several pens rolled to the back, leaving behind a compact Bible and a little nest of paper clips. Beneath the Bible, someone had left a stack of letter envelopes, all yellowed with age. Rifling through them, Peter stopped cold. One was addressed to Jonas Markussen and postmarked Burns, Oregon, August 2, 1989, but there was not return address. He extracted the letter and handed the envelope to Davila. "I think this was from my dad."

Dear Jonas,

I pray this finds you and your family in good health. Although we have not communicated in some time, I write to you now in the strictest confidence, and I ask that you keep secret what follows until we have discussed it in person.

Presently, I am in Oregon, where I've made a remarkable discovery relating to the lost passage of Olav Tryggvason's Saga.

Three months ago, I received a phone call from an attorney in Eastern Oregon who was on retainer to a local Native American tribe. His name was Saul Gordon, and he had been trying to locate an expert on "Viking glyphs" as he put it, and I assumed he meant runes.

He claimed to represent a local Native family who had in their possession an heirloom inscribed with ancient runes, and they wanted it appraised. Naturally, I put him off. But he was persistent, and I eventually relented, taking my wife (do you remember Ellen?) and young son, Peter, with me to this attorney's home on a remote mountain in the Oregon desert.

Jonas, I was amazed by what he showed me. He had in his possession a cube of solid wood, roughly twelve inches (30 cm) to a side. It was heavily worn with age, and partially burned. It had no apparent lid or seam or binding, but based on its weight, I suspect there is something dense inside. The "glyphs" carved along its surface were indeed Norse runes, stylistically dating to the 10th or 11th century.

I'm still working out a final translation, but there's little doubt this object belonged to the treasury of Olav Tryggvason. What lies inside the cube, the runes do not say, nor will this attorney allow me to determine by invasive means. In fact, the owners have taken it back and won't let me see it again. The situation is infuriating!

But I now suspect that the Seeds of Salvation King Olav gave to Leif Eirikson are contained within this ancient wooden vessel. Leif Eirikson must have brought them on his voyage to North America and left them here. And by some miracle of fate, they made their way overland, possibly via trade routes, and ended up in the hands of the Native Americans here in Oregon.

Even stranger, the cube bears other letters, much older, and worn almost beyond recognition. Each of the cube's six surfaces bears a single Hebrew letter. I am as baffled by their presence as I am by their meaning.

Many questions remain unanswered, not the least of which is the object's provenance. I only wish I could take it with me back to the university, where any number of colleagues could analyze it and determine if indeed it contains something. For now, I have the attorney's assurance that the family will grant me right of first refusal for purchase before they auction it.

Hopefully, I can convince him to get me another look at the thing.

I'll write again as soon as I have more information.

In strictest confidence, your friend,

Daniel

Peter let his hands fall into his lap, and he stared at Davila. She snatched the letter from his hands and began to read, her dark eyes darting from side to side, hardly breathing it seemed. At last, she exhaled. "My God. Your father found the Mustard Seeds years ago."

"It's more like they found him. Now I know what he and old Saul Gordon were working on together."

"I wish he would have written down the Hebrew letters."

"He did." Peter rummaged through his pants pockets. The scrap of paper was still there, crumpled and torn at the edges, but still legible. He handed it to Davila. "Those six letters were engraved inside my dad's ring, the one he was wearing when he died." It was the only thing that survived the fire. And not by chance. The ring was made of tungsten, a metal capable of withstanding the heat of a cremation oven. Or even a thermite bomb.

העושיה

"This doesn't spell anything in Hebrew," said Davila.

"I think it's written backwards."

She cocked her head. "Ah, yes. Of course. In that case, it reads ha'yeshua, the salvation."

"The rabbi told me you could rearrange the letters to spell other words, something about ruin or destruction."

"The rabbi?"

"I happen to into him at the Jewish cemetery back in Seattle, where you followed me."

Davila's bold eyebrows seemed to churned through the permutations. "Heh-vav-heh. Hovah, ruin. It's a word found only in the Hebrew Bible. And the remaining three letters spell yasha, another word for salvation. Ruin and salvation. Fascinating."

"Fruits of the same vine. That's what he said."

She returned the scrap of paper. "I have to see this artifact for myself. Do you know where this Saul Gordon lives?"

"I know exactly where he lives." Then it occurred to Peter. "And so does Gryphus."

Davila nodded. "The burn marks on Jonas Markussen's face, the iron poker. Gryphus must have tortured the information out of him."

"Jesus. We have to warn Saul."

"But first we have to get off this damn island."

"What about Gryphus? Isn't he still out there waiting for us?"

"Perhaps not."

"What do you mean?"

"As far as he knows, we died in that fire."

She was right. No one could have survived.

"I imagine they'll check the ruins of that cottage for our remains, but until then we may have a window of opportunity."

Beyond the room's second door, the passageway continued for another fifty yards before delivering them to the cellar of an unoccupied outbuilding near the island's southwestern seawall. A hundred yards to the north, the cottage still burned, black smoke billowing up and drifting northward with the low clouds.

They scaled a wooden ladder down to the fringe of smooth, algae-covered rocks at base of the island's whitewashed seawall. Creeping clockwise, toward the fire, they could reach the gravel spit where they had beached the dinghy without being seen by anyone at the island's two quays, south and east.

Just as the spit came into view, Davila stopped short and examined something in the rocks, a navy-blue cap embroidered with a golden lion on a red shield. Its owner lay prone a few yards beyond, face-down in the shallow water, waves lapping his curly red hair. A radio crackled from the lapel of his dark jacket.

"Police," whispered Peter.

Davila shushed him. Out to the northwest, maybe a hundred-and-fifty yards, a black rubber Zodiac boat skimmed the waves, approaching fast, motor revving hot. Angling toward the gravel spit, the Zodiac skidded ashore opposite the dinghy. Out leaped four, five, six black-clad commandos armed with submachine guns. They sprinted along the spit toward Peter and Davila, gesturing wildly for them to get down.

And then they were surrounded.

_________________

Thank you for reading Chapter 34!

We finally learn what Peter's father and Saul Gordon were working on so long ago. Answers and new riddles! Can you decipher the hexagrammaton, the six letter code?

All comments and questions are welcome.

-Frode

Image: U.S. Navy photo by Chief Journalist Dave Fliesen