Arkangel, page 26
“What did he write?”
Anna stared down at the book in her hand and read the passage aloud. “‘Ah, dear Mercator, you hid well what you knew. Making large what is not. Building mountains where there are none. Burying the truth, like Catherine and I do now under a tower. Others should have looked more closely at what you drew, listened more intently when you claimed that this is not the truth—that it lies elsewhere.’” She looked up. “Again, the last line points to the word magnetic—as if that’s significant.”
Gray closed his eyes, trying to unlock this riddle. Lomonosov must have written this for a reason, leaving this page open as centuries passed, sending a message into the future.
But what did he mean?
Gray talked aloud, trying to use his voice to tease out any answers. “Not only did that annotation point to the word magnetic, but he also underlined the words false pull, which possibly also suggests something magnetic.”
“Or falsely magnetic,” Jason reminded him, adding his voice to the puzzle.
Gray nodded.
There’s something there . . . but what?
Gray squinted, trying to bring it into focus. “‘Building mountains where there are none.’ Could Lomonosov be referring to the fact that there is no magnetic mountain sitting at the north pole?”
“And ‘making large what is not,’” Bailey added. “Mercator drew a huge landmass, a veritable continent. But from what Nicolas wrote in his book, it almost sounds like he’s describing somewhere far smaller.”
“A place that Mercator blew up huge,” Anna said. “Magnifying it, so he could delineate what Nicolas had described in a greater detail at the center of his map.”
Gray returned his attention to the map. “‘Burying the truth.’ Maybe Mercator was trying to accomplish what Catherine and Lomonosov were doing here by keeping the Golden Library buried. To preserve knowledge—but keep it safeguarded and hidden.”
“In Lomonosov’s annotation,” Bailey said, “he hints that Mercator drew the answer on this map. ‘Others should have looked more closely at what you drew.’”
Gray nodded. “And listened, too. According to Lomonosov, Mercator ‘claimed that this is not the truth’—pointing to the word magnetic—and ‘that it lies elsewhere.’ Can anyone make sense of that?”
Anna stiffened, swearing in Russian, which earned a scowl from Yelagin, who leaned heavily on his staff, clearly exhausted.
“I think I know what he’s talking about,” Anna blurted out, sounding astounded with herself. “A well-documented part of the map’s history is that Mercator never believed the central mountain he drew was the true magnetic pole. He told people many times that the magnetic Rupus Nigra et Altissima—Nicolas’s Very High Black Cliff—lay elsewhere. But no one took heed of him.”
“Where did he believe it was located?” Gray asked.
Anna pulled his attention back to Mercator’s map. She pointed to a spot—an island from the look of it—positioned higher up the map.
“Mercator even labels this spot Polus magnetis—the magnetic pole.” She swung her finger to the center of the map. “While the mountain here he simply named Polus Arcticus—the Arctic Pole.”
Jason frowned. “Could Mercator have been differentiating between the geographical North Pole and the magnetic pole of the Earth? They’re in different locations. While the geographic pole is fixed, the magnetic one wanders all around.”
Gray had to consider this, but it seemed unlikely, and for good reason. “No one from Mercator’s time made that distinction. It wasn’t recognized as two different locations until the middle of the eighteen hundreds. Three centuries after Mercator drew this map.”
“Then what is that island on his map?” Jason asked.
Gray stared down at the tiny mountain in the ocean. “I think it’s what Nicolas described—some island with a strong magnetic pull, one that falsely pulled his ship off course, drawing it away from true north.”
Jason pointed to the large continent in the map’s middle. “And what about the rest of what Mercator drew?”
“I think it was his attempt to expand what couldn’t be drawn on that small spot on his map. Instead, he filled the Arctic’s middle void with what Nicolas had described in his Inventio Fortunata.”
“‘Making large what is not,’” Anna added, quoting Lomonosov.
Bailey leaned to peer at the small island. “But where is this place?”
It was a great question.
Gray stared across the charting and navigation tools spread atop the desk. “I think that’s what Lomonosov was attempting to figure out here. He must have gleaned enough to send out an expedition to pin it down.”
He remembered Anna telling him about the rumors that Catherine the Great dispatched ships on secret missions to the Far North, searching for this lost continent.
“But how do we continue from here?” Anna asked.
“I don’t think we’ll need all these sextants and compasses,” Gray said.
He stared down at his tablet, which still glowed with the image of that strange valley, surrounded by cliffs, circling a swirling pool.
That’s the location we need to find.
He closed the tablet’s window and opened a map of the polar region, one that was not drawn from accounts of long-dead explorers and lost books. It was a modern atlas of the Arctic, produced in exacting detail.
Gray added in a set of crosshairs at the center, marking the geographic North Pole.
He then crossed over and took a few snapshots of Mercator’s handiwork. Once satisfied with the image, he overlaid it atop the modern map. While the sixteenth-century version was not perfect in its rendition of every coastline, one detail was constant between the two, both past and present—the geographical North Pole.
He centered Mercator’s mountainous pole atop the current map’s spot, then played with the rotation until he could fix another point that was equally well mapped in the sixteenth century—the coastline of northern Europe.
With those two points overlapped and fixed, he boxed off the position of the mysterious island, the possible wellspring for all the mythology of Hyperborea.
He showed his handiwork to the others.
“It appears Mercator’s magnetic island lies somewhere in the East Siberian Sea,” Gray announced. “By tasking satellites with magnetometers, we should be able to detect any anomalous fluctuations in the magnetic field within that region and roughly pinpoint the island’s location.”
As the others studied the map, passing the tablet around, Jason waved Gray to the side. He did not look happy. His voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s some fractious waters. The East Siberian Sea is one of the major shipping lanes for Russia’s Northern Sea Route. If that island is far enough out into the remote waters of the Arctic, and Russia can claim it for themselves, it will vastly extend their territorial reach, consuming a large bulk of the polar sea. It risks destabilizing the entire region.”
Gray understood. “We can’t let that Arkangel Society get first crack at reaching the island. If we can expose this discovery—one with enormous historical implications—we may be able to keep a territorial war from starting. But to do so, we need to shine a big light on it.”
Jason nodded grimly and stated the mantra of transparency. “Sunlight is the best disinfectant.”
“Exactly. But there is a larger danger we must consider.”
“What’s that?”
Gray stared up at the warning on the wall, remembering Nicolas’s admonition in his book: Instead, fear that which ended the people of Hyperborea. For if it ever breaks free, it will destroy all of us.
“Something dangerous must be out there. Something that frightened Catherine enough to hide her library.” He turned back to Jason. “And I’m worried we’re not the first to learn of this.”
“You think Sychkin might know, too.”
“He has possession of that stolen Greek text. He has access to the decades of research by the Arkangel Society. So, I would not be surprised if he came upon this knowledge already. Still, for the moment, we’re one step ahead of him, but that lead will not likely last.”
“Then what do we do?”
Gray shrugged. “We follow Sigma’s motto.”
Jason grinned. “Be there first.”
Gray nodded. “That still leaves one last concern.”
“Which is what?”
“Is anything even out there?”
Yelagin cleared his throat, having clearly overheard this last exchange. “There must be.”
He drew their attention.
The bishop leaned on his staff, standing by the fireplace. He stared up at the curve of the tusk. “No one noticed this, but there’s a word inscribed in Greek along the bottom here. I believe it spells out Hyperborea, only some letters are missing or covered over.”
The bishop reached up and rubbed his palm across the yellowed ivory, as if to polish the word clearer. As he did, the tusk shifted under his hand. It seemed the artifact was more delicately balanced than it first appeared.
Gray realized why and lunged for Yelagin. “Stop . . .”
But it was too late.
The trap had been opulently baited—not with gold, but with a wealth of ivory, poised to punish any potential thief.
In the neighboring room, a meter-wide door tore open from the roof. Water pounded down from some great cistern above. The force was strong enough to break the oaken table below.
And it wasn’t only that one room.
It was all of them.
Crashing waters echoed from every direction, rapidly flooding the library.
“Make for the stairs!” Gray hollered.
He got everyone moving. As he did, he stared across at the row upon row of golden chests. Only now did he recognize the significance of an unusual feature to them.
All the boxes had been sealed with wax.
He now understood why.
The trap’s designers needed them to be watertight.
Gray grabbed Yelagin by the arm. Bailey came to his aid, too, while Jason helped Anna, whose eyes were wide with terror.
“Go, go, go . . .” Gray urged.
Water swamped into the small study, going from ankle-deep to knee-height before they could wade clear of the room. As the level rose, a certainty grew.
We’ll never make it to the exit.
Jason gasped, hauling through the deluge. “Where’s all this water coming from?”
Gray knew the answer, remembering all the stories of Lavra’s sacred springs, fonts of miraculous healing. With this realization came a hard truth.
We’re all about to drown in holy water.
29
May 12, 11:37 A.M. MSK
Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius, Russian Federation
Seichan stood at the headwaters of a raging cataract and despaired.
No . . .
Steps away, a huge flume of water pounded out of a trapdoor in the staircase’s roof and formed a heavy torrent tumbling down into the depths. A backwash of cold spray wet her face and soaked her clerical dress.
Several minutes ago, she had crossed through the maze of a wine cellar beneath the Ringing Tower, following a rough description that Monk had given her. As she reached the secret door that Gray had opened, she heard the birth of a waterfall deeper down. It had roared like a buried dragon. Fearing the worst, she had rushed headlong until she came face to face with the monstrous flood.
Poised before it now, she leaned forward on her toes, weighing whether to throw herself into the maelstrom and hope for the best. But she recognized that she would either drown or be battered to death before she ever reached the staircase’s bottom.
She fell back onto her heels, knowing she could not risk it. But it was not only about protecting her own life.
Jack can’t lose both of us.
Still, she stood there for several breaths, inwardly cursing, refusing to accept what roared in front of her, what it meant.
Unable to take it anymore, she flung herself around and fled up the steps.
She prayed that either Gray had already left or that he had some other plan.
She clung to that hope as she ascended the rest of the stairs and crossed the wine cellar. Still, her breathing choked into gasps. Her legs went leaden.
Hope had never been kind to her, proving false all too often.
Please, not this time . . .
She reached the stairs that rose out of the cellars and hauled herself up the steps to the tower’s entry hall. As she did, she heard raised voices—sharp shouts and crisp orders—coming from outside.
She shifted to the tower’s exit, careful to stay hidden in the shadows. Outside, a group of soldiers—a dozen or so—headed through the gardens surrounding the theological school. The men wore combat gear and carried assault weapons. Someone in the lead pointed toward the Ringing Tower.
Seichan rolled out of view, a question foremost in her mind.
Why are they coming here?
Had whatever triggered the flooding sounded an alert, drawing the armed men? Or had Sigma’s group been exposed?
She expected it was the second explanation.
For the past half day, she had tamped down her paranoia about a mole in their midst. After the embassy attack, no one seemed aware that Sigma had traveled into Sergiyev Posad. Her suspicion of the two members of the Russian Orthodox Church—Yelagin and Anna—had dimmed. Likewise with Yuri, who had saved her life only hours ago.
As soldiers pounded across the cobbles toward the tower, she regretted such trust.
I should’ve known better.
While hope had failed her many times, paranoia seldom did.
She rushed across the entry hall. The tower had no back door—at least not on this level. She slipped under a velvet rope that closed off the stairs leading up. She was careful not to touch it, to leave it swinging, lest some soldier should notice it.
She escaped up the steps, climbing to the tower’s third level.
Voices echoed up from below, along with the tramp of many boots.
She fled from them, over to one of the open windows that circled this tier. They were old arrow slits used to target attackers. She squeezed sideways through one, then got stuck. Struggling only wedged her tighter.
She closed her eyes, ignoring the voices drawing closer, coming up the steps.
Calm down.
A large part of her anxiety had nothing to do with the approaching soldiers. Fear for Gray and the others kept her tense, stiffening her honed flexibility.
She forced herself to stop struggling, to exhale slowly, to narrow her chest. As she did, her body slid through the opening. She let herself fall. Twisting in midair, she landed in a crouch atop the roof of the Lavra’s towering wall. She balanced herself on the thin ridge in the middle, then took off.
The damp tiles underfoot were treacherous and slippery.
Fearing a fall, she kicked off the drab sandals that completed her disguise as a nun and ran barefooted. She gained speed. Still, she waited for a shout to rise behind her, for gunfire to pursue her. She could only imagine what a bystander below might make of her flight. She must look like a huge black crow sweeping atop the wall.
As she ran, she let the winds blow the apostolnik from her shoulders. It fluttered away, like a scrap of shadow. Her hair fanned wide. Despite the danger, she felt far freer, able to cast aside her fears for Gray.
She reached the next tower and easily scaled through another arrow slit, vanishing away from sight. Once inside, she sent a plea to Gray—willing to give hope one last chance.
Come back to me.
30
May 12, 11:39 A.M. MSK
Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius, Russian Federation
Gray forged through the rising flood. The water level was waist-high and climbing fast. Dozens of crashing torrents echoed from the chambers on all sides. A hazardous flotsam of broken chairs and slabs of tabletops confounded the group’s passage, swirling and forming dams.
Jason called, yelling to be heard above the crashing waters. “Help!”
Gray turned at his frantic shout. The young man struggled with Anna. Her long dress—already clinging and weighing her body down—had snagged onto one of the logjams of debris.
Gray pushed Yelagin toward Bailey. “Take him. Keep going.”
Gray and the priest had been hauling the bishop between them.
Bailey nodded. “I got him.”
Gray set off, kicking and paddling over to Jason and Anna. Once he reached them, he drew a knife from his belt. The woman’s eyes were wide with panic. The shifting blockage was dragging her under.
He felt along the fabric to where it was snagged. The cloth had twisted into a hard rope.
He let it go, knowing it would take too long to saw through it. He shifted behind Anna, lifted his blade, and slit her dress from neckline to waist. She understood and wiggled free with Jason’s help, shedding her garment, swimming away in her bra and underwear.
“That’s better,” she gasped out.
Jason headed after Anna.
Even this brief stop had cost them valuable time.
Ahead, Bailey had an arm hooked around Yelagin’s waist. The bishop used his staff like a rafting pole to help propel them along.
By now, the water had reached neck high. They’d all be swimming soon. And terror made it look as if the roof were closing in on them.
He had to accept the truth.
No one’s escaping this trap.
Gray’s heart pounded in his ears. He wished Lomonosov’s study had been closer to the staircase. Still, even alone, Gray doubted he could’ve crossed that distance in time. The remote location of the study had made it a deathtrap.
Wait . . .
He halted in mid-stroke.
That makes no sense.
His mind spun—and he knew the answer.
“Stop!” he boomed.
Heads turned his way.
He pointed behind him. “We’re going the wrong direction!”
“What?” Jason called back.
“Follow me!”
With no time to explain, Gray turned and waded back toward Lomonosov’s study. It was still closer than the distant stairs. Even if the group could’ve reached the staircase, he suspected it was already a waterfall. The trap’s designers would have made sure no one escaped that way.
