“Or someone within the Church itself?” Kat said.
“No,” Vigor said firmly. “I think there is a third group involved here. A brotherhood that’s existed before either group.”
“How can you be certain?” Gray asked.
“In 1982, some of the Magi burial cloths were tested. They dated to the second century. Well before the Dragon Court was founded. Before even Queen Helena, mother of Constantine, discovered the bones somewhere in the East.”
“And no one tested the bones?”
Vigor glanced to Gray. “The Church forbade it.”
“Why?”
“It takes a special papal dispensation to allow bones to be tested, especially relics. And the relics of the Magi would require extraordinary dispensation.”
Rachel explained, “The Church doesn’t want its most precious treasures to be ruled fake.”
Vigor frowned at Rachel. “The Church places much weight on faith. The world certainly could use more of it.”
She shrugged, closed her eyes, and settled back down.
“So if not the Church or the Court, who forged the bones?” Gray asked.
“I think your friend Monk was correct. I think an ancient fraternity of mages fabricated them. A group that may predate Christianity, possibly going back to Egyptian times.”
“Egyptians?”
Vigor clicked the mouse on his laptop, bringing up a file. “Listen to this. In 1450 B.C., Pharaoh Tuthmosis III united his best master craftsmen into a thirty-nine-member group called the Great White Brother-hood—named from their study of a mysterious white powder. The powder was described as forged from gold, but shaped into pyramidal cakes, called ‘white bread.’ The cakes are depicted at the temple of Karnak as tiny pyramids, sometimes with rays of light radiating out.”
“What did they do with them?” Gray asked.
“They were prepared only for the pharaohs. To be consumed. Supposedly to increase their powers of perception.”
Kat sat straighter, lowering her feet from the opposite bench.
Gray turned to her. “What is it?”
“I’ve been reading some of the properties of high-spin-state metals. Specifically gold and platinum. Exposure through ingestion can stimulate endocrine systems, creating heightened senses of awareness. Remember the articles on superconductors?”
Gray nodded. High-spin atoms acted as perfect superconductors.
“The U.S. Naval Research Facility has confirmed that communication between brain cells cannot be explained by pure chemical transmission across synapses. Brain cells communicate too quickly. They’ve concluded that some form of superconductivity is involved, but the mechanism is still under study.”
Gray frowned. He had, of course, studied superconductivity in his doctoral program. Leading physicists believed the field would lead to the next major breakthroughs in global technologies, with applications across the board. Also, from his dual degree in biology, he was well familiar with the current theories on thought, memory, and the organic brain. But what did any of this have to do with white gold?
Kat leaned toward her laptop. She tapped up another article. “Here. I did a search for platinum-group metals and their uses. And I found an article about calf and pig brains. A metal analysis of mammalian brains shows that four to five percent of the dry weight is rhodium and iridium.” She nodded to the sample on Gray’s table. “Rhodium and iridium in their monatomic state.”
“And you think these m-state elements might be the source of the brain’s superconductivity? Its communication pathway? That the pharaohs’ consumption of these powders juiced it up?”
Kat shrugged. “Hard to say. The study of superconductivity is still in its infancy.”
“Yet the Egyptians knew about it,” Gray scoffed.
“No,” Vigor countered. “But perhaps they learned some way of tapping into it by trial and error or by accident. However it came about, this interest and experimentation with these white powders of gold appears throughout history, passed from one civilization to the next, growing stronger.”
“How far forward can you trace it?”
“Right back to there.” Vigor pointed to the artifact on Gray’s table.
Gray’s interest piqued. “Really?”
Vigor nodded, up for the challenge. “As I said, we start first in Egypt. This white powder went by many names. The ‘white bread’ I mentioned, but also ‘white nourishment’ and ‘mfkzt.’ But its oldest name can be found in the Egyptian Book of the Dead. The substance is named hundreds of times along with its amazing properties. It is simply called ‘what is it.’”
Gray remembered the monsignor stumbling on those same words earlier, when they first turned the powder into glass.
“But in Hebrew,” Vigor went on, “‘what is it’ translates to Ma Na.”
“Manna,” Kat said.
Vigor nodded. “The Holy Bread of the Israelites. According to the Old Testament, it fell down from the heavens to feed the starving refugees fleeing Egypt, led by Moses.” The monsignor let that sink in and fiddled with his gathered files. “While in Egypt, Moses showed such wisdom and skill that he was considered a potential successor to the Egyptian throne. Such esteem would entitle him to participate in the deepest level of Egyptian mysticism.”
“Are you saying Moses stole the secret to make this powder? The Egyptian white bread?”
“In the Bible, it went by many names. Manna. Holy Bread. Shrew-bread. Bread of Presence. It was so precious that it was stored in the Arc of the Covenant, alongside the tablets bearing the Ten Commandments. All stored in a golden box.”
Gray did not miss the suggestive lift of the monsignor’s eyebrow, emphasizing the parallel to the Magi’s bones being preserved in a golden reliquary. “It seems a stretch,” Gray mumbled. “The name ‘manna’ might just be a coincidence.”
“When was the last time you read the Bible?”
Gray didn’t bother answering.
“There are many things that have perplexed historians and theologians in regards to this mysterious manna. The Bible describes how Moses set fire to the golden calf. But rather than melting into a molten slag, the gold burned down to a powder…which Moses then fed to the Israelites.”
Gray’s brows pinched. Like the pharaoh’s white bread.
“Also, who does Moses ask to make this Holy Bread, this manna from heaven? In the Bible, he doesn’t ask a baker to prepare it. He asks Bezalel.”
Gray waited for an explanation. He was not current on his biblical names.
“Bezalel was the Israelites’ goldsmith. He was the same person who constructed the Arc of the Covenant. Why ask a goldsmith to bake bread unless it was something other than bread?”
Gray frowned. Could it be true?
“There are also texts from the Jewish Kabbalah that speak directly of a white powder of gold, declaring it magical, but a magic that could be used for good or evil.”
“So what became of this knowledge?” Gray asked.
“According to most Jewish sources, it was lost when the Temple of Solomon was destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar in the sixth century B.C.”
“Where did it go after that?”
“To find hints of it, we skip forward two centuries, to another famous figure in history, who also spent much of his life in Babylon, studying with scientists and mystics.” Vigor paused for emphasis. “Alexander the Great.”
Gray sat straighter. “The Macedonian king?”
“Alexander conquered Egypt in 332 B.C., along with a vast part of the world. The man was always interested in esoteric knowledge. Throughout his conquests, he sent Aristotle scientific gifts from around the world. He also collected a series of Heliopolitan scrolls, concerning Old Egypt’s secret knowledge and magic. His successor, Ptolemy I, gathered these into the Library of Alexandria after his death. But one Alexandrian text tells a story about an object called the Paradise Stone. It was said to have mystical properties. When solid, it could surpass its own weight in gold, yet wh
en crushed into a powder, it weighed less than a feather and could float.”
“Levitation,” Kat said, interrupting.
Gray turned to her.
“Such a property of superconducting material is well documented. Superconductors will float in strong magnetic fields. Even these m-state powders demonstrate superconducting levitation. In 1984, laboratory tests in both Arizona and Texas showed that rapid cooling of monatomic powders could raise their tested weight fourfold. Yet if heated again, the weight vanished to less than zero.”
“What do you mean, less than zero?”
“The pan weighed more without the substance on it, as if the pan were levitating.”
“The Paradise Stone rediscovered,” Vigor declared.
Gray began to sense the truth. A secret knowledge passed down through the generations. “Where does the powdery trail lead next?”
“To the time of Christ,” Vigor answered. “In the New Testament, there continue to be hints of a mysterious gold. From Revelations, chapter two: ‘Blessed be the man who will overcome for he shall be given the hidden manna, the white stone of the purest kind.’ Also the Book of Revelations describes the houses of New Jerusalem as being constructed of ‘gold so pure as to appear like transparent glass.’”
Gray remembered Vigor mumbling that verse when the puddle of molten glass had hardened on the cathedral floor back in Cologne.
“Tell me,” Vigor continued, “when does gold ever appear like glass? It makes no sense unless you consider the possibility of m-state gold…this ‘purest of all golds’ described in the Bible.”
Vigor pointed to the table. “Which brings us back to the biblical Magi. To a tale related by Marco Polo out of Persia. It tells the story of the Magi receiving a gift from the Christ child, and this is probably allegorical, but I think it’s important. Christ gave the Magi a dull white stone, a Holy Stone. The story goes that it represented a call to the Magi to remain firm in their faith. During their journey home, the stone burst forth with fire that could not be extinguished, an eternal flame, which often symbolizes higher enlightenment.”
Vigor must have noted Gray’s confusion. He continued, “In Mesopotamia, where this story arises, the term ‘high fire-stone’ is called shemanna. Or shortened to just ‘fire-stone’…manna.”
Vigor leaned back and crossed his arms.
Gray slowly nodded. “So we’ve come full circle. Back to the manna and the biblical Magi.”
“Back to the age when the bones were crafted,” Vigor said with a nod to the table.
“And does it stop there?” Gray asked.
Vigor shook his head. “I need to do more research, but I think it continues beyond this point. I think what I’ve just described is not isolated rediscoveries of this powder, but an unbroken chain of research conducted by a secret alchemical society that has been purifying this process throughout the ages. I think the mainstream scientific community is only now beginning to discover it anew.”
Gray turned to Kat, their scientific web crawler.
“The monsignor is right. There are incredible discoveries being made about these m-state superconductors. From levitation to the possibility of trans-dimensional shifting. But more-practical applications are being explored right now. Cis-platinum and carbono-platinum are already being used to treat testicular and ovarian cancers. I expect Monk, with his forensic training, could go into more detail. But there are even more intriguing discoveries just in the past few years.”
Gray motioned her to continue.
“Bristol-Meyers Squibb has reported success with monatomic ruthenium to correct cancer cells. Same with platinum and iridium, according to Platinum Metals Review. These atoms actually make the DNA strand correct itself, rebuilding without drugs or radiation. Iridium has been shown to stimulate the pineal gland and appears to fire up ‘junk DNA,’ leading to the possibility of increased longevity and reopening aging pathways in the brain.”
Kat leaned forward. “Here’s one from August 2004. Purdue University reports success in using rhodium to kill viruses with light from inside a body. Even West Nile virus.”
“Light?” Vigor asked, his eyes narrowing.
Gray glanced to him, noting the monsignor’s intensified interest.
Kat nodded. “There are a slew of articles about these m-state atoms and light. From turning DNA into superconducting strands…to light-wave communication between cells…to tapping into zero field energies.”
Rachel finally spoke up. She still kept her eyes closed. She’d been listening all along, eavesdropping. “It makes one wonder.”
“What?” Gray turned to her.
She slowly opened her eyes. They were bright and alert. “Here scientists are now talking about heightening awareness, levitation, transmutation, miraculous healing, anti-aging. It sounds like a list of miracles from biblical times. It makes me wonder why so many miracles happened back then, but not now. In the past few centuries, we’re lucky to see an image of the Virgin Mary on a tortilla. Yet now, science is rediscovering these larger miracles. And much of it traces back to a white powder, a substance known better back then than today. Could such secret knowledge have been the source for the epidemic of miracles back in biblical times?”
Gray pondered this, meeting her gaze. “And if these ancient magi knew more than we know now,” he extrapolated, “what has this lost fraternity of wise men done with this knowledge, to what level have they refined it?”
Rachel continued the thread. “Maybe that’s what the Dragon Court is after! Maybe they found some clue, something tied to the bones that could lead them to whatever this purified end product might be. Some final plateau reached by the mages.”
“And along the way, the Court learned that murderous trick back in Cologne, a way to use the powder to kill.” He remembered the monsignor’s words about the Jewish Kabbalah, that the white powder could be used for good or ill.
Rachel’s face sobered. “If they should attain even greater power, gaining access to the inner sanctum of these ancient wise men, they could change the world, remake it in their own sick image.”
Gray stared around at the others. Kat wore a calculating expression. Vigor seemed lost in his own thoughts, but the monsignor noted the sudden silence.
His eyes focused back on them.
Gray faced him. “What do you think?”
“I think we have to stop them. But to do that, we’re going to have to search for clues to these ancient alchemists. That means following in the footsteps of the Dragon Court.”
Gray shook his head. He recalled his concern that they were proceeding too cautiously, too timidly. “I’m done following the bastards. We need to pass them. Let them eat our dust for a change.”
“But where do we begin?” Rachel asked.
Before anyone could answer, a programmed announcement came over the train’s intercom.
“Roma…Stazione Termini…quindici minuti!”
Gray checked his watch. Fifteen minutes.
Rachel was staring at him.
“Benvenuto a Roma,” she said as he looked up. “Lasci i giochi cominciare!”
Gray translated, a ghost of a smile forming. It was as if she read his mind. Welcome to Rome…. Let the games begin!
6:05 P.M.
SEICHAN SLIPPED on a pair of black and silver Versace sunglasses.
When in Rome…
She stepped out onto Piazza Pia from the express bus. She wore a breezy white summer dress and nothing else except for a pair of stiletto-heeled Harley-Davidson boots with silver buckles, a match to her necklace.
The bus pulled away. Behind her, cars jammed the road, a honking, belching line of traffic, headed down Via della Conciliazone. The heat and reek of petrol struck her simultaneously. She faced to the west. Down the street, St. Peter’s Basilica rose, silhouetted against the setting sun. The dome shone like gold, a masterpiece of design by Michelangelo.
Unimpressed, Seichan turned her back on Vatican City.
It was
not her goal.
Before her stood a structure that rivaled the great St. Peter’s. The massive drum-shaped building filled the skyline, a fortress overlooking the Tiber River. Castel Sant’Angelo. Atop its roof, a mammoth bronze statue of the Archangel Michael bore aloft an unsheathed sword. The sculpture blazed in the sun. The stone structure beneath was blackened soot, stained in rivulets, like a flow of black tears.
How fitting, Seichan thought.
The place had been built in the second century as a mausoleum to Emperor Hadrian, but shortly thereafter, it had been taken over by the papacy. Still, the castle had developed an illustrious and ignoble history. Under Vatican rule, it had served as a fortress, a prison, a library, even as a brothel. It had also been a secret rendezvous spot for some of the more notorious popes, who kept concubines and mistresses within its walls, often imprisoned there.
Seichan found it amusing to make her own rendezvous here. She crossed the gardens to the entrance and passed through the twenty-foot-thick walls to enter the first floor. It was dark and cool inside. This late in the day, tourists were dribbling out. She headed in, climbing up the wide curved Roman steps.
Off the main staircase, the castle spread out in a warren of rooms and halls. Many visitors got lost.
But Seichan was only going up to the middle level, to a terrace restaurant that overlooked the Tiber. She was to meet her contact there. After the firebombing, it was deemed too risky to meet in the Vatican itself. So her contact was going to cross down the Passetto del Borgo, a covered passageway atop an old aqueduct that connected the Apostolic Palace to the castle fortress here. The secret passage had been originally constructed in the thirteenth century as an emergency escape route for the pope, but over the centuries, it was more often used for amorous trysts.
Though today, there was nothing romantic about this meeting.
Seichan followed the signs to the terrace café. She checked her watch. She was ten minutes early. Just as well. She had a call to make.
She slipped out her cell phone, pressed the scramble feature, and tapped in the speed-dial code. A private, unlisted number. She leaned on a hip, phone to her ear, and waited for the international connection to be made.