“But what evil?” Lisa asked. “Is it just the illness or something else?”
Faraji stiffened and gasped, stepping away from the table. The boy had been working through the stack of photos and had reached the last in the time line.
Gray crossed to see what had so unnerved the kid. He picked up the photo. It showed a break in the forest and a pair of vine-encrusted pillars that flanked a tall crack into a fern-covered cliff. The scarp towered high, cutting a jagged line across the sky. Gray flipped it over. There was no symbol or sketch on the back, only a smudged scrawl. It was not drawn with ink, but from the darkness of the stain, maybe blood.
It formed two words.
Ndaye read over Gray’s shoulder and translated what was written. “Mfupa Ufalme. It means ‘Empire of Bones,’ or maybe ‘Kingdom of Bones.’”
Faraji pointed at the photo, while taking another step back. “Bad place. Alaaniwe. Cursed. All of Kuba know. Never go there.”
Tucker sighed. “Well, we know Sheppard went there.”
Gray nodded. “The question remains . . . what did he find there and how does it help us now?”
“If it does . . .” Lisa added.
Gray could not discount Lisa’s skepticism, but with this disease spreading rapidly, they needed to consider all possibilities.
He turned to the boy. “Would you be willing to guide us to this first spot? To the okapi watering hole?”
Faraji looked scared, but he nodded. “Woko Bosh. He want me to help.”
“I should go, too,” Ndaye offered. “You may need someone with knowledge of the local people and region.”
Gray nodded his thanks and turned to Lisa. “I’ll leave you and Monk here with Dr. Whitaker, to assist him with his research. I’ll take Kowalski with me. As soon as we get the all-clear from the Congolese army, we’ll head to the U.N. camp first. We’ll drop off Tucker and Kane and head to this watering hole.”
The plan was for the Army Ranger and his furry partner to guard over Benjie, who had agreed to travel to the campsite and collect samples from the dead bodies, both human and baboon, then bring them back to the lab. Frank had wanted to go himself, but he was needed here to work on the samples being collected from the ants. His advancements in viral identification were too unique. Only he understood his proprietary techniques.
Still, there remained one detail that stymied them all. For any hope of understanding it, the team had needed to consult an expert, one with more knowledge on the subject.
A chime sounded from the door as it unlocked.
Monk shoved inside, followed by Kowalski, who clutched a half-eaten sandwich in a greasy wrapper. The big man chewed a huge mouthful. The smell of spice and barbecue accompanied his arrival.
Kowalski lifted his sandwich, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. “Oh, man, this beats an Egg McMuffin any day of the week . . .”
Kane sniffed the air as the big man passed by, plainly wanting to test this assessment.
Monk simply headed over to the group. He propped the team’s digital pad atop the table for all to see. “I’ve got everyone conferenced online. Took some doing.”
Monk also splayed out the last piece to this puzzle.
7:47 A.M.
Tucker scooted next to the others as Monk unfolded the map that had been hidden inside the Kuba Box. From the digital pad, two faces stared out of the screen.
The one seated behind a desk was Painter Crowe, director of Sigma. The other leaned on a table in some library, flanked by tall bookshelves. The dark-haired stranger was dressed in black with a distinctive white Roman collar.
Tucker frowned at the sight.
Why did Sigma need to consult a priest?
Gray tilted farther into view of the screen. “Father Bailey, how goes the reconstruction of Castel Gandolfo?”
The priest shrugged. “The new foundations are in place. As long as you all stay away from here, we should make good progress.”
“We’ll try our best,” Gray said with a grin.
Tucker glanced at the others, who seemed to understand this exchange.
Clearly I’ve missed out on some Sigma misadventure.
Lisa offered the barest explanation, whispering over to Tucker. “Father Bailey has helped us in the past. He works with the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology. Though his role with the Church is a bit more complicated than that.”
Tucker lifted up a palm. “Don’t need to hear anything more. You’ve all complicated my life well enough as it is.”
Gray glanced down to the map, while addressing the priest. “What do you make of the image that Director Crowe sent you?”
Tucker shifted to get a better view of that mystery. The map was plainly old, inscribed with Latin. It looked to have been torn from an old book before being folded up and stuffed at the bottom of the Kuba Box.
Bailey scratched at his collar, as if it chafed him. “It took a little more research here at the Vatican archives to identify it, but what you have is a copy of an old map of Africa. Drawn back in 1564 by the cartographer, Abraham Ortelius. But it’s less the map that’s intriguing than its subject matter.”
“Which is what?” Gray asked.
“The Latin in the map’s legend box reads ‘Presbiteri Johannis, sive, Abissinorum Imperii descriptio,’ which translates to ‘A Description of the Empire of Prester John of the Abyssinians.’”
Tucker looked across to the photo of the pillars in the jungle. He remembered Ndaye’s translation of the message on the back, a place called the Empire of Bones.
Gray expressed what they were all likely wondering. “Could that be what the Reverend Sheppard was searching for in the jungle? This empire of Prester John’s?”
Tucker frowned. “I don’t understand. Who’s Prester John?”
Bailey answered, “He was a legendary Christian king of astounding wealth. He was said to have descended from the black Magi, Balthazar. His earliest stories put him in Asia, but later in Africa, making him the first Christian king of that continent. His tale grew to such prominence that, in the twelfth century, Pope Alexander III sent the fabled king a message. Only the one who carried that letter—the pope’s personal physician—vanished into the jungles and was never seen again.”
Tucker recalled Faraji’s insistence about the kingdom being cursed.
Maybe the pope’s doctor should’ve been forewarned about that particular detail.
“A letter did arrive decades later,” Bailey continued. “Signed by Prester John, which further fueled his tale. Then, in the fifteenth century, Portuguese explorers who were searching for this legendary king sent back word of a Christian empire found deep in the jungle. They described the court, an elaborate city, and most detailed of all, the wealth of the empire, which they claimed was the source of gold for King Solomon’s temple.”
Tucker tried to picture such a place, an African Shangri-la. Even he knew this legend of Solomon’s lost gold mine. Explorers had been hunting for it for ages, even up until today, convinced the vast mine lay somewhere out in the jungle.
“I dug a little deeper after Director Crowe’s inquiry,” Bailey said. “Prester John’s story stretches beyond lost treasures. It also ties to the Ark of the Covenant, which many still believe lies hidden in Ethiopia. Just as intriguing, his tale connects to the Fountain of Youth. It was said that Ethiopians lived hundreds of years, attributable to a lake that when you washed in it, your flesh would be renewed, glossy with youth. If you drank from it, whatever ailed you would be cast off, and you would be free of illness for thirty years.”
Kowalski grunted around a mouthful of sandwich. “I wouldn’t mind taking a dip in that pond.”
Lisa touched the man’s shoulder in sympathy.
Bailey continued, “According to those stories, the properties of the lake were unique. Nothing could float on it, not wood or anything. The last anyone heard about Prester John, this priest-king of Ethiopia, it was said he was 562 years old. Then the kingdom fell silent.”