Quest for the Ark Read online

  FREER OF SOULS

  QUEST FOR THE ARK

  By TAGGART REHNN

  To Brian

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2019 Taggart Rehnn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Front cover Copyright ©2019 Taggart Rehnn

  Find out more at: www.taggartrehnn.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1—At Haim’s

  2—Of Witches and Witchcraft

  3—David knocking at the door

  4—Holocaust Memories

  5—David At Home

  6—Flying to Paris

  7—A Visit to Severian

  8—Romania

  9—Parisian Interlude

  10—Palos Verdes

  11—Spying In Long Beach

  12—David and Deborah discuss Dracula

  13—Enter New Experts

  14—Siegfried and Sól study the Scroll

  15—Stones, Spells and Searches

  16—Was Lilith summoned, by mistake?

  17—Invoking Lilith

  18—Conrad, the Crusader

  19—Conrad visits the Castle

  20—Cathedrals, Crusaders and Caches

  21—Tony confides to Conrad

  22—This Is My Blood, and yet Not of my Blood

  23—The stone collectors

  24—Improvisation at Saint Pierre

  25—Mission Made Possible

  26—Bonjour Saint-Pierre

  27—Last Night Before Saint-Pierre

  28—Bonsoir Saint-Pierre

  29—Quo Vadis, Geoffroy?

  30—The Final Sprint?

  31—One Last Push

  32—Next day at the castle

  33—Next week in California

  34—Nightmares, Nookies and Novo-Hamburgo

  35—Bemvindos a Venezuela

  36—Maracaibo, mon amour

  37—Suspiciously timed ambush

  38—Weather, free radicals and radiation

  39—Back to the Base, More Trouble

  40—Tying loose ends

  41—Time to Go

  “And there are some who have no memorial,

  who have perished as though they had not lived;

  they have become as though they had not been born,

  and so have their children after them.

  But these were men of mercy,

  whose righteous deeds have not been forgotten;”

  Ben Sirath, Hymn in Honor of Our Ancestors, 44:9-10 (RSV).

  “Forgetfulness is the way to exile.

  Remembrance is the way to redemption.”

  Yad Vashem, the first Holocaust Memorial, Jerusalem.

  Prologue

  He was hollering, and sweating and screaming, and tossing and turning; and threatening and growling and crying; and swerving and dodging and stabbing, in every imaginable direction; and kicking and punching, like someone trying to escape a prematurely fitted coffin. So fast and furious were his jerks and thrusts he was often nearly falling off his leather-quilted, heavily padded—a pragmatic touch—massive, mahogany king-size bed. Even the fittingly immense silver Spanish colonial crucifix at the bedhead, very solidly attached to the wall, lay on an incline—another rather common occurrence: more than once his butler had been reprimanded for saying Jesus should go easier on the wine while straightening it the morning after.

  In his string of dreams, vampires and witches, and ghosts and aliens, and demons and tomb raiders, and Neo-Nazis and Russian spies, and hackers and worshipers of pagan idols of all manner and mode, and traders and traffickers, all of whom he had seen tread the dark corridors of a merciless, yet flourishing underworld, sometimes erupted at once; interwoven, exploding into horrifying nightmares, to then suddenly recreate scenes that made him weep and sob, or laugh hysterically, or snarl in anger—but never recoil in fear; and then, yet again, with equal ease, they’d become actors in salacious palaces of depravity and sloth and gluttony, places he had visited—either to save someone, or to kill someone, or to bribe someone, or to film someone in compromising acts or unpalatable surroundings, to extort something from him, or—though more rarely—her.

  Climaxing and waning, swirling and stilling, undulating and fading, images seem to update as they dissolved, aligned like pictures in a older-first database, scores of older ones subsumed by entire herds of more recent ones stampeding in the Serengeti of his hyperactive mind.

  Nowadays, one of the most harrowing one in this hair-raising repertoire, one that used to haunt him day and night alike, very rarely showed up, if it did at all: the only woman he ever loved, turned into a vampire, burned at the stake, accused of unspeakably evil acts by the people of a small town in Tony’s native Venezuela—and, mercifully, her absence of late made Tony’s nightmares far less painful, even less physically draining.

  When, he finally woke up, drenched, startled and panting, he was a nerve wreck.

  After months chasing this bizarre new symbol, he was sure: this wasn’t a new exotic gang, painting its impossibly large territory, demarcating it, not unlike bears clawing trees or dogs peeing on corners. It wasn’t a group of witches of any known coven or kind. It did not react to tests designed to pinpoint invocations to demons—those that, officially, do not exist—none at least that his Vatican superiors had ever encountered. Not even the ‘Oracle’ himself knew what this might be. But Tony, of course, wasn’t going to give up.

  He never had. He couldn’t. Too much was at stake—in many ways.

  For twenty-four years Father Antonio Bello had been a gatekeeper, and a good one at that. And he wasn’t ready to hang his sword yet.

  The sword, in fact, he kept under his pillow. The insolent inscription in it: “Quis ut Deus”, had not faded, supposedly for over a thousand years; a sword made of an alloy of platinum and gold—from a time when platinum was extremely rare, turned into this alloy, and crafted into this magnificent blade by a method no one could explain, a fine product of an unknown swordmaster’s method, both man and method lost in the fogs of time. Perhaps, a gift of Wyland the Smith to a Valkyrie who had helped him escape his captivity, and restored his legs to health, after being hamstrung. This nonsense, Father Lajos, Tony’s respected colleague and close friend, did most vehemently reject: why would a Viking, a pagan, a worshipper of Odin and such gods, make a sword aping that of Saint Michael? Tony wasn’t so sure: Western Finland was first Christianized on the eleventh century. So, although the metallurgical technique seemed highly improbable, Lajos religious objection might not be valid. Tony had replied by parroting the Order’s official line about its meaning: “Forged through the fire, tempered by quenching bouts of rage, strengthened and sharpened by each and every blow,” that was all that mattered. But Lajos was not only a dear friend, but also a great agent of the Order—so they’d settled for “to each, his own” and forgotten Lajos’ nonsense that ‘the old sword was different’ and moved on.

  Sagas and legends aside, to Tony, the sword was more a symbol than a weapon: while he crisscrossed the world armed with conventional and very unconventional weapons, the sword spent most of the time locked in a safe. And this would remain so until the day he should surrender it to his replacement, or a replacement ‘chevalier’ had to be found, after Tony’s death.

  Of another symbol, the one presently igniting his nightmares, Tony only knew it seemed to pe
rfectly correlate with equally inexplicable and deadly whirlwinds: two highly qualified exorcists had died chasing after them. Both deaths the press had dubbed “political assassinations”—incidentally, a designation that, on this particular occasion, might partially reflect the truth: the two victims had defended dissidents. One of them might have even been dating a dissident.

  Better informed, and only after a very meticulous investigation, the highly secretive Order Tony served had concluded that one of those deaths had probably been politically motivated—but the other one, most definitely had not. Reliving moments shared with those colleagues and friends, as they were when alive and well, watching them suddenly metamorphose into recently found corpses, partly dismembered, so gruesomely murdered they hardly did seem human anymore, often pushed Tony to the edge of his bed.

  That night, after twice falling from it, he had gone to the kitchen, shuddering, naked, sword in hand, and fetched a large glass of cold water. Slowly sipping from it, swinging the blade as if directing a symphony, he had then gone to the balcony, surrounded by a waist-high, neatly trimmed hedge of cypress, to watch the moon set on the horizon—a distant disk of sedating silver light, now dissolving in the immensity of the Pacific Ocean; a beacon of tranquility, sole witness of his distress; his haven, at a time when Los Angeles had already begun humming, even though most people were barely beginning to stir.

  Bodyguards or no bodyguards, for as long as he did this job, Tony knew better than using sleeping pills or antidepressants: that would invite premature death. Having emptied his glass, though resigned sleep wouldn’t come, he went back to bed, to prepare for the morrow. At least he would wrinkle those silk sheets some more, in every imaginable direction, and look at the mural of Saint Michael killing the dragon on his bedroom’s ceiling, trying to guess what ‘the dragon’ he would face this time could be.

  Regardless, before hearing his bodyguards knock at the door, he was up, ready to go, and had at least two good hours of trolling the darkest corners of the dark web. Only their coded knocking ended Father Antonio’s trolling. It was time to go. Right before leaving, Tony adjusted, one final time, his collar, sleeves, pants, belt and shoes, and carefully checked his hair in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors at the hallway. Not a thread or scrap out of place.

  Tony remained a formidable operative. A tall man in his mid-forties, with dark auburn hair and blue eyes, impeccably dressed, still in perfect physical shape, he still had no need for glasses—except to read very tiny print. However, the very few white hairs that had recently colonized his temples made him more image-conscious than he would like to be.

  But all this diligence wasn’t an act of vanity. Like Lajos before him, he had received ‘leave to reach out’—Vatican code for clearance to seek help; to seek it not only out of the Order, but also, ‘out of the Faith’—and today Tony was going to do just that. If ordinarily his mission would have been ‘sensitive’, after John Paul II’s cross in Auschwitz controversy and Francis’ homily about the chasuble in 2013, matters like this became even more ‘delicate’.

  Moreover, this mission was not going to be ecumenical or protocolar. Today Tony was going to seek help from a friend of many years, Rabbi Haim Cohen, a very learned rabbi, a rav if not a bonafide posek, who, Tony suspected, would give him a beyond-intensive course in his area of expertise. He would plod through History and pummel him with facts. And that hopefully would both enlighten him and make cooperation easier. In preparation, Tony had cleared his entire agenda for the day. Once again he read, in his grandmother’s impeccable calligraphy, his now favorite quotation: “Sometimes, even dappled by the foliage of prejudice, the light of knowledge can lift the fog of ignorance, and let those brave enough to open their eyes find the roots of a problem. But only the wise would recognize those grnarled roots for what they are: a compass to follow, stumbling if you must, no matter where it might lead.” He kissed the framed page and was ready to leave. However, before leaving his condo, he had to circle about, have another look at the ocean from his balcony, right on Manhattan Beach. Plastic flotsam aside, he loved the sea, the open view, and the convenience of being so close to LAX airport.

  From here it would take, on a good day, over an hour drive to go visit Haim, in Laguna Niguel. And, today, Tony wasn’t going to just visit, not just going to peruse the rabbi’s expertise: to get the help he needed from Haim, today Tony would put their friendship under a lot of stress, make the light of knowledge shine, no matter what it might reveal.

  After an absurdly deep breath and a slow exhalation, one last round at his office would allow him to check the very latest encrypted updates on those mysterious whirlwinds, locations where the symbol had appeared, and final tally of unexplained deaths in those areas. Adding a few minor corrections to the printed information he was willing to share with Haim today, he finally slipped his notes in the biometric-lock briefcase, secured it, and opened the door. As usual, his bodyguards greeted him, and followed him into the penthouse elevator, exchanging more nods than words.

  When he eventually emerged from the underground parking lot and drove into Ocean Drive, on his way to Manhattan Beach Boulevard and the 405, Tony’s lack of sleep started to show. Early raisers were enjoying the sea, on a splendid sunny day, an exceptionally quiescent day, with no local quakes, fires, floods or shootouts, and comparatively few of any of those even on national news. So much calm made him queasy: “Life tends to even out,” his father used to say. Maybe soon the Seven Plagues would descend over the world. But for now, he would take the respite and the largest coffee he could lay his hands on a.s.a.p. Today he should have taken the limo and be driven. Bad move.

  Even half asleep, on Inglewood, he almost veered north, to go check Hillside Memorial Park. The stack of papers in his briefcase left no doubts about it; but, with better light, he might be able to observe ‘the symbol’ on site, once again, to confirm, if confirmation were needed, that this was really happening, not a waking nightmare.

  Shaking his head, he stopped his car, startling his bodyguards who tailed him line ants on an ant trail. Rather than visiting the cemetery in person, Tony decide to go back, have some bubble tea and two triple caffeine lattes, and do some last-minute hacking at his favorite hunting spot. That way, he would look for the symbol using the cemetery’s own surveillance cameras—quick, clean, no harm, no foul.

  And, when the hack succeeded, after the second triple caffeine latte, there it was. Another Jewish cemetery defaced, painted with that symbol; not a neo-Nazi symbol, not some abhorrent blasphemy, not some rather stylized profanity in Hebrew. Just a symbol. That symbol: a sort of praying man; the same symbol the Order had now been chasing for months. What did the damn thing mean? Was it sorcery? Himmler had killed himself, hadn’t he? Was this a warning? What was it, anyway?

  Exhaling so hard he almost whistled, realizing it was getting late, Tony left his bubble tea, almost untouched, jumped on his car over the closed door, touched the ignition pad, and, followed by his dedicated bodyguards, finally made haste to Laguna Niguel.

  1—At Haim’s

  Day One

  Laguna Niguel, California

  When Father Bello arrived at Rabbi Cohen’s house, he found his friend buried under countless piles of precariously standing paperwork. Haim’s wife, Rebekah, then on her way out, greeted him, turned around, signaled to follow, and skipping steps, brought him to Haim’s office right away. “Haim dear, is there a man under one of those piles?” Rebekah asked, hollering towards the ceiling. “Yes, dear. A man trying to organize two weddings, a funeral, and a youth camp, all as soon as possible. Soon Tony will arrive, and whatever is he wants to discuss did seem rather urgent, panicky even. So, I’d better plow through all I can of my own mess before he gets here. You know when Tony starts jabbering...” Haim began, straightening his back. As he did, he pushed a pile with his left elbow, the pile started unraveling, toppled over, some of its papers went flying, swishing and fluttering, but the bulk collapse on the floor with a thwack—let
ting him realize Tony was already there.

  Suddenly beet-red, Haim pushed the paperwork mercilessly aside to make some room, effusively greeted Tony, asked him to take a seat, kissed Rebekah goodbye, suddenly vanished, came back carrying two steaming cups of coffee he almost spilled as he crossed paths with Rebekah, as she was on her way out again, carrying her briefcase, computer and another massive bag. Still mildly embarrassed, Haim then set the tray with coffee and cookies on the open space he had made, pushed piles of paperwork even further away, made another minor mess, shook his head, plopped on his chair, and, finally, exhaled.

  “Now, Tony, dear friend, tell me what is it that keeps you awake at night, as you said when you called. I have mountains of paper, enough to rival the Pyramids of Egypt, waiting for me, and no slaves to help me rebuild them after this farkakte mess, as you can see.”

  “OK, my friend. Let’s cut to the chase. It has to do with your people,” Tony said.

  “My people? My parishioners, my conationals, or my people, as in my Biblical people?”

  “Your Biblical people. Jews in general,” confirmed Tony.

  “You are not trying to get into proselytizing…not after all these years are you? ‘Cause if you are, you know where the door is, right?”

  “Of course not. During my drive here, I stopped to spy on one of your cemeteries, Hillside Memorial Park.”

  “Becky’s father is there. That is weird. You hunting for vampires…in Jewish cemeteries now? The Vatican has sent you on another quest that isn’t underway, as a member of an Order that doesn’t exist, for things that don’t lurk in the night—but they let you now talk about it to a man who is not of ‘the Faith’? Now, that’s way beyond weird!”

  “Don’t get defensive on me, Haim. No. I’m not hunting vampires or witches this time. I don’t even know what I’m hunting down now. I was checking some graffito.”