touchscreen computer, bringing up a series of photographs. Some were vacation shots; others were newspaper clippings and the like. “When I saw that all thirteen victims were British nationals my first thought was not only do I dislike this kind of coincidence, I don’t buy it. Thirteen people commit suicide in an identical manner in thirteen countries and they all just happen to come from the same place. There has to be a link. So then it was a case of looking for that link.”
“Makes sense,” Noah agreed. “I take it you found one?”
“Of course,” Lethe said, without a hint of hubris. “All of our victims were academics, and, more precisely, all of our victims dabbled in the field of archeology in some way or other. One was a university professor running the history department at Durham. Three were postgrads who have stayed in the field: One worked on that TV show where they dig up old ruins and try to make history sexy; another was a curator at the British Museum; a geophys specialist; a historian with a Middle Eastern specialization. . . . The list goes on, but you can see what I am driving at.”
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Noah said.
“Ah, it wouldn’t have looked half as impressive if you’d been here at three o’clock, believe me.”
“So there’s something to be said for being late, then.” Noah smiled ruefully.
“Quite,” the old man said, cutting across the banter. There was an awkward silence for a moment as Lethe seemed to forget he’d been in the middle of briefing the others. He triggered the next sequence on the computer and the images on the screen were replaced by a single shot: a lowering sun and a huge orange-red, flat-topped rock formation. In the far right corner was the washed-out blue of the sea.
Noah studied the colored striations that marked the sides of the mesa.
“This place is the one thing they all have in common,” Lethe said, gesturing up at the screens. “Masada. It’s a World Heritage Site situated along the Dead Sea Road on the eastern edge of the Judaean Desert. According to Josephus, who is pretty much the oracle on all this stuff, the original fortress was built by Herod and was a stronghold for an extremist sect known as the Sicarii. They appear on the face of it to be the world’s first terrorists, but Josephus was also an inveterate liar and had a habit of grossly exaggerating everything he wrote about, so who knows? One thing for sure though, the Sicarii committed mass suicide rather than surrender to the Romans. The fact that we’ve got two mass suicides linked to the same place is another coincidence I’m not particularly enamored of.”
“All well and good,” Orla Nyrén began, “but how exactly does this link our suicides? I’m missing something here.” She scratched at her right eyebrow—there was a slight scar beneath the hair—with the thumb of her left hand. It was a curiously awkward gesture.
“I’m glad you asked, Orla,” Lethe said in his best wise, old soul voice. He changed the image on the screen again. This time the displays showed a dozen images of an excavation in progress. “Without a crystal ball I canyst tell you how important it is in relation to today’s events, but in 2004 an earthquake damaged the crumbling walls of the old fort. The upshot was several previously hidden chambers and an elaborate subterranean network were uncovered. And this, my friends, is where two plus two could either be four or five: all of our victims were part of the team that went to excavate the site.”
4
Slouching Toward Megiddo
“Let me try and wrap my head around this for a minute.” Noah looked up at the screens. The faces might have been replaced by the harsh reality of the Israeli landscape, but that didn’t matter. His head was filled with Catherine Meadows’ digital ghost falling to its knees, arms rising up in a desperate V. He rubbed his fingers against his
“Makes sense,” Noah agreed. “I take it you found one?”
“Of course,” Lethe said, without a hint of hubris. “All of our victims were academics, and, more precisely, all of our victims dabbled in the field of archeology in some way or other. One was a university professor running the history department at Durham. Three were postgrads who have stayed in the field: One worked on that TV show where they dig up old ruins and try to make history sexy; another was a curator at the British Museum; a geophys specialist; a historian with a Middle Eastern specialization. . . . The list goes on, but you can see what I am driving at.”
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Noah said.
“Ah, it wouldn’t have looked half as impressive if you’d been here at three o’clock, believe me.”
“So there’s something to be said for being late, then.” Noah smiled ruefully.
“Quite,” the old man said, cutting across the banter. There was an awkward silence for a moment as Lethe seemed to forget he’d been in the middle of briefing the others. He triggered the next sequence on the computer and the images on the screen were replaced by a single shot: a lowering sun and a huge orange-red, flat-topped rock formation. In the far right corner was the washed-out blue of the sea.
Noah studied the colored striations that marked the sides of the mesa.
“This place is the one thing they all have in common,” Lethe said, gesturing up at the screens. “Masada. It’s a World Heritage Site situated along the Dead Sea Road on the eastern edge of the Judaean Desert. According to Josephus, who is pretty much the oracle on all this stuff, the original fortress was built by Herod and was a stronghold for an extremist sect known as the Sicarii. They appear on the face of it to be the world’s first terrorists, but Josephus was also an inveterate liar and had a habit of grossly exaggerating everything he wrote about, so who knows? One thing for sure though, the Sicarii committed mass suicide rather than surrender to the Romans. The fact that we’ve got two mass suicides linked to the same place is another coincidence I’m not particularly enamored of.”
“All well and good,” Orla Nyrén began, “but how exactly does this link our suicides? I’m missing something here.” She scratched at her right eyebrow—there was a slight scar beneath the hair—with the thumb of her left hand. It was a curiously awkward gesture.
“I’m glad you asked, Orla,” Lethe said in his best wise, old soul voice. He changed the image on the screen again. This time the displays showed a dozen images of an excavation in progress. “Without a crystal ball I canyst tell you how important it is in relation to today’s events, but in 2004 an earthquake damaged the crumbling walls of the old fort. The upshot was several previously hidden chambers and an elaborate subterranean network were uncovered. And this, my friends, is where two plus two could either be four or five: all of our victims were part of the team that went to excavate the site.”
4
Slouching Toward Megiddo
“Let me try and wrap my head around this for a minute.” Noah looked up at the screens. The faces might have been replaced by the harsh reality of the Israeli landscape, but that didn’t matter. His head was filled with Catherine Meadows’ digital ghost falling to its knees, arms rising up in a desperate V. He rubbed his fingers against his
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