The Manuscript I the Secret (5 page)

Yerevan, Armenia

1974

Claudio Contini-Massera waited patiently for his passport to be examined. It was not his first trip to the Zvartnots airport. Everyone waiting in the interminable lines was subjected to the same remarkable apathy by the customs officials. The agent examined Claudio’s photo one more time, checked over the previous entries and exits, made a nearly imperceptible gesture with his lips, and turned on his heels. He went straight toward a man that was apparently a supervisor. After glancing at the passport, the supervisor looked up, saw Claudio, and approached with a solicitous air.

“Mr. Contini, I beg you to forgive my colleague. He is new to the job,” he said in Russian. He quickly and silently stamped and returned the passport.

“Thank you, comrade Korsinsky,” Claudio said to the supervising official.

“Welcome to Armenia, comrade Contini. Please, be so good as to greet our comrade Martucci for me,” the Soviet replied, escorting Claudio toward baggage claim.

“But of course, comrade,” Claudio replied, offering his hand, in which was concealed an envelope.

With miraculous agility the envelope disappeared into a pocket in Korsinsky’s uniform.

Count Claudio Contini-Massera made a special point to travel with a passport on which his title, a risky and problematic matter in that country, did not appear. The communist regime installed in Armenia ruled with an iron fist not only over its own inhabitants but also over any representative of the class they most desperately despised: nobility. As a warning to all who entered Armenia, Stalin’s statue presided over Victory Park, a bastion to remind one and all exactly who held the power. Claudio had to pass for an archeologist, a scholar of religion and ancient languages, and an Italian sympathizer to the communists. Though no one would have believed his story, as long as there was money to grease the wheel, things usually marched along just fine. The reigning corruption in Armenia had washed away the differences between the factions that had so recently and violently been divided into proud supporters of the Aryan race theories and communist sympathizers. Now both sides were forced to pay homage to the Soviets. The long-suffering Armenian populace knew that surviving mattered more than the color of the money. And as is want to happen, short-stay travelers tended to be the best for business, as long as certain representatives of the Soviet higher-ups got their cut.

Claudio Contini-Massera had managed to “rescue” valuable antiques and relics from certain rarely frequented places with the help of authorities within the “incorruptible” communist system. A wad of cash always seemed to calm their patriotic nerves; the money supplied the vodka the officials so vigorously consumed in their zeal to remember the motherland, and it helped them stockpile the wealth reviled vehemently in their political propaganda.

Francesco Martucci’s old truck sat idling outside the airport. Claudio marched directly to it, tossed his luggage in the truck bed, and opened the door. As a sign and symbol of the deep friendship between them, he greeted Francesco with an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

“I came as soon as I could,” he said, rubbing his hands together through the leather gloves.

“This weather is abysmal,” Francesco murmured. He shifted into gear, and his hair flew wildly in the freezing wind that sliced through the truck window which would not shut. “I was afraid you’d be delayed. I hate driving at night.”

“When are you going to get rid of this heap of junk?” Claudio needled.

“The less attention I attract, the better,” Francesco answered. “Besides, for what I do, this truck works just fine.”

“Are we going straight to...?”
“Seventy-five miles is a pretty long stretch...and at this time of night...”

“But during the day one of your comrades might see us, and don’t you think we should go ahead and get this over with?”

“All right, whatever you say,” Francesco replied reluctantly.

Nearly two hours later, the ancient complex of monasteries loomed ahead on the road. It was etched into a gorge southeast of the rural community of Areni, outside the city of Yeghegnadzor. The dark silhouette of the ancient buildings snapped against the ghostly backdrop of the majestic Mount Ararat with its eternally white peaks. Francesco stopped the truck a little ways away from the buildings, parking under a tree. Despite the dark, he wanted to take every precaution.

“I’ve got flashlights and extra batteries in the back,” Francesco said to himself, clicking off his mental list of what to bring. “Matches, helmets, water; my shovel is already down there, so is my pick; I’ll take a couple of these...” He grabbed the canvas bags and covered what remained in the truck bed with a plastic tarp, taking care to tuck in the corners.

“Don’t we need dynamite?” Claudio asked.

“Have you lost your mind? The monastery would come crashing down on top of us.”

“I’m just kidding,” Claudio winked.

“Yeah, well, let’s see how jovial you feel down below,” Francesco retorted. He headed for the narrow entrance to one of the churches and clamped his helmet down.

The beautifully carved pale wooden door did not fit with any of Claudio’s preconceived notions. Under the bright beam of his flashlight, the intricate filigree latticework nearly danced between light and shadows. Francesco opened the rudimentary padlock clearly belonging to a more recent era, and the thick, heavy door slowly turned on its hinges, giving way to his gentle pressure. He motioned for Claudio to follow and then locked the deadbolt from within. Their flashlights were too weak to allow much study of the austere rock walls. One had to know the way by heart, as Francesco did, to be able to proceed with any surety or speed. A crack in the rock, which seemed to Claudio no more than one of the many sculpted entryways, opened slowly when Francesco pushed on it. They crossed the threshold into complete darkness. Claudio flicked on his headlamp and continued following Francesco, who was already going down some rough-cut stone stairs. He counted twenty steps that curved around until they reached another door similar to the first but with a large metal crucifix on it. Passing through, they went down fifteen more steps and came to an open gallery from which several tunnels branched off. Francesco took the one going farthest down. As they continued, the air grew progressively thinner. A light odor of sulfur wafted up, mixed with earth, mold, and dampness.

Another gallery, more forks in the road. Francesco went down a long corridor whose earthen walls seemed ready to collapse at any moment. A labyrinth of paths crossed and recrossed each other, some going up, some going down, but Francesco’s steps were sure and determined as he followed a familiar route. They filed by long rows of niches marked only with crossbones, an occasional ancient Armenian symbol or two, or a couple words in Latin. At the end of one long tunnel adorned with skulls etched into the walls, the path split yet again. Francesco took the right-hand fork and continued downward. Claudio noticed that at this depth the air grew somehow less oppressive.

“There are chimneys,” Francesco explained, pointing to some holes in the rock. “I think they go up to the walls of the ravine. To my best guess, the gorge is on this side,” he lightly tapped the wall to the right even as he continued descending the steep narrow path.

“I guess the builders had to make them so they could breathe,” Claudio concluded, hurrying to keep up.

“Here it is,” Francesco announced, indicating the arched doorway at the end of the trail.

He went through, with Claudio at his heels.

One rock-covered niche differed markedly from the rest. It did not seem to be as old as the other six. Its figures and descriptions set it apart: on top was the Armenian inscription Francesco had mentioned and which was incomprehensible to Claudio. Underneath was the cross with the inscription in Latin: “May divine wrath fall upon the desecrator.”

“These look like gammate crosses. That’s the Nazi symbol, isn’t it?”

“Well, the symbol was being used all the way back in the Mesolithic era. Here in Armenia you can find crosses and swastikas from over nine thousand years ago. They might have been related to some sort of astrological event,” Francesco explained solemnly as if giving a class lecture.

“Who’s tomb is it?”
“Probably someone important.”

“Or some
thing
,” Claudio retorted. “I think we should open it to know for sure. Nazis hid huge amounts of gold in the least likely places.”

“Oh, no. If anyone’s going to open it, it’s got to be you. I’m afraid of that divine wrath.”

“Francesco, you’re a researcher, a scientist. You can’t let little things like tomb inscriptions get to you. What were you doing down here anyway? Isn’t this every scientist’s dream, to find such a tomb and analyze the contents?”
“Ancient tombs, yes. But, Claudio, this tomb can’t be more than twenty years old. I’m just following my intuition. I think we should get out of here.”
“Oh, come on, friend. If you really thought that, you would never have told me about it. You want to know just as bad as I do what it all means.”

“We talk about all sorts of things—I just happened to mention this, and you took it seriously. You’ve collected so many relics you can’t even appreciate them anymore. Your hobby is plain old commercialism now.”

From one of his pockets Claudio extracted a Minox, a small camera no more than two inches long and barely an inch wide, flash included. He snapped several pictures of the inscriptions. Then he pulled off his jacket, laid it to one side on the dirt floor, and grabbed the pick. He tried prying at the edges of the rock that served as the gravestone. It would not budge. It had been cemented in with mortar. He began hacking methodically, and little by little the stone chipped away before the onslaught of the pick in Claudio’s expert hands.

“Well, who would have thought? You’re a stonecutter at heart.” Francesco’s jibe was stilted, a poor attempt to mask his growing fear.

“Hmph! I didn’t realize it ‘til right now!” Claudio managed to cough out between the exhaustion and the dust.

He kept at it for another half hour and finally stopped to rest, panting. His shirt was drenched with sweat. Francesco handed him the canteen, and he gulped thirstily.

Claudio got back to work with renewed vigor. After a few more hacks, the rock splintered like a river dividing into multiple streams. Claudio removed the debris carefully and, aided by his headlamp, made out a small box and the shape of a tube at the back of the niche.

“Eureka! Francesco, I think we’ve found something!”

He removed the last piece of rock and took hold of the chest, but it would not budge. It seemed to be anchored down at its base. Claudio grabbed a trowel from the tool bag and started working it under the chest little by little. When the glue finally yielded, he jerked the chest out with one strong heave. He handed it to Francesco and turned back to the niche with his light. The metal tube was lying in a back corner. He reached far back, grabbed it, and, looking it over, guessed it was about sixteen inches long and an inch and a half in diameter.

Claudio looked around for the chest and saw that Francesco had set it on the ground. He put the tube down on the ground and picked up the chest. It was heavy and closed in an apparently hermetic seal. With his headlamp he studied the lock to see how to work it, but eventually he opted to force it with the blade of the trowel. All of a sudden, as if some mechanism had been triggered of its own accord, the lid sprung open. The bright blue contents lit up the cave like a firecracker going off. Claudio, taken completely by surprise, dropped the chest. Some sort of bright rock tumbled over the floor into a corner and pulsed with a hypnotizing blue glow. The men stared at it for a prolonged moment, unable to look away. Finally, Francesco covered his eyes and screamed, “For the love of God, Claudio, put it back in the chest!”

Claudio woke from the daze and grabbed the gleaming rock. It was cold through his leather gloves. He put it back in the chest and closed the lid. They heard a light
click
.

“Oh, God! We’ve been blinded!” Francesco whimpered.

“No...hang on...I think that thing just temporarily dazed us.”

After a few eternal seconds, the flashlights once again put form and shadow back in their proper places for the men, lighting up the now empty niche.

“I think we should put everything back like it was,” Francesco said weakly. “I don’t like this.”

“No way. Even if I wanted to, we couldn’t. The flagstone is in a million pieces, and I want to know what’s in that tube,” Claudio said, trying to open it.

“No, please, wait ‘til we get outside to open it. I don’t want anything else weird to happen down here. We should leave,” Francesco insisted.

Claudio picked up the chest and the metal tube and put them in the canvas bag.

“You remember the way, I hope?” Claudio jested, searching for a way to lighten the mood.

Francesco just stared at him, and that was enough. He was completely silent the entire way back to Yerevan except to say he would come by the hotel the next day at noon.

Yerevan, Armenia

1974

Francesco Martucci was emotionally exhausted. He left Claudio at the hotel door and headed for his humble abode. The room he rented belonged to a widow and her daughter who lived in one room of the house and rented out the remaining three to other families. His refuge was at the back of the house, with no view except onto the backyard of a similarly run-down house. He could have lived better. Yet, despite the leverage afforded by his post as a professor of history and archeology, Francesco Martucci was used to a simple life. Everything in Yerevan was controlled by the communist system, and he felt fortunate to have a room of his own. Things had been very difficult at first, but he enjoyed the goodwill of certain government employees. In a country like Armenia, knowing the right people could make life much more manageable. Francesco owed it all to his good friend Claudio Contini-Massera and the money he threw around so wantonly. Thinking of Claudio, he shook his head. They were complete opposites. Claudio liked the good life and stopped at nothing; the harder a goal was to achieve, the happier it made him. It was as if he took special pleasure in going against the status quo. But that night had been different. Francesco had an ominous premonition that the contents of the chest and the tube would entangle them in a mess of problems. He had worked so very hard to earn the Soviets’ trust, and here he was sticking his nose into shady business. He would have to explain things clearly to Claudio the next day. Life had been too easy for his friend in every way. Entirely too easy.

Claudio Contini-Massera walked toward the hotel with his suitcase in one hand and the canvas bag in the other. It was after three o’clock in the morning, a rather unusual time to arrive from the airport. So he lurched forward with the unsteady steps of a drunkard. If there is one thing that brings men together in solidarity, it is getting good and sloshed. He rapped on the glass door a few times. The doorman opened his eyes and, after a concerted effort at blinking, recognized him.

“Good evening, Mr. Contini,” he rasped out with his dry, sleepy tongue while holding the door open.

“Good evening, Boris,” Claudio answered, grinning from ear to ear. He stumbled forward and steadied himself with too tight a grip on Boris’ shoulder.

“Careful now, Mr. Contini,” the doorman warned gently. He gave him an understanding smile and helped him to the reception desk. He tapped the arm of the snoozing employee who stretched, shook himself awake, and finally recognized the guest.

“Mr. Contini...good evening,” he said.

“Forgive me for how late...I’ve come at a bad time.”

“Oh, no, not at all, sir!” The clerk opened the register and added his name then handed him a key. “Your customary room,” he said with a slight smile.

“Oh, Micha, thank you,” Claudio drawled, slipping Micha a bill with such dexterity that not even the bellhop noticed.

“Comrade, please, see our guest to his room.”

The bellhop made to take the canvas bag, but Claudio held onto it.

“Don’t you worry about that; I’ll get it. You can get the suitcase.”

“As you wish!” the bellhop answered gratefully.

The elevator was not working. They went up two flights of stairs and down a hall with six doors on each side. One of them was Claudio’s room.

After dismissing the bellhop with a tip, he carefully laid the canvas bag on the carpeted floor. He desperately needed to sleep. Later he would look at what was in the tube. He would need all his senses alert and at the ready, but his eyelids were drooping at the moment. He had not slept since he left Rome. He polished off the tiny sampler bottle of vodka which he had gargled before entering the hotel, kicked off his shoes, and fell into bed fully clothed. He was out like a light.

When Claudio awoke, the first thing his eyes sought out was the canvas bag. He wasted no time in opening it and checking the contents once more. It was all there: a box shaped like an antique chest and a tube. He pulled the box out and set it on the small table in front of the mirror. He opened it and studied what was inside. It was a piece of metal, or something similar, but it did not shine in the daylight. Stuck with tape to one side of the chest was a long, small bundle wrapped in thick cloth. With the utmost care, Claudio removed the tape and unrolled the soft cloth. Inside was a capsule made of something like heavy glass, through which Claudio could see a thick liquid. The capsule was sealed. He placed it carefully on the bed and then turned to the metal tube still lying in the canvas bag.

As he drew it out of the bag, he noticed a groove in the middle. He pulled gently, and the tube parted with ease. The rolled-up papers inside were covered in handwritten Latin. They seemed like notes, calculations, and formulas. There were other notes in German along the edges, with arrows pointing to certain words, but he could make nothing of it. He knew very little Latin. Claudio spoke German, but the annotations were beyond him. He sighed, slid the papers back into the tube, and placed it beside the still-open chest. He gently replaced the glass capsule.

Before shutting the little box, he closed the curtains. In the dim light, the piece of metal that had at first seemed like an unevenly shaped rock began to glow again. He suddenly felt uneasy about it all but hoped to be wrong. He quickly snapped the chest closed and observed its exterior. It looked like the kind of thing commonly sold in tourist markets, a knick-knack imitation of an antique: wooden slats held together by strips of metal. But its weight did not fit its appearance. Maybe the documents in the metal tube would explain the disparity. He would wait for Francesco to arrive.

Claudio Contini-Massera’s athletic body slowly emerged as he peeled off the dirty, earth-covered clothes from the day before. The pounding of cold water in the shower shocked him fully awake. He lathered up vigorously and could not stop thinking that this discovery might turn out to be valuable, much more valuable than the relics and artwork that the offspring of the pre-Soviet “purged” elite had sold him for next to nothing. It was basic pillaging: valuable objects for which, unbeknownst to the monk, Francesco Martucci had been the key connection happened to end up in Claudio’s hands instead of their intended destination. Claudio smiled remembering his good friend. There were so few people as honest as Francesco. If only he knew.... Yet at the same time, Claudio feared that the object inside the chest was dangerous. He began scrubbing his hands feverishly, as if attempting to erase any sign of contamination. After a long, long time, he turned off the water.

At thirty-five years of age, Claudio Contini-Massera was one of Italy’s youngest businessmen. The postwar years were a landmine of opportunity for him. His father, Adriano Contini-Massera, had made the wise decision to retire to his residence in Bern and wait out Mussolini’s reign, thus safeguarding the family’s fortune during the tumultuous years of the dictatorship. Claudio’s older brother, Bruno, the primary inheritor, had his father’s tendencies. He only knew how to get by, as if that were enough. He seemed content to wait until Adriano Contini-Massera succumbed to one of his many ailments—which Claudio attributed more to his sedentary lifestyle than to anything else—to claim the estate which, Bruno believed, was rightfully his.

Adriano, the family patriarch, may have been useless in terms of earning money, but he had a keen nose for safeguarding what he already had. He had no intention of leaving the future of the Contini-Masseras to the whims of his eldest son. And to the surprise of many, including Bruno’s young wife, the lion’s share of the inheritance went to Claudio. By 1974 his wealth had burgeoned with import businesses, massive quantities of works of art, and relics of inestimable worth derived from questionable and undisclosed sources; yet for Claudio it was just divine justice. Was it not better for these objects to end up in his hands than at the mercy of the communist regime that had taken over a large part of Europe? Luckily for him, the representatives of said regime were quite susceptible to bribes and all sorts of “legal fraud.”

Claudio had thrown scruples out the window when it came to making money once he learned that the Roman Catholic Church itself was wrapped up in dirty “agreements” to get certain Nazis off the hook for war crimes. Francesco, on the other hand, was crushed by Claudio’s laissez-fair ethics. This good and honorable friend was like family to him. They had known each other from birth. Francesco was the son of Claudio’s nursemaid. There was a rumor that he was the bastard son of Claudio’s father, Adriano, but Claudio never could prove it. They were exactly nine months apart. Claudio had always treated Francesco like a brother, not because he actually thought they were, but because he truly loved him. They had been playmates and, if it had not been for the inexplicable priestly vocation Francesco’s mother drove into him, they would have continued their studies together. Claudio always blamed his nanny for their separation. Over time he came to realize that one can hardly be coerced into the priesthood; there must be a seed somewhere inside the person. By the time Claudio was ready to admit he had been wrong, the nursemaid had already died, and Francesco had entered the Order of the Holy Sepulchre, where he pursued the humanities and specialized in dead languages. News of his skills quickly spread, and the Armenian Apostolic Church, having unearthed important documents that required an expert’s eye, solicited his services to work clandestinely in a scriptorium. In his free time, Francesco dabbled in archeology. Knowing that Armenia was one of the first centers of developed human civilization and the first Christian country in the world, he was overjoyed at the opportunity. At the height of Soviet occupation, he had access to the ancient ruins of the earliest religious constructions, dating back to 301
a.d.

When Francesco told Claudio he enjoyed relative freedom to travel around Armenia, Ukraine, and the surrounding countries due to the uniqueness of his profession, Claudio also developed an interest in archeology. His just happened to be from a practical point of view, a perspective shared by certain Soviet officials of the day.

Francesco’s harmless appearance and unassuming nature won him the regime’s trust. He could go in and out of Armenia and procure bureaucratic permissions to dig wherever he wished. After a few years, they stopped sending inspectors since they caught on that ruins were made more of dirt and rock than anything else. Or so it seemed.