The Genesis Plague (2010)

removed his flight helmet, unbuckled his harness, and hopped out from the fuselage. The copilot, already outside, motioned for him to stay low while scrambling under the slowing rotor blades.
    Climbing the monastery’s precipitous front steps, Hazo pulled the olive wood crucifix out from beneath his galabiya to display it prominently on his chest. Beneath the onion dome he tried opening the main door, but it was locked.
    Before he could knock on the door, a bespectacled young monk with a long black beard and opaline eyes appeared on the other side of the glass and turned the deadbolt. The monk was wearing a traditional black robe with white priest collar, an elaborate Inuit hood and msone ceremonial sandals.
    ‘ Shlama illakh ,’ the monk said, peering over at the unorthodox sight of the Blackhawk plunked down in the parking lot. He turned and glanced at Hazo’s crucifix. Switching to English, he said, ‘How may I help you, brother?’
    Hazo introduced himself, apologized for his late arrival. Then he explained, ‘I was hoping that one of your brothers might help me. You see, I have these pictures …’ He held out the photos.
    The monk kept his hands folded behind his back as he examined only the top photo.
    ‘And I’ve been asked to determine what these images mean … who this female might be, here,’ he said, pointing.
    ‘And this is of interest to them?’ He motioned to the Blackhawk.
    ‘That’s right.’
    The monk hesitated, weighing the facts. His lips drew tight. ‘You must talk to Monsignor Ibrahim about these things. I will bring you to him. Please, come,’ he said, and set off in a steady shuffle.
    The monk remained silent as he led Hazo through the modern corridors of the main building and out a rear door that fed into a spacious courtyard boxed in by two storeys of arcades.
    The humble stone building they entered next was much, much older. They passed through a barrel vaulted corridor, redolent with incense and age, into an ancient stone nave with Arabian design elements - pointed archways, spiral columns, mosaic tile work.
    The original monastery.
    Hazo noticed that the inscriptions glazed into its intricate friezes and mosaics were not Arabic; they were from a language that the world outside these walls considered dead - Aramaic. There were plenty of carved rosettes adorning the archways too.
    The monk ducked beneath a low archway and continued to a staircase that cut deep beneath the nave. Here Hazo noticed that the stone blocks had given way to hewn, chisel-marred stone worn smooth by passing centuries. To one side, electrical conduit had been installed along the wall to run power to sconces that lit the passage. The subterranean atmosphere was disorienting. It seemed as if the monk was leading him into the mountain itself.
    Hazo’s anxiety eased when up ahead he saw bright light coming out from a formidable glass doorway fitted with steel bars.
    The monk stopped at the door and entered a code on the handle’s integrated keypad. A lock snapped open. He turned the handle, pushed the door inward, and held it as Hazo stepped into a small empty foyer. The air immediately became warmer, dryer. Hazo could hear a filtration system humming overhead.
    Without a word the monk shut the first door and made his way to a second door that was nothing but metal and rivets. Another code was entered and he led Hazo into a vast, window-less space divided into neat aisles by sturdy floor-to-ceiling cabinets. The air was sterile and dry. Trailing the monk past the long study tables that lined the room’s centre, he glimpsed countless spines of the ancient manuscripts lined neatly behind glass panels.
    Deep in the library, they found the elderly monsignor. Wearing a black robe and hood, he was stooped over a drafting table equipped with a gooseneck LED lamp, sweeping a saucer-sized magnifying loupe horizontally across the open pages of a thick codex.
    Well before they reached him, the monk turned to Hazo and motioned for him to go no further. ‘A moment, please.’
    ‘Of course,’ Hazo replied.
    The monk quietly circled the table and bent to whisper in the monsignor’s ear. The monsignor inclined his head so that his suspicious eyes shifted over his bifocals to appraise Hazo. He dismissed the monk with a curt nod. Then he summoned Hazo with a hand gesture.
    Hands crossed behind his back, Hazo approached the table and bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, Monsignor Ibrahim. I was asked to—’
    ‘Let me