Brad Ricca - True Raiders: The Untold Story of the 1909 Expedition to Find the Legendary Ark of the Covenant

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For my brother, Chris

And I will lead the blind

in a way that they know not,

in paths that they have not known

I will guide them

I will turn the darkness before them into light,

the rough places into level ground.

These are the things I will do,

and I will not forsake them.

Isaiah 42: 16

All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.

T. E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom, 1926

Sir Charles Warren: A longtime servant of the British Empire, Sir Charles made significant archaeological finds in Palestine, was appointed to a civil administration post in London, and served as a general in the Second Boer War in South Africa.

Monty Parker: The second son of the Earl of Morley, Monty served as a captain in the First Boer War with the Grenadier Guards. After a tour in India, a shadowy group called the Syndicate approached him about a secret project they wished him to lead.

Johan Millen: A Swedish engineer who was part of the Syndicate.

Ava Astor: The wife of American business magnate John Jacob Astor, Ava was a socialite and fashion icon in New York and London. She was known as The Most Beautiful Woman in the World.

Dr. Valter Juvelius: A Finnish poet, translator, and surveyor with a doctorate degree who was a friend of Johan Millen, Dr. Juvelius claimed to have uncovered a secret codea cipherin the Book of Ezekiel that revealed the location of the lost Ark of the Covenant.

Cyril Foley: An Eton and Cambridge man, Cyril was a professional cricket player who served his country during the infamous Jameson Raid in the First Boer War.

Natalie Maurice: An American tourist to the Holy Land.

Father Louis-Hugues Vincent: French by birth, Father Vincent joined the Dominican order at the cole Biblique of St. Stephens Basilica in Jerusalem, where he studied biblical archaeology.

Bertha Vester: The leader of the American Colony in Jerusalem, a collective Christian community devoted to philanthropic and commercial concerns.

The Baron Edmond de Rothschild: The leader of the French branch of the famous Jewish banking family and collector of rare antiquities.

The Friend:???

And now he told me some of his strange experiences and actions from the Eastern countries he had been. I didnt know what to think but its hard to claim him a liar without a doubt. His speech was calm and orderly, like an educated man He talked like he knew things, like they were ordinary, everyday events.

I wondered if he was hiding the main thing itself.

I can usually tell when someone is telling a story where the truth ends and the lie begins. The sound gets a new tone, the language suddenly sneaks in, just like a foot in soft clay and the tellers gaze wanders for a moment.

But not this! He spoke with moderation. He looked in my eyes the whole time.

I have to think he either found me boring and it was a trap for me, from start to finish, or his reports, with their descriptions, even in the most bizarre passages, were sheer truth.

He told me of his time in Jerusalem, of all places.

And a treasure that lay there.

Heikki Kentt, pseudonym of Dr. Valter Juvelius,

Valkoinen kameeli ja muita kertomuksia itmailta,

(The White Camel), 1916

JERUSALEM, 1867

From the valley, the mountain that rose in the half-light before them seemed to be getting closer; but sometimes, it looked as if it had only been painted there, in the background of things, by some artists brush. The hour was late and the sky was still blue, though the entire slope of the mountain was already cast in shadow. Like so many things around Jerusalemthe places, the people, the storiesthe hill was something ancient yet real, a physical anchor to an unfathomable past that extended all the way back to the very times of God. As the sun began to slowly pass from sight, the sky and the sharp peak began to form a single dark image, its outline flecked with light.

Three sets of boots splashed in a line through the shallow pool on the ground, uncaring of where they stepped. Like the mountain, it too was swallowed in darkness. Only the contrast of stacked rocks here, a tuft of shrubbery there, gave it any definition. As the three men stopped and looked into the empty stone basin, they saw a tunnel descending downward.

They lit their candles one by one. Sergeant Birtles went first into the empty pool. He was large and strong, with a full brown beard that seemed to move with every breath like some great snoring bear. His heavy white shirt was tucked into his steel blue pants, with two broad red stripes running down the legs. Behind him was a local fellah with a large black beard, dressed in robes and a turban that had not been white for some time. As they entered the low tunnel, Birtles pulled out his brown canister and began running his measuring tape along the stone walls. He fixed it with the thumb of his leather glove as his candle flickered over the tiny printed numbers. They walked down rather easily, even as the hard edges of the stairs crumbled like bits of crusty bread.

Behind them, standing at the tunnels opening, was a man, though he was little more than a silhouette in a pith helmet. He followed them down and came into view, with his compass and field book clutched to his chest. He crammed his equipment under his arm and held his candle up. Captain Charles Warren looked young for his age, with dark eyes and a handsome face under close-cropped hair and a beard. His pencil held firmly in his teeth, he was sweating like a butcher, but he looked perfectly composed. There was a look in his eye not of madness, not entirely, but of a marked enthusiasm. Warren looked at his companions. The romance of the moment was not lost on any of them, but enough was enough. It was time to get on with things.

They walked slowly, with their backs almost parallel to the cool walls. As they made their way in, the strange midnight of the tunnel devoured all but the pooling circles of light from their candles. The ground had a thin crust to it. Warren pressed the toe of his boot onto it to make sure it would hold. There was a little water on the ground, but certainly nothing to be worried about. They proceeded slowly down through the tunnel. They walked, plain sailing, for about three hundred feet.

Captain Warren stopped the fellahs torch with his hand and slowly directed it toward the left wall. There, under the wavering light, were rough marks gouged into the stone. Warren looked at Birtles, who understood his thoughts immediately. These scrapes had been made by a chisel a long time ago. Birtles pulled at his open collar. Warren could see the sweat dripping from his forehead. The deeper they got, the more stifling it became. Warren gave the ceiling a wary look. As if the heat was not enough, the tunnel seemed to be getting smaller. Jagged crags in the walls were prodding into their backs.