They stepped down the hall and entered a small office overflowing with stacks of theology books. An older man with a beard and glasses sat hunched over a desk reviewing a donations report.

  “May we intrude on you, Friar Thomas?” Brophy asked.

  “Why, if it isn’t Eamon Brophy.” He stood and shook hands as Brophy introduced Dirk and Summer.

  “I haven’t seen you in Killarney in quite some time,” Thomas said.

  “I’m trying to retire, but these young folks won’t let me just yet. They seem to think there’s a pharaoh’s daughter in Ireland worth locating.”

  “Ah, yes, our transplanted Egyptian princess. That’s an old legend, one I always thought might have some teeth to it.”

  Brophy described their findings at the gravesite and nodded to the statue Summer clasped in her hands. “We’re hoping you have some early place-name records that might relate to Falcon Rock.”

  “We do indeed. We just had all our holdings copied for digitization, the files haven’t yet been organized. So I think it’ll be easier to browse through the books.”

  The friar guided them to a small stand-alone building on the rear grounds. Built of coarse stone with a high gabled roof and a thick timbered door, its rough-hewn appearance indicated it was much older than the nineteenth-century friary building.

  “We keep the library out here,” Thomas said. He inserted a heavy skeleton key into the ancient door’s iron lock. “This was built as a granary for the first Franciscans here. We still find a few seeds in the wood floor.”

  The room was narrow, with a high ceiling and plank flooring. A pair of small side windows just beneath the ceiling gave the only natural light. Thomas flipped a switch to a pair of antique chandeliers, which bathed the room in a soft yellow light. The lights revealed wall-to-wall shelving on either side, filled with books. In the center of the room stood a pair of reading tables.

  “Some people find it claustrophobic. I think it’s cozy,” the friar said, leading them inside.

  “I see what you mean,” Summer said. She gazed at a large pulley wheel suspended high above the doorway. “A remnant of the granary?”

  “Quite right. The building used to have a second floor. The pulley was used to hoist bales of hay and bags of grain for winter storage.”

  He stepped to one of the rear shelves. “Our earliest histories are in here in the back. There should be a place-names directory in here somewhere.” He ran his fingers across a row of books, stopped at a brown leather-bound tome, and pulled it off the shelf.

  “Friar Thomas?” At the doorway, the young assistant was poking his head across the threshold. “Your conference call with the archdiocese starts in five minutes.”

  “Ah, yes. Thank you, Robert.” Thomas handed the volume to Summer. “Please help yourself to the collection. If you need it, there’s a copy machine in the front office. I shouldn’t be tied up for more than an hour.”

  “Thank you, Friar,” Summer said. “We’ll show due care.”

  Thomas left the door ajar with the key in the lock and followed Robert back to his office. Summer sat down, opened the book, and glanced up at Brophy. “I think you’ll have to review this one. It’s in Gaelic.”

  “Not to worry.” He took a seat alongside her. “Let’s see if there’s a Falcon Rock to be found in these parts.”

  Behind them, Dirk perused the shelves, examining the titles and pulling out a dusty book or two. Most were in Gaelic and dealt with the history of Killarney and the surrounding area. He found a book in English on the fauna of Ireland and took it to the table.

  “Well, there’s a Falcon Field near Kilgarvan to the south, and a Falcon Cove at Ballylongford up north,” Brophy said. “But neither is close to the sea.”

  “This might help.” Dirk read from his book. “‘The peregrine falcon is pervasive in Ireland. This fierce bird of prey is partial to coastal cliffs and crags, particularly in the temperate months.’”

  “That makes sense.” Brophy flipped through the pages of his book. “Unfortunately, I see no references to a peregrine.”

  “Perhaps the hieroglyphic translation has room for interpretation,” Summer said. “Maybe it’s a raven. Or it means a high cliff where the falcon lives.”

  Brophy searched for places so described and pointed at an open page.

  “Sceillec!” His droopy eyes turned bright. “Sceillec is an Old Irish term meaning ‘steep rock or crag,’ or ‘splinter of pointed stone.’”

  “Does that relate to a coastal cliff?” Summer asked.

  Brophy nodded. “The modern word is skellig. There’s a pair of well-known islands off the Kerry coast called the Skelligs.”

  Dirk turned back to his book. “I saw that name in the peregrine falcon listing.” He ran his finger down the page. “Here it is. ‘Skellig Michael is one of the best-known coastal eyries, or nesting grounds, for the peregrine falcon.’”

  A broad smile crossed Brophy’s face.

  “Could that be the place?” Summer asked.

  “Skellig Michael is a rugged, towering pile of rock out in the ocean. It’s also one of the most mystical places in Ireland. I should have remembered. The Book of Invasions tells of Meritaten losing two sons in a shipwreck on the island in a magical storm.”

  “Sounds like the place,” Dirk said. “If Meritaten’s sons had already died on the island, she may have wanted to be buried with them.”

  “Where is the island?” Summer asked.

  The answer never came. Crowded around a table in the back of the room, none of them had noticed the door ease partly open. A man in dark glasses appeared long enough to hurl a large object into the room. The door banged closed, and the lock turned. Turning at the sound, the trio saw only a large glass jug arc toward the ceiling before plunging down, a small burning wick trailing like a yellow tail.

  The jug struck the floor a few feet from the door and shattered in an explosion of glass, smoke, and flame. Its contents were a hastily conjured mixture of gasoline, powdered sugar, and laundry detergent meant to act as a crude form of napalm. The sticky solution splattered everywhere, carrying gooey fireballs across the floor and onto the shelves.

  Summer, Dirk, and Brophy were spared direct contact, gazing in shock as the front of the room burst into flames.

  “I’m going for the door,” Brophy shouted. He pulled his tweed jacket over his head and burst past Dirk. Disappearing through the black smoke, he reached the door and grabbed its iron handle. He pushed and pulled at it without effect. Realizing it must be locked, he pounded and yelled for help, but the door was four inches thick.

  Smoke inhalation began to make him dizzy, and he staggered backward. A strong arm grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the back of the room. He collapsed on the table as Dirk let go of him to pat out the places where his own clothes were smoldering. Smoke began to fill the air.

  Summer coughed as she grabbed Dirk’s arm. “We’re trapped. What do we do?”

  Dirk pointed at the ceiling.

  The roar of the fire made it difficult to hear, yet there was no mistaking his peculiar words.

  “Make like a bale of hay.”

  44

  Wisps of black curled off the stone roof, but with the building tucked away at the rear of the grounds, no one at the friary seemed to notice. Inside, the smoke was as thick as fog, acrid and burning to the lungs.

  Dirk and Summer dragged Brophy to the very back of the building and set him on the floor.

  Brophy coughed and waved them away. “Leave me be and save yourselves.”

  “Stay down on the ground with him to avoid the smoke,” Dirk yelled to Summer.

  He flipped over a table to provide a modest heat shield, then stepped to a sliding shelf ladder. The bookshelves were ten feet high, the arched ceiling rose another five. He scrambled up the ladder and pulled himself onto the top side shelf.

  With the smoke collecting at the top of the room, Dirk could barely see. Hunching over, he felt his way along the wall-mounted shelves. The smoke swirling toward the roof inflamed his eyes and made it near impossible to see. With the air growing hotter, it was like standing downwind from a barbecue.

  The heat rose in waves that took away his breath. He stumbled down the line of shelves, then dropped to his knees when he almost stepped off the last bookshelf.

  The front wall and doorway were another four feet beyond and beneath him. But his focus was up, not down.

  The large, rusty pulley above the doorway hung from the ceiling’s center beam. Just beyond it, he strained through the smoke to see what he prayed was still there.

  It was. A short pair of plank doors in the front wall had allowed additional access and ventilation to the granary’s upper floor. Now Dirk hoped they would still open. It wasn’t grain he wanted to offload.

  He backed up, took a quick step forward, and leaped off the shelf. With his long arms he stretched for the pulley, easily grasping it with both hands. The pulley was hot, the fire below even hotter. Dirk swung his legs back and forth, building momentum. He raised his feet as he swung forward and kicked the small doors. His feet bounced off, the doors just rattling. He swung and kicked again on the next forward swing. The result was the same.

  It was too late to question the wisdom of his actions. If the doors didn’t open, he would plunge into the fire. His arms began to ache as he swung again and again, mashing his feet against the doors. The heat and smoke were intense, and he could barely see or breathe, as he swung once more, throwing all of his weight forward.

  And then the doors gave way. Not with a crack or a splinter, but with a loud bang, nearly flying off their hinges.

  Dirk felt a cool gust as he rebounded. He swung forward once more and let go of the pulley. When his legs and torso slid over the doorframe, he caught himself with his arms. He clutched the lower sill, let his body dangle down the front of the building, then let go.

  He landed on the balls of his feet and rolled across the ground to break the fall. Friar Thomas’s assistant came running up.

  “What’s happened?” Robert stared at Dirk.

  Dirk’s face was black and his clothes were smoking. He rushed to the library door. It had been locked from the outside, and the key was now gone.

  “The key!” he shouted. “Do you have another?”

  Robert gave him a blank look and shrugged.

  “Go get help!” Dirk yelled, then took off at a sprint. He looked around, spotting a small white car pulling into a parking lot at the far end of the complex. Racing across the lawn, he headed for the car as it pulled into a space. A young woman wearing an apron climbed out with the keys in her hand as Dirk approached, coughing and covered in black.

  “Excuse me, miss.” Dirk plucked the keys out of her hand and flung open the door. “There’s a fire, and I need to borrow your car.”

  The woman backed away, gasping, as this aberration hopped behind the wheel and started the car. Dropping the transmission into reverse, Dirk floored the accelerator, and the car screeched backward. He braked, turned, and pulled forward, bounding over a curb and onto the lawn. Something thunked, and the exhaust began to roar. He glanced in the mirror and saw the car’s muffler and tailpipe lying against the curb.

  He found he was behind the wheel of a tiny Fiat 500. On the passenger seat sat a stack of strawberry pies for a church bake sale. Ahead, black smoke poured from the library roof. A small crowd had gathered around. In the distance, a fire truck’s siren sounded.

  Dirk kept applying power as he angled the Fiat toward the corner of the church. Reaching an imaginary apex, he whipped the car to the right. The tiny car skittered across the grass, then found traction on the pathway to the library door. Dirk pressed the gas pedal to the floor and braced himself against the steering wheel.

  The Fiat was just a fraction narrower than the doorway and it struck the thick wooden door head-on. The car’s front end crumpled, and Dirk was flung into an exploding airbag. The heavy door hung still for a moment, then its ancient hinges gave way and it collapsed to the floor.

  The open doorway exposed a raging inferno inside. Dirk shook off a pain in his chest and realized the Fiat was still idling. He touched the accelerator, and the car crept forward, its front tires scraping against its mangled wheel wells.

  Over the fallen door, he drove into the library. The first ten feet was through fire, but he emerged from the flames. Slowing in the dense smoke, Dirk stopped in front of the overturned table. He honked the horn and held his breath. A second later, two sets of blackened figures peered over the table’s edge.

  Dirk beat down the airbags and crawled to their side.

  “A fire truck . . . might have been . . . more appropriate,” Summer said, coughing.

  “Wouldn’t fit through the door. Hope you don’t mind sharing a seat.”

  He guided Brophy to the passenger seat. Summer squeezed in with him. The stack of pies was now nothing more than strawberries, pie tins, and smashed boxes. Dirk retook the wheel and backed the car through the smoke and flames, onto the lawn.

  The Killarney fire department arrived a moment later. They attached hoses to a nearby hydrant and doused the library. Paramedics checked the trio for smoke inhalation and, as a precaution, administered oxygen. Friar Thomas approached as they sat on a stone wall, watching the firemen.

  “Thank the Good Lord you’re all right. I swore I left the door unlocked, with the key in it. I’m so sorry you became trapped. How did the fire start?”

  “Arson,” Brophy said. “Somebody thought we’d enjoy an extra-large Molotov cocktail and locked us in with it.”

  The friar’s face turned pale. “Arson? You can’t be serious. Did you see who it was?” He gazed around, studying the faces gathered at the scene.

  Brophy shook his head. “We had our backs turned to the door.”

  “It may be our fault,” Summer said. “We were attacked in Egypt while pursuing the same line of research. They must have tracked us here.” She turned to Dirk, and he nodded in affirmation.

  “Who would try to kill you over some dusty old books?” Friar Thomas asked. “And why?”

  “We don’t know who they are,” Dirk said, “but they sent a pretty clear message. For reasons unknown, they don’t want us to find Meritaten.”

  Summer turned to Brophy. “We didn’t mean to put you in danger, Professor. Dirk and I can carry on from here.”

  Brophy stood and began pacing. “Why, those cowards are not going to deter me. Mind you, if it’s a fight they want, that’s what they’ll get. I dare them to stop us.”

  Summer smiled, and Brophy turned to her and winked. “Besides, they were a bit too late. We’ve already got the key to the princess’s whereabouts. Skellig Michael.”

  The firemen finally shut off their hoses. Friar Thomas walked to the doorway and peered inside, shaking his head. The walls and roof had survived, the interior was a mess. A black mass of charred debris filled the front of the room. Miraculously, the shelves at the back of the room remained standing, their books slightly blackened, showing only light water damage.

  Summer joined him at the door. “I’m so sorry the library has been destroyed.”

  “The rare books in the collection look to have survived,” Thomas said, pointing at the intact rear shelves. “I think only the modern parish records have been lost, and those we have on digital files.” He gazed upward in reflection. “We thank the Lord. It could have been much worse. We could have lost all of you.”

  The friar led them back into the main building to wash up. As Summer and Brophy thanked the friar for his help and turned to leave, they noticed Dirk had disappeared. They found him outside, walking away from an angry young woman. He had a long face and carried a smashed pie box.

  “Helping with the bake sale?” Brophy said. “Kind lad.”

  “Sort of,” Dirk said. “It was thrown in as part of the transaction.”

  “Transaction?”

  “I just bought a car.”

  “Then why so glum? That should be a happy occasion.”

  Dirk pointed to the mangled Fiat. “Not if you can’t drive it.”

  45

  It was near dusk when Pitt piloted the fishing boat back to Drumnadrochit. He thanked the lady at the marina and tipped her for use of the fishing gear. As he made his way to his car, he pretended to ignore the black BMW parked on the road above, which had tracked him up and down the loch all day. He turned onto the shoreline road and drove to the McKee estate.

  As he approached the manor, he quickly pulled off the road well ahead of the entrance and parked. The tailing BMW was caught off guard and had to drive past Pitt and the manor and stop around the next bend. Pitt walked to the guard at the entrance and pointed at his car.

  “I got in a fender bender. A tow truck is supposed to fetch it this evening. I told them to pick it up just outside the residence.”

  The guard looked at the car, then back at Pitt. “I understand, sir. It will be safe there.” She motioned for Pitt to proceed.

  Inside the gate, Pitt saw the interior parking lot was nearly empty. At the main entrance, a handful of women with suitcases were preparing to depart. He made his way to his room and found Loren in front of a mirror, applying makeup.

  “There you are,” she said flatly. “We’re due to dine with Mrs. McKee in twenty minutes.”

  “It looks like everyone is leaving,” Pitt said. “I thought there was another day of conferences.”

  “Only the new attendees are invited to stay an extra day.”

  There was an unusual hardness in Loren’s voice, and her eyes appeared glassy.

  “Are you feeling all right?” He put his arms around her.

  She immediately brushed him away. “I was fine until now,” she snapped. “You better get ready.”