Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

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p; “There are enough spontaneous accidents and natural catastrophes to keep their coffers full. It must be something else.”

“Any idea what that could be?”

Pitt gazed from the BMW parked on the road above to the concealed laboratory across the lake. “I don’t have a clue,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”

43

A half-hour drive south from Tralee brought Dirk, Summer, and Brophy to the tourist town of Killarney, near the shores of the lake called Lough Leane. Brophy guided them through the center of town and directed Dirk to park in front of an imposing graystone Victorian-era church. A placard behind a surrounding iron fence proclaimed it the FRANCISCAN FRIARY OF KILLARNEY.

“Ireland’s best early historical records reside with the Christian churches and monasteries,” Brophy said as they entered the grounds. “Most of the local parish records and histories are now housed at the Public Records Office in Dublin. But the good Franciscans of Killarney have a fine collection of ancient documents they never parted with. It’ll be a good place to search for Falcon Rock.”

Brophy turned toward the church, where an imposing arched window of stained glass faced the front grounds. Bypassing the main entrance, he led Dirk and Summer to a second doorway at the other end of the façade.

As they entered, the silver Audi pulled to a stop in front of the friary. In the backseat, Riki Sadler looked up from an electronic tablet. “The GPS signal says they stopped here.”

“I see their car.” The female driver pointed down the street.

“Find a place to park,” Riki said. “They must be in the church.”

In the friary office, Dirk, Summer, and Brophy approached a front desk, where a young man sat wearing the traditional brown robe of the Order of Friars Minor.

“Is Friar Thomas about?” Brophy asked.

“Yes, first room on your right.”

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.”