Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

“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.