Brophy knelt on the gravel floor. “So if we removed the cruder carvings, we would take away the upper post and the lower semicircle, leaving this.” He dragged his finger across the ground, creating a T shape with a half circle centered atop it.
“It looks like an Egyptian ankh!” Dirk said.
Brophy gave a cautious nod. “The Egyptian hieroglyph that symbolizes life. Or perhaps in the case of Meritaten, eternal life.”
They studied the crude drawing, taking photos with their phones, before stepping out of the dark structure.
“If we take that to be an ankh and a representation of Meritaten’s burial place,” Brophy said, “then it appears to show a trail leading down from the monastery.”
“The drawing doesn’t resemble the path we took up,” Giordino said, “which was more in the shape of a large U.”
“There are actually three stairways to the monastery.” Brophy took a map of the island from his coat pocket. “Aside from the main path we took, there is a zigzag path from Blue Cove on the west coast, which joins our route below the monastery. It doesn’t resemble the marking on the stone.”
“What’s the third trail?” Dirk asked.
“It’s a steep and overgrown path that leads from the landing pier. It appears to be a more direct route that doesn’t match the drawing either.”
Pitt leaned over a retaining wall and looked down the steep hill to the north. A postcard view presented itself of Little Skellig and the Irish coastline. Directly beneath him, remnants of a steep stone stairway descended to the landing at Blind Man’s Cove. He turned and took another look at Brophy’s island map. The rock inscription didn’t match any existing trail or a likely lost path from the monastery. A wily look came to his eye as he gazed across the terrain.
“I don’t think it represents a trail at all,” he said.
“If it’s not a trail,” Brophy said, “then what is it?”
“Only one other thing it could be,” Pitt said with a smile. “A cavern leading to a tunnel.”
63
Their concealed lookout was situated on a rise above the monastery, near the base of Needle’s Eye. It was more bunker than perch, a rocky uplift that jutted from the soil, creating a covered shelter large enough to conceal four people from the monastery and its main trail.
“What are they doing now?” McKee asked, sipping tea from a thermos. For once, she wasn’t dressed in designer flair, instead wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a dark all-weather jacket. Around her neck was her ever-present gold scarab necklace.
After sending Ainsley back to Scotland to monitor events, McKee had joined Riki, Gavin, and Rachel in taking an early-morning voyage to Skellig Michael. They all got a dose of seasickness on the trip over, but had cleared their heads with a hike up to the island heights.
McKee had acquired the same trail map as Brophy and knew there was little to see on the island beyond the lighthouse and the elevated monastery site. Like Brophy, she assumed any clues to Meritaten would lie with her. Down in the cramped shelter, they would wait for Brophy and the men from NUMA to find Meritaten for them.
“They went around to the north side of the monastery,” Gavin said. He aimed a pair of binoculars through a crevice in the rock overhang and peered down at the monastery. “They’re beyond my line of sight.”
He lowered the binoculars and turned to the three women. Rachel sat next to him, clear-eyed and cradling a Beretta pistol. The only one he could count on, Gavin thought.
Riki sat at the far end, quiet to the point of almost sulking. She had perked up when she spied the four men hike by, but now sunk back into somberness. Her confidence diminished, as usual, when her mother was around.
And then there was McKee. She had shown surprising spryness in the hike up the trail, and still exuded an intense energy. She sat nervous and beady-eyed, like a falcon eyeing a field rabbit for the kill. But a hint of defeat had crept into her usually composed face. Gavin had known her long enough to realize that she wasn’t one to go down without a fight.
“Be patient, young man, and give them a few more minutes,” she instructed. “After all, they won’t be leaving the island alive.”
64
The three men gave Pitt a blank stare, then Brophy’s face lit up like he’d won the Irish Sweepstakes.
“A tunnel. By heavens, you may be right. Local lore tells