Chase Baker and the Lost Ark of God: A Chase Baker Thriller No. 12, #12

By Vincent Zandri

Does the Ark of the Covenant, or what's also known as the Ark of God, truly exist? Adventurer, writer, and treasure hunter, Chase Baker is about to find out, the hard way.

 

Adventurer, Chase Baker is back in the thick of it. This time, he along with his sexy and adventuring archaeologist partner, Dr. Sarah Gibson, are entrusted by both a wealthy financier and an old English, Paris based Biblical scholar to unearth perhaps the greatest archaeological treasure of all time: The Ark of the Covenant. Or what's also known as the Ark of God.

An adventure that begins in the mean streets of hot downtown Cairo, then reaches downtown Paris, and that quickly leads to the disputed Biblical territories of Old Jerusalem, Chase and Sarah encounter bandits who know precisely what their mission is. To find the Ark of God and deliver it to government officials in the United States.

But the ark is a force of unspeakable power. Any nation that has it in its possession is said to be undefeatable in time of war. It's a somewhat familiar plot that was played out in Hollywood by Indiana Jones back when Chase was just a boy. But now that he's a man, he realizes just how real the power of the ark truly is. Not only is Communist China on the hunt for the Ark, but so are radical Jihadists, bent on using its power to destroy western civilization.

What the rugged adventurer will also discover, is that the Lost Ark of God is to be found in the most unlikely of places. Deep under Golgotha, or the hill where Jesus was crucified 2,000 years ago. Once he and Sarah gain entry to the tunnel, they will face several potentially deadly challenges and booby-traps that will not only test their skill as adventurers, but also their very belief in the power of God. What they are in for, is one terrifying journey that will leave readers begging for more.

If you love gripping romance, adventure, non-stop action, occult and alternative history novels, the newest installment in the bestselling, Suspense Magazine Award winning thriller, Chase Baker and the Lost Ark of God, is definitely for you. For fans of Dan Brown, Clive Cussler, J. Robert Kennedy and more, comes an edge-of-your seat adventure from New York Times and USA Today bestselling Thriller and Shamus Award winning author, Vincent Zandri.

Don't wait another minute. Scroll up and grab the latest episode in the bestselling Chase Baker action/romantic adventure series today: Chase Baker and the Lost Ark of God!

What the critics are saying:

"If you put Zandri and Dan Brown in a dark Cairo back alley, I'd put money on Zandri. He went to Cairo in the middle of the Arab Spring (against the explicit wishes of the U.S. State Department), gathered materials for the book while Tahrir Square rioted ... The Shroud Key is page-turning fun for popcorn munchers."
--Ben Sobieck, CrimeFictionBook Blog

"Zandri has brought back that wonderful 'quest' story ... THE SHROUD KEY is well worth every minute."
--SUSPENSE MAGAZINE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vincent Zandri
• Release date: Jun 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201984229

Vincent Zandri

"Vincent Zandri hails from the future." --The New York Times “Sensational . . . masterful . . . brilliant.” --New York Post "Gritty, fast-paced, lyrical and haunting." --Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years "Tough, stylish, heartbreaking." --Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel. Winner of the 2015 PWA Shamus Award and the 2015 ITW Thriller Award for Best Original Paperback Novel for MOONLIGHT WEEPS, Vincent Zandri is the NEW YORK TIMES, USA TODAY, and AMAZON KINDLE OVERALL NO.1 bestselling author of more than 60 novels and novellas including THE REMAINS, EVERYTHING BURNS, ORCHARD GROVE, THE SHROUD KEY and THE GIRL WHO WASN'T THERE. His list of domestic publishers include Delacorte, Dell, Down & Out Books, Thomas & Mercer, Polis Books, Suspense Publishing, Blackstone Audio, and Oceanview Publishing. An MFA in Writing graduate of Vermont College, his work is translated in the Dutch, Russian, French, Italian, and Japanese. Having sold close to 1 million editions of his books, Zandri has been the subject of major features by the New York Times, Publishers Weekly, and Business Insider. He has also made appearances on Bloomberg TV and the FOX News network. In December 2014, Suspense Magazine named Zandri's, THE SHROUD KEY, as one of the "Best Books of 2014." Suspense Magazine selected WHEN SHADOWS COME as one of the "Best Books of 2016". He was also a finalist for the 2019 Derringer Award for Best Novelette. A freelance photojournalist, freelance writer, and the author of the popular "lit blog," The Vincent Zandri Vox, Zandri has written for Living Ready Magazine, RT, New York Newsday, Hudson Valley Magazine, The Times Union (Albany), Game & Fish Magazine, CrimeReads, Altcoin Magazine, The Jerusalem Post, Market Business News, Duke University, Colgate University, and many more. He also writes for Scalefluence. An Active Member of MWA and ITW, he lives in New York and Florence, Italy. For more go to VINZANDRI.COM

Book preview

Begin your Moonlight journey today with a FREE copy of MOONLIGHT FALLS, the first novel in the Thriller and Shamus Award winning series.

Or visit www.vinzandri.com to nab all of Vin’s thrillers and mysteries.

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PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI

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Sensational . . . masterful . . . brilliant.

—New York Post

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(A) chilling tale of obsessive love from Thriller Award–winner Zandri (Moonlight Weeps) . . . Riveting.

—Publishers Weekly

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. . . Oh, what a story it is . . . Riveting . . . A terrific old school thriller.

—Booklist Starred Review

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"Zandri does a fantastic job with this story. Not only does he scare the reader, but the horror 

Show he presents also scares the man who is the definition of the word tough.

—Suspense Magazine

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(The Innocent) is a thriller that has depth and substance, wickedness and compassion.

—The Times-Union (Albany)

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The action never wanes.

—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

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Gritty, fast-paced, lyrical and haunting.

—Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years

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Tough, stylish, heartbreaking.

—Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel.

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A tightly crafted, smart, disturbing, elegantly crafted complex thriller . . . I dare you to start it and not keep reading.

—MJ Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Halo Effect and Closure

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A classic slice of raw pulp noir...

—William Landay, New York Times bestselling author of Defending Jacob

Chase Baker and the Lost Ark of God:

A Chase Baker Thriller

Vincent Zandri

The Bible speaks of the Ark leveling mountains and laying waste entire regions. An Army that carries the Ark before it . . . is invincible.

—Dr. Marcus Brody, Raiders of the Lost Ark

Cairo, Egypt

Present Day

1

My khaki work shirt is sticking to my sweaty back. That’s how hot Cairo is in late September. But then, it’s always hot. The ceiling fan inside this antiquities shop provides some relief, but mostly it’s just blowing the hot air around worse than my ex-father-in-law used to do at the dinner table.

But I digress.

Here’s the deal: I’m only moments away from nabbing one of the most prized archaeological relics of the past two-thousand years, and I didn’t even have to suffer so much as a broken nose or a bullet to the belly to get it. Chase the lucky. Of course, the day isn’t over yet.

Okay, Omar, I say, reaching into my shoulder bag and pulling out my smartphone, let’s have your Bitcoin Wallet address. I’ll make the one hundred Bitcoin transfer as agreed upon, you give me the package, and the lady and I can enjoy a couple of cold beers before we indulge in some Cairo street food. Capice?   

Omar wipes sweat from his brow with a white hanky. He’s a big man. Stands maybe half a foot taller than my five feet nine inches. He sports a huge beer belly and walrus cheeks. Except for his thick black mustache, he is clean-shaven. Like always, he’s wearing a white suit, black button-down, and matching black tie. Covering his head is a red fez like you might see in some old black and white film like Casablanca from the 1940s. I’ve known Omar for twenty years, and never once have I seen him wearing a different suit, nor have I ever seen him not sweating up a storm. I guess consistency is key in these matters. Chase the observant. 

He reaches into the interior of his jacket, pulls out his smartphone, thumbs in his security code, then presses a couple of icons until he finds what he’s looking for. He flips the phone around so the digital screen is facing me. Broadcasting on the screen is a key code that contains the address to his Bitcoin Wallet.  

Yallah, yallah, Chase, Omar says in his Arabic Egyptian accented voice. We are always being watched. For the sake of Allah, let us hurry.

I totally agree with Omar, says my partner, Dr. Sarah Gibson.

She’s a professor of archaeology at New York University. We came to know one another after a night of sitting next to each at the university’s most popular bar—The Shade Bar. Shade is located on Sullivan Street on New York’s East Side not too far from my studio apartment above the pizza shop. I happened to walk in on a quiet Sunday night in late summer when they were hosting Noir at the Bar. She was sitting alone in the far corner. Me, being the ever perpetual bachelor, decided to give her some company. Let’s just say we got to talking, and hit it off from there. But I’m getting ahead of my skis here.  

I go to the Coinbase Pro account Sarah set up on my phone before leaving the States a week ago. I type in what I assume are the proper protocols and verification codes, but nothing’s happening. And that’s exactly how I put it to Sarah.

Oh my God, sighs the annoyed, thirty-something millennial while finger-combing her lush, shoulder-length black hair. Generation X simply does not understand the digital world. Hand me the phone, Chase, if you will.

I glance at the still sweating Omar. He’s got one dark eye on me and another on the door as if he expects the Egyptian army, the Israeli Antiquities Authority, the CIA, and the Vatican Pontifical Gendarmerie to come barging in, brandishing weapons, all at the same time. And maybe they will.

My eyes shift to Sarah. She’s brought up the screen needed on the smartphone, and she’s taking a picture of Omar’s digital screen. When that’s done, she taps a few more icons. That’s followed by a distinct ding on the shop owner’s phone. When his big beefy face grows a broad smile, I know the Bitcoin transaction has worked—a transaction that, at present, is worth well over one million U.S. dollars.  

He eyes Sarah.

Why, thank you very much, Madame, he says.

That’s when I reach out, grab hold of his tie, and pull him toward me. At the same time, I draw my .45, press the barrel against his chubby cheek.

Where’s the package, Omar? I demand. I was supposed to receive a package for the Bitcoin. Get it?

Setting his smartphone on the glass display counter, he slowly raises his hands.

Take it easy, Chase, he says in a frightened, high-pitched voice. Have you ever known me to go against my word?

My mind spins. I recall him walking out the back door on more than one occasion, back when the preferred method of doing business was cash on the barrel head.

Sarah, do us a favor, Love, I say. Head into the back of the shop and make sure you guard the door. Meanwhile, I’ll make sure Omar doesn’t decide to keep our package along with all that Bitcoin.

Roger that, Chase, she says. Our benefactors would most definitely not be happy.

She maneuvers around the long glass counter and heads through an opening draped with fabric.

You’re sweating on my gun, Omar, I say. The nails. Now.

Yes, yes, yes, Chase, he utters. You must at least give me a chance to retrieve them.

He backs away slowly while I keep the gun trained on him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a keyring filled with maybe two dozen keys. His meaty fingers finally find the key he needs and proceed to unlock one of the drawers on the metal filing cabinet behind him. While he opens the drawer, I can’t help but notice the image reflected in the long, antique mirror hanging on the plaster wall above him. I see myself standing before the counter, Colt .45 in hand, wearing a dark green baseball cap with the word CAT emblazoned on the brim, and the sweat-soaked khaki work shirt I mentioned earlier, the sleeves rolled all the way up past my elbows (I left my bush jacket back at the hotel). I’m also wearing a pair of army green fatigues along with a pair of worn Chippewa work boots. Wrapped around my shoulder is my canvas bag, which, any moment now, will be holding the package I’ve come here for—the genuine nails used in the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth.

There are many antiquities for sale in the century-old shop. Several ancient sarcophagi, a two-thousand-year-old chariot said to have been unearthed from King Tut’s tomb in the Valley of the Dead, at least six mummies, dozens of black pots and statuettes, and more junk than I can shake a pistol barrel at. Omar might be as crooked a dealer as they come, but he is also one of the best. If he says an artifact is the real deal and not some cheap knockoff, he’s to be believed. Problem with Omar, however, is he’s greedy as hell. Thus, the gun aimed at his fat behind.

Opening the drawer, he reaches inside.

How we doing, Chase?! Sarah barks from the back room. I’d like to get the hell out of here!

Almost done, Sar, I call back. Then, Hurry it up, Omar. Yallah.

Yes, yes, he says taking hold of a package wrapped in butcher’s paper, turning, and setting it on the glass counter.

You sure this is the real deal? I question, the gun still aimed at him point-blank.

Can’t you see how much I’m trembling, Chase? he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his fat neck. And it has nothing to do with the gun.

If I’m to buy Omar’s explanation, he truly believes what’s wrapped inside this package is indeed the real deal. All the more reason for him to cut and run with both the Bitcoin and the prize. But then, I guess Omar just can’t help himself.

Open it, I say.

The massive shopkeeper reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pocketknife, unfolds the blade.

Easy, I say, cocking back the hammer on the .45.

Relax, Chase, he says. I’m just doing as you have requested.

I watch the blade cut through the string.

Okay, Omar, I say. Now ditch the blade.

He eyes me.

A little jumpy today, Chase, he declares. That is not the famous adventurer I have come to know and respect after all these years.

The blade, Omar, I repeat, waving the gun barrel at him.

Slowly, he folds the blade back into the pocketknife housing and shoves it into his trouser pocket. He then pulls out his hanky once more, wipes his brow, shoves the filthy cloth back into his jacket pocket. He starts pulling away the butcher paper. He does it gently like he’s stripping away the layers of an onion. When he comes to an old, soft, brown leather case, my mouth goes dry and my pulse pounds in my temples.

Open it, I say.

Peeling back the lid on the leather case, he carefully pulls out a piece of lamb’s wool that’s folded over on itself. He unwraps the lamb’s wool. There on the gray/white wool are three nine-inch nails. Nails isn’t really the right word for them—more like nine-inch spikes. Whatever you want to call them, they steal my breath away. Still, I can’t be sure they are the real thing. How do I know Omar hasn’t saved the real deal for himself while trying to push three fakes off on Sarah and me?

Behold, Chase Baker, Omar says with dark eyes bugging out of his skull. The true nails that pierced Christ’s hands and feet when He was hung on the cross outside the Damascus Gates in Jerusalem two thousand years ago.

Sarah! I shout. You’ll wanna see this.

She doesn’t casually return to the counter from the back room. She practically sprints. When she first lays eyes on them, she makes the sign of the cross.

Oh, dear Lord, she gasps. They are magnificent.

In reality, the nails have turned black over their many years of existence. The reason they even exist at all is that metal was so precious to the ancient Romans. The nails were never discarded but were, instead, intended to be used over and over again. However, when it came to Jesus Christ, legend has it these nails were quickly confiscated by the very people who removed his mortal body from the cross and prepared it for burial. Those people being his mother, Mary, his brother, James, his possible wife, Mary Magdalene, and Joseph of Arimathea, whose freshly hewn hill-side garden tomb was used as Jesus’s final resting place.

My heart beats in my throat.

"They are magnificent, Sarah, I agree. And if they’re the real thing, they’re priceless. But how can we be sure my good pal, Omar, isn’t pulling the lamb’s wool over our eyes? It’s not like we can carbon date these suckers right on the spot."

Sarah takes a step back and gazes around the shop like she’s searching for something specific. Suddenly, she darts around the counter, grabs an old microscope. She also takes hold of a couple of rectangular glass slides from the small stack set beside it. She sets it all down on the counter beside the nails.

What on earth are you doing? Omar inquires.

What he said, I agree with Omar.

Listen, she says, "if these are the true nails that hung Jesus to the true cross, then it only makes sense some of his blood will still be stuck to the metal, even after all these years."

Gospel, I say. But it’s also possible the Romans used these nails on dozens of crucifixion victims before Jesus’s turn came around. Metal and wood were very precious back then.

True, she says. But the blood of mere mortal men would be quite dead by now, wouldn’t you agree, Chase?

I look into her stunning green eyes. They are as mesmerizing as the nails, only in an entirely different way. Like me, she’s wearing a khaki work shirt only hers fits tightly to her shapely body. It’s unbuttoned enough to show off her considerable cleavage and just a hint of her black lace bra. Chase the always in love, even in the possible presence of the Lord.

I agree, I say.

As well as I, Omar chimes.

She reaches into the pocket of her khaki shorts, produces a thin, black tactical knife.

But the blood of Christ, she says, it would still be alive and thriving. The cells would be dividing. You see, gentlemen, God never dies. He has been alive for all eternity and shall remain as such. The same goes for His only begotten son, Jesus. Trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about. I did my Biblical archaeology doctoral dissertation on this very subject.

Omar and I eye one another like we’re both thinking the same thing. This young woman might be beautiful, but she’s also tenacious as hell. Thumbing back the hammer on my .45, I return it to my shoulder holster. 

So, what do you have in mind? I say.

We are going to test a blood sample, she says while opening the three-inch blade. Then, holding out her hand. Omar, a clean hanky, if you please.

The big man pats the pockets on his jacket. He reaches into one of them, comes out with a neatly folded white handkerchief.

I always carry three or four of them, he says. It pays to practice sanitary habits around these delicate relics.

He places the cloth in Sarah’s palm. She unfolds it and carefully takes the nail closest to her. Her hand is trembling with excitement.  A single tear falls from her left eye as the weight of the ancient iron spike settles in her hand.

After all these years of study, she says, I can’t believe I am holding this in my hand.

Sounds like you already believe in its truth, I say.

I’m going with my instincts, Sarah utters. Still, science must win the day, Chase.

Omar wipes newly formed beads of sweat from his brow.

Please hurry, he begs. I’m not comfortable having these relics exposed to the light.

Sarah places the nail over the first slide and proceeds to scrape some dried material from the spike onto the slide. It’s flaky and black, just like dried blood. She then focuses on Omar.

I need water, she says. And a dropper if you have it, Omar.

I’ll see what I can do, he says and makes his way into the back room.

When he returns, he’s carrying a plastic bottle of spring water.

Best I could do, he offers, twisting off the cap and filling it with a few droplets of freshwater.

He hands the cap of water to Sarah. She cautiously tips a small drop onto the slide. The water mixes with the dried flakes, and they dissolve into something that is still very dark but also red. Again, just like blood. She cautiously lifts the slide off the counter with the tips of her fingers and places it on the tray under the microscope.

This is it, she says, anxiety in her tone. This is the moment of absolute truth.

Bending, she peers into the microscope using her right eye. She fixes the focus of the specimen by adjusting the dials attached to the side of the device. The entire process seems to take forever.

Well, Omar pleads, what do you see, Doctor?

Oh, dear God, Sarah says, finally.

Heart pulsing in my throat, I say, Are these the ones?

The blood . . . she pauses. It’s alive.

It’s not like you can hear a pin drop in the place. It’s more like a nuclear bomb could detonate, and we wouldn’t notice it.

How can you be sure? I ask.

The blood cells, she says, they are dividing before my eyes.

Allah be praised, Omar whispers.

Let me see that for myself, I say.

The doctor of Biblical archaeology makes room. I bend over the microscope, adjust the focus for my own eyes.

Well, I’ll be dipped, I say, a wash of cold realization running up my spine. I back away from the counter. That’s truly the blood of Christ.

Chase, let’s get out of here,