The Manuscript I the Secret by Blanca Miosi, Gretchen Abernathy

that surviving mattered more than the color of the money. And as is want to happen, short-stay travelers tended to be the best for business, as long as certain representatives of the Soviet higher-ups got their cut.
    Claudio Contini-Massera had managed to “rescue” valuable antiques and relics from certain rarely frequented places with the help of authorities within the “incorruptible” communist system. A wad of cash always seemed to calm their patriotic nerves; the money supplied the vodka the officials so vigorously consumed in their zeal to remember the motherland, and it helped them stockpile the wealth reviled vehemently in their political propaganda.
    Francesco Martucci’s old truck sat idling outside the airport. Claudio marched directly to it, tossed his luggage in the truck bed, and opened the door. As a sign and symbol of the deep friendship between them, he greeted Francesco with an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
    “I came as soon as I could,” he said, rubbing his hands together through the leather gloves.
    “This weather is abysmal,” Francesco murmured. He shifted into gear, and his hair flew wildly in the freezing wind that sliced through the truck window which would not shut. “I was afraid you’d be delayed. I hate driving at night.”
    “When are you going to get rid of this heap of junk?” Claudio needled.
    “The less attention I attract, the better,” Francesco answered. “Besides, for what I do, this truck works just fine.”
    “Are we going straight to...?”
“Seventy-five miles is a pretty long stretch...and at this time of night...”
    “But during the day one of your comrades might see us, and don’t you think we should go ahead and get this over with?”
    “All right, whatever you say,” Francesco replied reluctantly.
    Nearly two hours later, the ancient complex of monasteries loomed ahead on the road. It was etched into a gorge southeast of the rural community of Areni, outside the city of Yeghegnadzor. The dark silhouette of the ancient buildings snapped against the ghostly backdrop of the majestic Mount Ararat with its eternally white peaks. Francesco stopped the truck a little ways away from the buildings, parking under a tree. Despite the dark, he wanted to take every precaution.
    “I’ve got flashlights and extra batteries in the back,” Francesco said to himself, clicking off his mental list of what to bring. “Matches, helmets, water; my shovel is already down there, so is my pick; I’ll take a couple of these...” He grabbed the canvas bags and covered what remained in the truck bed with a plastic tarp, taking care to tuck in the corners.
    “Don’t we need dynamite?” Claudio asked.
    “Have you lost your mind? The monastery would come crashing down on top of us.”
    “I’m just kidding,” Claudio winked.
    “Yeah, well, let’s see how jovial you feel down below,” Francesco retorted. He headed for the narrow entrance to one of the churches and clamped his helmet down.
    The beautifully carved pale wooden door did not fit with any of Claudio’s preconceived notions. Under the bright beam of his flashlight, the intricate filigree latticework nearly danced between light and shadows. Francesco opened the rudimentary padlock clearly belonging to a more recent era, and the thick, heavy door slowly turned on its hinges, giving way to his gentle pressure. He motioned for Claudio to follow and then locked the deadbolt from within. Their flashlights were too weak to allow much study of the austere rock walls. One had to know the way by heart, as Francesco did, to be able to proceed with any surety or speed. A crack in the rock, which seemed to Claudio no more than one of the many sculpted entryways, opened slowly when Francesco pushed on it. They crossed the threshold into complete darkness. Claudio flicked on his headlamp and continued following Francesco, who was already going down some rough-cut stone stairs. He counted twenty steps that curved around until