"Before you arrived at the university last night, I had copied a few lines and forwarded them to a colleague of mine-an expert in ancient languages from the Middle East. I just heard back from him this morning. It intrigued him. He was able to recognize the script. It is a form of proto-Hebrew."
Painter shifted forward in his seat, perhaps growing more intrigued himself.
"A scholar, Paracelsus, from the sixteenth century was the first to name this proto-Semitic script. He called it the Alphabet of the Magi. He claimed to have learned it from an angel, said it was the source of special abilities and magic. All of which makes me wonder if Joseph Smith hadn't come upon a similar cache of such plates and translated them, learning the history of these ancient people-this lost tribe of Israelites-and recorded their story."
Painter leaned back. Hank could see that doubt still remained in his eyes, but it was less scoffing and more thoughtful.
"Then there's Iceland," Hank said.
Painter nodded, already putting that piece of the puzzle into place. "If these ancient practitioners of nanotechnology-scholars, magi, whatever-were indeed from a lost tribe of Israelites, if they were fleeing across the Atlantic with something they wanted to preserve but were unsure if they'd make the journey-"
Hank finished the thought. "Once they hit Iceland, a land of fire in an icy sea, they would have found the perfect warm place to secure at least a portion of their volatile treasure before moving on to America."
"Hank, I think you may-"
The crunch of tires on loose rock cut him off, sounding distant, yet coming fast. Painter swung around, a pistol appearing in his hand seemingly out of nowhere. He hurried to the door.
Kowalski sat up, belched, and looked around blearily. "What?... What did I miss?"
Painter checked the window, stared for a full minute as the road noise grew steadily louder-then visibly relaxed. "It's your friends Alvin and Iris. Looks like they found our last guest."