The Genesis Plague Part 9

The monk ducked beneath a low archway and continued to a staircase that cut deep beneath the nave. Here Hazo noticed that the stone blocks had given way to hewn, chisel-marred stone worn smooth by pa.s.sing centuries. To one side, electrical conduit had been installed along the wall to run power to sconces that lit the pa.s.sage. The subterranean atmosphere was disorienting. It seemed as if the monk was leading him into the mountain itself.

Hazo's anxiety eased when up ahead he saw bright light coming out from a formidable gla.s.s doorway fitted with steel bars.

The monk stopped at the door and entered a code on the handle's integrated keypad. A lock snapped open. He turned the handle, pushed the door inward, and held it as Hazo stepped into a small empty foyer. The air immediately became warmer, dryer. Hazo could hear a filtration system humming overhead.

Without a word the monk shut the first door and made his way to a second door that was nothing but metal and rivets. Another code was entered and he led Hazo into a vast, window-less s.p.a.ce divided into neat aisles by st.u.r.dy floor-to-ceiling cabinets. The air was sterile and dry. Trailing the monk past the long study tables that lined the room's centre, he glimpsed countless spines of the ancient ma.n.u.scripts lined neatly behind gla.s.s panels.

Deep in the library, they found the elderly monsignor. Wearing a black robe and hood, he was stooped over a drafting table equipped with a gooseneck LED lamp, sweeping a saucer-sized magnifying loupe horizontally across the open pages of a thick codex.

Well before they reached him, the monk turned to Hazo and motioned for him to go no further. 'A moment, please.'

'Of course,' Hazo replied.

The monk quietly circled the table and bent to whisper in the monsignor's ear. The monsignor inclined his head so that his suspicious eyes s.h.i.+fted over his bifocals to appraise Hazo. He dismissed the monk with a curt nod. Then he summoned Hazo with a hand gesture.

Hands crossed behind his back, Hazo approached the table and bowed slightly. 'Thank you, Monsignor Ibrahim. I was asked to-'

'Let me see your pictures,' the dour monk demanded. He held out his hand, the severely arthritic fingers quivering.

Clearly the man disliked formalities, thought Hazo, as he handed Monsignor Ibrahim the photos.

The moment the monsignor laid eyes on the first picture, Hazo noticed the creases in his brow deepen.

The monsignor cleared his throat then said, 'Where did you find these?'

'A cave ... to the east, in the Zagros Mountains. Those images were carved into a wall. There was writing too and-'

The monsignor's hand went up to stop him. 'I suppose you want to know who this is?' he said, almost as an accusation. 'Yes?'

'Well, yes.'

The monsignor stood from the table. He eyed Hazo's crucifix again. 'As you wish. Come. I will show you.' He rounded the table and set off down the aisle.

19.

BOSTON.

The Concorde's frigid engine turned over with a grinding cough. The interior was so cold that Thomas Flaherty's breath crystallized the instant it came into contact with the winds.h.i.+eld. He clicked on the defrosters, blew into his hands a couple times, then grabbed his trusty sc.r.a.per off the floor.

Hopping out, he cursed the Boston winter a few more times while he swept snow and wet ice off the windows. It took him another three gruelling minutes to chip away at the stubborn ice encrusted on the winds.h.i.+eld's wiper blades. Back inside, the artic freeze had barely budged, so he gave the accelerator a few pumps to warm up the engine and speed things along. He blew in his hands again before burying them in his armpits for a long minute.

Once his fingers had thawed to an itchy tingle, he took out his BlackBerry and started thumbing his preliminary findings into a secure e-mail message addressed to his boss, with a CC to Jason Yaeger.

Jason Yaeger. They'd met during orientation at Global Security Corporation only two years ago. That high school valedictorian from Alpine, New Jersey, was meant to teach some arcane history course at an Ivy League university or find a cure for cancer - not scour the Middle East for terrorists. But Jason Yaeger was out for vengeance. In his eyes, that hard determination glimmered like a razor's edge. To lose a brother the way he had ...

Composing the e-mail helped Flaherty formalize his initial a.s.sessments: Professor Brooke Thompson had been forthright in answering questions about her involvement in an excavation that had taken place in northern Iraq in 2003; though Ms Thompson was unwilling to breach her confidentiality agreement about the findings in aforementioned project, the nature of her involvement seemed consistent with her expertise in deciphering ancient languages; and though her back-story would require verification, he would not consider her a flight risk should further inquiries be warranted. Flaherty did, however, emphasize that the excavation's implied covert coordination by the US military merited further investigation.

He fixed a couple typos, then sent the report off into s.p.a.ce.

A more comprehensive summary would be required. That would happen tonight, on his laptop, at Doyle's Cafe over a pint of Guinness and an order of steak tips, with the Celtics hoopin' it up on the big screen. And all the snow in the world wasn't going to put the kibosh on that.

He pocketed the BlackBerry and put the car in drive. The mounting snow constricted the street, making a U-turn impractical. So he continued straight on Museum Road and made a right at the T intersection. As he started along The Fenway, a splash of happy pastel colours set against the dreary grey museum edifice caught his eye. He glanced over to the steps leading up to the columned portico overhanging the building's north entrance. Immediately he recognized the puffy sky-blue ski jacket, pink wool cap and rainbow-striped scarf that had been hanging on the back of Brooke Thompson's chair.

Oh yeah, she's definitely from Florida, he smiled.

The sidewalks had yet to be shovelled and she was having a tough time getting the wheels of her rolling attache case to spin. The snow won, and she settled for dragging the case over the fresh powder. En route to her car, he guessed.

Luckily, she didn't spot him cruising by, because he certainly didn't want to come off as a stalker.

As Flaherty continued slowly along the slippery roadway, he noticed the north door open a second time. Out came another familiar face: the nosy guy with the Dumbo ears from the cafe. The guy's beady eyes immediately went to Brooke Thompson, scanned the area, then snapped back to Brooke Thompson. They were the leering eyes of a real real stalker. stalker.

Bundled warmly and revelling in the beauty of the fresh snowfall that blanketed the Fens, Brooke Thompson plodded through the snow while towing her attache case like a dog pulling a dogsled.

To her right, she noticed that the reflecting pools had frozen over and the snow now reached up to the nose of Antonio Lopez Garcia's monumental bronze doll's head, crowned with a dollop of pristine snow. If there was artful expression in plopping a huge head on to the museum's lawn, the message was lost on her. Seeing it today did manage, nonetheless, to evoke a deep response - it jogged memories about the etchings Brooke had studied in that Iraqi cave, which included a graphic retelling of a woman's beheading. Those images, though masterfully crafted, were not intended to illicit artistic appreciation. They were meant to convey a warning.

Maybe if Brooke had been allowed to decipher the entirety of the story chronicled on those walls, she'd know it completely. And she was certain that it was there, deeper in the cave's recesses. During the excavation she'd been told that other writings and images had been discovered in the protected areas for which she lacked proper clearance. Perhaps if she hadn't been able to crack the language using only the writings found in the cave's entry tunnel, they'd have let her examine those other finds.

She had figured out enough of the story to know that whoever the beheaded woman had been, the devastation that followed her into that ancient Mesopotamian settlement was of a grand scale. And those ancient storytellers had attributed all of it to her.

During the dig, one of the commissioned archaeologists had come outside the cave entrance to get a clear satellite signal for a phone call. She'd overheard his conversation concerning some carbon-dating results. Though he'd not specified the types of organic specimens that had been dated, she'd guessed at some traces of food, flowers, or maybe bone. Certainly plausible since the famous Shanidar cave, also in Iraq's Zagros Mountains, had yielded ten Neanderthal skeletons, as well as decayed flowers used during their ritual burial.

The archaeologist had specifically mentioned 'a tight confidence interval around 4004 BC'. In the context of Iraq, this date was impossible for Brooke to forget since a seventeenth-century Irish archbishop named James Ussher had meticulously reconstructed the chronology of biblical events to come up with a very precise date for Creation: Sunday, October 23, 4004 BC. And like most theologian scholars, Ussher placed Eden's locale in ancient Iraq, land of the four rivers mentioned in Genesis 2 - the Tigris and Euphrates, plus the long-ago dried-up Pishon and Gihon.

What could they have found inside the cave that could be so important ... and so ancient?

The secrecy of the excavation never sat well with her, particularly since nothing she'd witnessed there had ever surfaced in academic journals. And being that that cave was easily the most important archaeological discovery of the last hundred years, such a withholding seemed downright criminal. Who was really behind the dig? And why had the operation been conducted by the US military so soon after the invasion of Iraq?

It wasn't all that uncommon for benefactors sponsoring excavations to remain aloof. But recalling the extensive background check she'd gone through with the facilitator known only as 'Frank', now she couldn't help but think she might have taken part in something nefarious. And this Agent Flaherty who'd just bought her tea and quizzed her on stuff he he should already know? Why hadn't he been apprised of what had taken place at the dig? should already know? Why hadn't he been apprised of what had taken place at the dig?

She continued past the museum and clambered over a dirty snow berm that lined the kerb along Forsyth Way. Across the street, the only car that remained was her Gumby-green Toyota Corolla. Thanks to a snow plough the car had practically been buried beneath ice and snow.

'Great,' she mumbled, making her way across the slushy street. Luckily, by now she'd learned to keep a shovel in her trunk for just such occasions.

Pulling out her car keys, she went to the rear of the car and tried working the key into the frozen trunk lock. But since she'd refused to take off her mittens, she fumbled the keys and they plopped into the snow. When she dipped down to fish them out, she heard a small popping sound. Something whisked overhead an instant before the lamppost behind her let out a resounding clang.

Startled, she spun to look at the post. She remained in a low crouch. 'What the h.e.l.l ...?'

Another small pop sounded and something thwacked into the Corolla's rear quarter panel, hit the inside of the trunk, and dimpled the sheet metal outward right in front of her face. She screamed and tumbled back into the snow.

That was when she realized that somebody was shooting at her.

20.

IRAQ.

The marine colonel stood at the base of the slope next to Big Mama - the boulder slightly taller than she was and streaked with some of the MRAP's camouflage paint. He was glaring up at the partially reopened cave where Jason's men were helping the marines clear more debris. The larger stones were being manhandled out and tossed down the slope. The smaller debris was being ferried out in buckets along a human chain. With the sun dropping fast over the horizon, they were working double-time against the imminent nightfall.

'Once the sun's down, we'll need to keep any lighting to a minimum,' Crawford told Jason. His eyes combed the surrounding mountains. 'No need to draw more attention to ourselves. Plus we're light on batteries and I wasn't planning for a sleepover.'

'Should be clear skies tonight,' Jason said. 'We'll have plenty of moonlight. The guys probably won't even need their NVGs. The only place we'll need some lighting is in the tunnels.'

Crawford circled his gaze to the two snipers posted outside the cave entrance. 'If it was up to me, I'd skip the formalities and firebomb the f.u.c.kers. Yup ...' Crawford exhaled. 'Al-Zahrani or not, I'd vote for Arab barbecue. These slick b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have nine lives. If they're on the grill, I say light the fire.'

Jason knew the colonel was only half sincere. 'Was.h.i.+ngton wants him alive. Intel says he's plotting to-'

'Don't preach the rhetoric to me, Yaeger. I know the score. This war's gotten too G.o.dd.a.m.n civil for my taste, is all I'm saying. You saw what that p.r.i.c.k did to those cathedrals last month. Killed almost 500 civs in one day. In less than a year he's racked up another thousand or so by sending his martyrs into subways, bus stations and malls strapped with C-4. No warning. No conscience. Just wants to put fear into every human being that doesn't bow down to Allah. And this psycho's just getting warmed up. Wants to make a nice impression on his boss. That way when Bin Laden's diseased kidneys finally give out, he can take Al-Qaeda to the next level. If we still had some b.a.l.l.s in Was.h.i.+ngton maybe we'd get this done the old-fas.h.i.+oned way.' With arms crossed tight over his chest he gave Jason a sideward glance.

Avoiding a political debate, Jason pointed his chin up at the cave. 'Think we should gas them out?'

'Not sure how effective that'll be if we don't first get in there and see how deep those tunnels go. Wouldn't be smart sending men in there.'

Jason agreed. 'You fellas bring a SUG-V?'

The Small Unmanned Ground Vehicle, or SUG-V, was a thirty-pound compact radio-controlled reconnaissance robot equipped with a single articulating arm, cameras and dual rotary tracks for climbing stairs and rolling over rubble - invaluable for infiltrating terrorist hideouts and diffusing roadside bombs.

'I was getting to that, Yaeger. Don't be a smart a.s.s. We've got a s.h.i.+ny new PackBot in the truck. Not sure how she'll respond in a cave - transmissions might get sketchy.'

'We'll use a fibre-optic line,' Jason tactfully replied.

'Worth a try, I suppose.' Then Crawford added, 'Let's just try and skip the heroic stuff this time, capeesh capeesh? You remember where that got you guys last time.'

'Duly noted, sir,' Jason appeasingly replied.

Though friendly fire and civilian casualties were commonplace in any war, there seemed to be zero tolerance when the error could be attributed to an outside contractor. Despite the fact that Jason's unit had maintained a flawless record here in Iraq, another of Global Security Corporation's deep-cover teams working Fallujah had bombed a purported weapons-manufacturing facility that instead wound up being a car parts machine shop. Fifteen Iraqi civilians died in the explosion. The mistake had been a black eye for both the firm and the US Defense Department. And lifers like Crawford, who no doubt felt undermined by the presence of freelancers, were more than happy to keep a scorecard.

'Tell me, Yaeger: where's your Kurd sidekick? Why's he not back here yet?'

'Had to go north of Mosul. Shouldn't be much longer.'

'You said he needed to look into something. That was two hours ago. What exactly is he doing?'

'He's following up on a very important lead.'

Here's where relations with Crawford might get sketchy, thought Jason. When Hazo had called earlier, he'd indicated that his restaurateur cousin had positively identified the American scientist, who'd apparently been chaperoned by a number of military types. Only minutes ago he'd also received an e-mail from Thomas Flaherty, which summarized an initial briefing of the archaeologist in Boston - facts that perfectly corroborated Hazo's story. Until it was clear what the military's role had been in all this, Jason would need to sacrifice diplomacy. The bigger question was: did Crawford already know something about the excavation that had taken place here in 2003?

'Hazo's got lots of contacts in the area,' Jason half explained. 'Influential people who know things.'

'Don't diddle my pie hole, Yaeger. Exactly what kind of "things" are we talking about?'

Jason squared off with the colonel and said, 'The kind of things that lead us to trapping Fahim Al-Zahrani in a cave when every branch of the military thinks he's in Afghanistan. So I tend not to bust his b.a.l.l.s too hard for staying out too late on a fact-finding mission. Capeesh Capeesh?'

Crawford's sharp jaw jutted out. 'Stand down, Yaeger. I'm warning you - don't f.u.c.k with me. If I find out there's something you're not telling me ...' For maximum effect, he let the threat linger.

But Jason wasn't backing down. Guys like this had tried to intimidate him during his short career with the Corps, and were precisely why he'd left it all behind for the private sector. Bullying was a poor supplement for stunted intellect. 'Info sharing is a two-way street, Colonel. We're both fighting the same enemy, both on the same side.'

Crawford's jaw eased back. 'If my scouts find something and that chopper's not here to back them up, I'm gonna be mighty p.i.s.sed.'

'Yes, sir.'

'All right, then,' Crawford said. 'I'll have the men prep the bot.'

21.

BOSTON.

During her life, many unexpected things had happened to Brooke Thompson with most surprises having fortunately been good ones. The instant realization that someone was trying to kill her, however, certainly ranked first on the undesirable surprises list. The adrenaline shooting through her was like nothing she'd ever sensed - a fight-or-flight response that pushed all her senses to the max and had her heart and lungs pumping triple-time.

Without hesitation, she responded the way her mom had drilled into her head since childhood: 'Help!' she screamed. 'HELP!'

With the snow storm having driven everyone home early, there was no one close by to hear her plea. The nearest pedestrian was almost a block away, strolling blissfully unawares along Huntington Avenue. A big guy in a hooded fleece. She tried again, even louder this time: 'Heeeelp!'

The guy kept moving.

Both shots seemed to have come from the same trajectory - 10.30 on a clock face. That meant the shooter was somewhere along the path she'd walked from the museum. On all fours and keeping low, she scrambled along the kerb to keep the Corolla between her and the shooter.

A hasty visual survey to the rear and sides was discouraging. Nothing in the vicinity qualified as adequate cover. Even the scant, leafless trees lining the street seemed too skinny. Staying behind the car, however, was a losing proposition.

If she could just see the gunman, orient better ...

Brooke pulled off her bright pink cap, then popped her head up over the four inches of snow that covered the Corolla's hood. Closer than antic.i.p.ated, the shooter was easy to spot: a thin man wearing a grey overcoat and a black snowcap. She fully expected the face to belong to Agent Thomas Flaherty, but the big ears and aquiline features weren't his. Across the street, the gunman bounded over the snow berm where her attache case and boots had left a clear trail. He swung a handgun directly at her head and the muzzle flashed white with barely any sound.

As she ducked, the shot glanced the snow on the Corolla's hood and zipped out perilously close to her scalp.

'Heeeeeeeeelp!'

In less than five seconds, she guessed, he'd be circling the car to close in for the kill. And there was nothing she could do about it.

When Flaherty saw Dumbo-ears step up his pace and pull out a Glock, he pushed down hard on the Chrysler Concorde's accelerator. The car fishtailed in the snow before finding traction on a patch of rock salt and shooting forward. The slight delay allowed the agile gunman to corner the museum and fire off two shots that kept the archaeologist pinned down behind her car.

Christ, did he hit her? was all Flaherty could think. Then the guy dashed out in the roadway on Forsyth Avenue and managed a third shot.