Lubanzi’s expression went blank. “Soundwaves ...” they suddenly said in unison.
Lauren looked to one then the other, seeking explanation. “I don’t get it.”
Lubanzi drew a straight line across the board, then bisected it with a line that arched up then down. “A soundwave, like the rapid bursts.” He pointed at the wavy line. He put a dot on it each time it crossed the straight line. “Fibonacci prime numbers.” He added 1-1-2-3-5-8-13 to the six dots he’d drawn. “Assign either a mathematical or alphabetical value to each of these points ... and you could have some kind of a Morse Code.” He added A-A-B-C-E-H-M above the numbers. “This could be a basic cypher, or perhaps, there’s another factor involved.”
Michael stood and grabbed a blue pen, drawing out a three dimensional cube, then took a red pen and drew a curving wave through the three dimensional plane. “Frequency, tempo, pitch ... anything could be a variable.”
Lauren looked to Michael. “Now that’s something I can work with.”
Chapter 13
Kitty Donovan sat in the Region VI Area Director’s office, with her hands in her lap, her gaze directed at the broken nail that was visible between the wrappings of her splinted thumb. She was furious at the organization for the method used to extract her from her previous assignment. The team put her at risk, and while she hadn’t been seriously injured, she hadn’t escaped completely unscathed. A broken thumb wasn’t the worst of it. Her whole body ached, and she’d spent nearly a week flat on her back in bed.
“Dr. Donovan.” The Area Director came in behind her, but she couldn’t even turn her head to look at him. He came around and sat down at his desk with a file that was nearly two inches thick. “Do you realize your actions have put this whole organization in jeopardy?”
“My actions?” she snarled. “You nearly killed two people. One of those was your best field operative ... me!”
“I can assure you, we carefully planned everything,” he said, sitting back in his high-back leather chair. “Your safety was our top priority. Dr. Grayson was treated and released from the hospital within twenty-four-hours of the event.”
“Safety my Aunt Fanny! I’ve been laid up for a week,” she said. “You broke my finger!”
“Broken bones heal,” he said. “But you nearly blew your cover. What were you thinking? A sexual liaison with your intended mark was not authorized.”
“It got the job done,” Kitty stated. She didn’t mention she and Michael had hooked up in collegeand were sweethearts, if truth be told. Had she not been in the position she was in, it would have been easy to allow herself to fall in love with him all over again. Using her body to accomplish her objective was a move James Bond wouldn’t have given a second thought to. She’d done what she had to do.
“And you’re confident he’s studying the same signals as Dr. Budnikov?”
“I’m positive,” she said.
“What did he tell you?”
Kitty hesitated. “It wasn’t what he said that convinced me,” she admitted.
“Gawdammit, Donovan! I need specifics.”
“I can’t give you specifics,” Kitty said. “But, from our discussions, and the time he had access to Hubble, I am absolutely positive.”
“You gave him access to Hubble?”
“Not long enough for him to confirm anything,” she said. “Just long enough for me to confirm my suspicions.”
The director stared down his nose at her a long moment. “You’re dismissed,” he said. “That’ll be all.”
Kitty didn’t move. “But ...” she all but squeaked. “His data needs to be collected. We need to shut that project down.”
“You’re correct,” he said. “We’ll take it from here.”
Kitty scooted forward in her seat. “This is my assignment. I’m the Senior Coordinator. It’s my job.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Your position has been compromised.”
“My position at NASA has been compromised,” she said. “But as far as anyone there knows I’m out on medical leave.”
“Which is another reason for you to just go home,” he said. “You have no business in the field.”
“I’ll go over your head,” Kitty said. “My orders come from the Secretary of Homeland Security. My job is to control the dialogue and control any first contact with an alien species. Our mission is sanctioned by NATO as part of an international accord. I don’t report to you.”
She expected that to infuriate him, but he sat expressionless as he considered her. “I don’t respond well to threats, Dr. Donovan.”
“It wasn’t a threat,” Kitty said, crossing her arms, at great pain to her back and neck.
He considered her a moment. “What do you propose, Dr. Donovan?”
That was more like it.
* * *
Twelve hours later, Kitty sat in the Emergency Operations Center at Quantico with the head of Homeland Security, Secretary Frank White, sitting beside her. On the video screen that took up the full wall in front of her, representatives from each of the countries represented in the NATO First Contact Task Force, or FCTF, appeared like blocks on the Brady Bunch. Kitty allowed Secretary White to brief the nations of their findings and planned efforts.
“And where is this scientist who has the data you need to contain?” The German liaison asked.
“That’s something we’re working to determine, sir.” Kitty spoke up. “I have a plan to find him. When I do, I’ll go collect the data.”
“He needs to be silenced,” the rep from Great Britain said, with a huff in his voice.
“Like Dr. Budnikov was silenced?” The Canadian representative retorted. “I thought you were supposed to be working on who killed Alexei Budnikov.”
“The CIA is working on it,” Frank said. “Trust me, we want to know that as much as you do. His murder occurred on American soil. The last thing we want is for another scientist to fall victim to this unknown assailant.”
“Our scientist’s safety is my first priority,” Kitty said, hearing the Area Director’s voice in her head. “The sooner I can find him, the better I can protect him.” Kitty still couldn’t believe that the Area Director had authorized so violent a method of extraction. She wouldn’t rest until she knew Michael was safe, and certain he hadn’t been seriously harmed. If the Area Director thought her injuries were minor, she couldn’t imagine what he considered to be significant.
“We agreed when we formed this accord that no one country would act alone,” the head of the Estonian Security Council said. “Do you intend to violate our charter and go it alone, Dr. Donovan?”
“On the contrary,” she said. “I welcome any nation to send a counterpart to join me, once I know where to find my target.”
“What kind of resources are you asking for?” The Italian representative demanded. “These operations tend to be expensive, not to mention ... messy.”
Kitty let the secretary field that question. “The US has funds to support one nation’s participation in this operation. Since the gentleman from Estonia seems most concerned about this operation, I suggest Estonia send their agent.”
The group broke out into a raucous debate. The volley of arguments escalated into a shouting match. The secretary looked over at Kitty, who eyed him without turning her stiff neck. “You sure you’re up to this?” he asked once he’d muted the mic.
“I’ll get the job done,” she said. “I don’t know how I feel about an Estonian escort, but ... it doesn’t look like the committee likes that idea either.”
The two sat and waited for the committee to govern itself. In the end, a vote was taken, and it was agreed, the agent from Estonia would join her after all. Kitty had never met her Estonian counterpart, but they had been introduced via email on at least one occasion.
“Now the only question that remains,” Frank said, turning to her after the video call ended. “How are you going to flush out Dr. Grayson?”
“I’ve woven m
y web,” she said. “Now it’s just a matter of time before the fly falls into my trap.”
“In that case, let Operation: Black Widow commence,” the secretary said, basically writing her a blank check.
“Thank you, sir.” She rose slowly and stiffly.
“Dr. Donovan,” he said behind her.
She paused, turning her whole body. “Yes, sir?”
“Take some damned pain meds and get some rest until your trap is sprung. I’m not sending an agent into the field if she can’t even look over her own shoulder and watch her own six.”
Kitty bit her lip. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
After she’d fed Henry, Lauren put his blanket down on the floor and went to retrieve his toys from his diaper bag.
“Here’s Fishy.” She handed him his shark, bemused by his reaction when he saw it.
“F-fishy!” He squealed and clutched it to his chest, hugging it and resting his head against it. He babbled to himself as he drooled and blew raspberries, as she put his things on the blanket, then sat him down in the middle of them, making sure he was content before she returned to her work.
She glanced over at Rowan, who had his nose in a book, but looked completely bored. His dinner plate in front of him was empty and she wasn’t unaccustomed to seeing him nod off over a good book in the evenings after dinner at home. Now, his eye lids drooped as he leaned his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his fist. He had the patience of Job, she had to give it to him. They’d been at it all day, and he hadn’t complained or fidgeted. He jumped in and went to work, doing his best to help with the Sumerian myths or wrangling their son, who seemed just as content.
Going back to Michael’s desk, she fumbled beneath a stack of papers for a tablet to write on. The last few hours had been spent listening to recordings forward and backwards, trying to make sense of the bizarre rapid pulses that were becoming as clear as the beating of her own pulse in her throbbing temples.
As she retrieved the tablet, an envelope on the desk fell with a thud from the stack of folders, unopened mail and other papers piled up on the desk, awaiting Michael’s attention. Lauren called him over as she picked it up.
He’d been pouring over tomes at the table across from Rowan. He rose and came over to see what she was holding. “What’s this?”
Rowan’s head lifted and she realized he’d fallen asleep. He looked over at her blankly.
“It was on your desk under this stack of papers,” she said, handing it to her brother, returning her attention to him.
Michael inspected it, but his hand barely covered his mouth before a gasp escaped his throat.
“What?” Lauren looked at him, concerned by his odd reaction.
“It’s ... it’s from Alexei ...” he said under his breath. “He said he was going to send something ...” Michael slipped down into the chair beside her, his hands visibly trembling. “I assumed he was going to email it, but ... I never got it.” He inspected it. “Where did you find this?”
“In that stack of mail,” she said.
Rowan rose and came over to see what was going on.
Michael ran a hand over his face, and she realized he’d broken out into a sweat. “This is what I get for not checking my mail ...” His voice trailed off.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Rowan asked.
The manilla paper had been roughed up in delivery, and a dozen stamps had been affixed to the top right corner. The flap had been sealed with masking tape. It was addressed in black marker — written in an unsteady hand — to Dr. Michael Grayson and a red stamped declared CONFIDENTIAL DOCUMENTS ENCLOSED. There was no return address.
“I’m not sure I want to,” Michael said in a weak voice.
Lauren’s hand went to his. “You owe your friend that much. He risked his own safety for you to have this information.”
Michael nodded and reached for a letter opener. He slit the opposite end of the envelope and a cell phone fell out and landed in the palm of his hand. He inspected it, glancing up at his sister, before he turned it around, looking for the button. “It’s an Apple. I don’t know how to work it.”
“Let me guess, you’re an Android user,” she snarked as she took it and tried to activate it. “Rowan, do you have your charger? It’s dead.”
Rowan retrieved his power cord from Henry’s diaper bag and plugged it into an outlet on the conference table, then handed the other end to Lauren. She connected it, putting the phone down. “It won’t take long,” Rowan, said, then pointed to her plate. “You didn’t finish your food. Come sit down. Eat.”
Lauren didn’t argue.
When the phone had enough of a charge on it, Rowan did Michael the courtesy of booting it up before he handed it to him. Lauren came to watch over his shoulder.
Michael thumbed through the programs. The only apps still left on the phone were the ones that came with it. There wasn’t a single email account connected with the program, so there were no emails. Location services had been disabled; Wi-Fi disconnected. The Bluetooth was disabled as well. There was one audio file in the music program. Michael cued it up and recognized the recording.
It was remarkably similar to the one he had played for Lauren earlier...at least at first. But something was different. Lauren sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. The swirling waterglass music resonated in her core as Michael turned it up. As the music transformed, the notes appeared behind her eyes, marking their places on the scales. The image moved into three dimensions as the Golden Ratio of the Fibonacci sequence came into view and morphed into four dimensions. The mathematical spiral expanded in her mind’s eye. A minute into the recording, the tempo increased, and became more like a symphony than hums from water glasses. The music rose to a quick crash then fell in a stunning decrescendo ... and ended.
They sat looking at one another as Lauren’s mind raced. “Play it again, Sam.”
She took up the paper and pen once, jotting down notes as it played again. She’d never studied music, but it was a language, much like English or Cherokee; a code to communicate meaning.
Michael let the audio loop as he tapped on the icon for photos. There was only one file. He tapped on it, opening it. It appeared to be an old photograph of the crash scene Alexei had discussed during the television interview; the interview where he died. Michael attempted to zoom in and was impressed when the image came into focus. “Lauren...” His hand went to her wrist. “Look ... Lauren. Look!”
Rowan and Lauren both did as he asked. There, on the side of the wreckage, was a series of symbols — each a variation of a triangular shape — each marked with a number of dots over them. One dot over the first two symbols, then two dots over the next two, three dots over the next, five dots over the next, eleven dots, then thirteen dots, all lined up in rows above the symbols.
“It looks like Sumerian,” Rowan noted.
“This is what we’ve been looking for!” Lauren exclaimed, startling Henry who was crawling off the blanket. He froze, looking to his mother. Rowan took him up.
“That is your Rosetta Stone.” Michael beamed. “And look ... Fibonacci prime numbers.”
She took the phone to study the markings, scribbling down what she could make from the distorted image. The notes and their location on the scale appeared as a code, then in the back of her mind, the symbols morphed into something she could read; something her brain could comprehend. The epiphany hit her hard, and she sat back, as her mind raced a thousand miles an hour. “Music ... harmony, melody, rhythm ...” She paused, deep in thought as she worked to validate the data. “Discordant harmony though ...” she muttered.
“Discordant?”
She pointed to her notes. “These ... tones, these notes ... they’re discordant, meaning they stand out because they don’t sound pleasant. They create a sense of imbalance ...they make the listener feel ... off kilter.”
She tore off the page and jotted down the markings from the spaceship, aligning them in the same grid pattern
from the ship. “I think this is a code ... a cypher ... in Sumerian. This is what we’ve been looking for!”
Both men gazed at her. Michael’s brow knitted. Rowan leaned back; his expression blank.
“Rowan,” she said. “Play Michael’s recording again?”
“Sure.” He looked at her, puzzled. He put Henry back down on the floor and went over to the computer and cued up the signal Michael’s team had recorded.
“Can you slow it down?”
He made the adjustment she requested and watched to see what she had up her sleeve. Lauren closed her eyes listening. The music came through, feeling more somber, more ominous. As the recording continued, she realized it was a repeating message. The rapid bursts indicating the end of the message, like a telegram ending in stop. After the third shriek, which was now a somber trembling staccato, she began jotting down the information that consumed every inch of her brain. She wrote like a woman possessed, oblivious to all else.
“What’s this?” Michael asked, as she scribbled feverishly, the language finally making sense in her brain.
“Again,” she said when the recording stopped. After the third round, she lay her pen down, and looked up blankly at her husband. “I think I did it.”
Michael glanced at the tablet. “It just looks like chicken scratch to me, Lauren.”
She pointed to her notes from Michael’s recording. “It’s ... the flood story,” she said. “It talks about how the gods ... Enlil, primarily, were angry, and a flood was sent to destroy the earth. There are similar versions in the Epic of Gilgamesh and the Bible.” She grabbed the paper she’d torn off the tablet. “This is from the message Alexei recorded.”
Michael crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. “What’s it say?”
Lauren hesitated. “I don’t know if I’ve translated it correctly.”
“What do you think it says?” Rowan looked concerned.
“The Dark One returns to destroy the World of Man. Comes with it, a war among the gods from the heavens. No Man is to survive ... or maybe that is ... will survive ... the destruction. When the Dark One’s tablet is made whole ...”
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