by Nathan Swain
Eastgate searched for revenge. He found his opportunity when a Special Forces recruiter sought him out in Virginia. At first, Eastgate just wanted to kill as many bad guys as possible. In the Special Forces, he had plenty of opportunities, fighting covert battles against America’s enemies from East Africa to Central Europe. But over time, Eastgate realized that a zero-sum result was nearly inevitable when it came to modern warfare. For every terrorist he killed, a new one was recruited. Violence and death sewed more violence and death. It was an endless cycle.
Looking out at the roiling waters of the Cam from the boat’s small bathroom, Eastgate wondered if all of his soldiering—the nighttime raids, the precision air strikes, the training of insurgent armies—had made a difference. The most he could say was that he had held evil in check. Perhaps that was enough.
But Eastgate had decided to stay on the house boat in Cambridge for reasons other than nostalgia. Next to a bank vault, it was probably the safest place he could be. In a hotel, an assassin could blend into a crowd and observe his comings and goings, book the room next door to Eastgate’s and break through the adjoining door, or jump down from the balcony above. It would end with a bullet in Eastgate’s brain. Hotels also listed their guests’ passports on Interpol’s database, which meant the location of Eastgate’s alias would be accessible to every government in Europe and every bad guy of any real consequence in the world. On the houseboat, Eastgate had virtual anonymity, and was protected on three sides by water. That was enough of an advantage for him to be able to rest his head at night.
The sound of his cell phone vibrating on a side table sent Eastgate rushing out of the shower. It was Jarrett.
“Will, buddy, you there?”
“Beck, how are you?”
“Good. Listen, I don’t have much time. The headline is that you’re in some serious shit. Someone really doesn’t want you finding out what happened at that checkpoint. They tore out the pages of the damn logbook.”
“I was afraid of that. Looks like an inside job.”
“Here’s the best part. I got ahold of the surveillance video from the checkpoint. Ten minutes before the ambush a jeep with two CIA paramilitary boys showed up. Now, maybe they were just there to pick up some trash, but I kinda think they were up to no good.”
“How do you know they were CIA?”
“I’ve known those sons of bitches since Afghanistan. Tom Burdet and Joe Nagel.” Jarrett’s voice tightened, catching Eastgate by surprise. Jarrett was not the anxious type.
“Those two? I must be in trouble.”
“And now they’re asking questions about you.”
“Who is?”
“The CIA. Two other guys ID’d themselves as Army internal affairs, but I know they’re CIA.”
“What did they ask?”
“They wanted to know if you talked to me about the ambush and if you had any theories about what happened?”
“What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? I lied through my dang face. I told them you had already moved on and were just looking forward to some R and R.”
Eastgate looked out the bathroom’s porthole window. Was he being watched right now? Was it CIA, MI5?
“Listen. Do me a favor,” Eastgate said, regretting his words the second they left his mouth. Jarrett was already putting his butt on the line. A favor was running to the store to pick up some milk.
“Uh huh,” Jarrett said.
“Forget it. You’ve already risked too much. It’s my problem. I’ll do it.”
“Will, no. You’re too hot. The CIA is all over you. They’re probably watching you right now. I’ll handle it.”
“Alright. Can you cross-check Burdet and Nagel against an operator with the handle Noah? He’s the one who chased me and Hadi around the sewers of Baghdad and wound up with a bottle of cyanide poured down his throat.”
“OK. I’ll do some digging.”
“Thanks, buddy. If we survive this, I’ll owe you big time.”
“Until then, do me a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Keep one eye open while you sleep.”
Chapter 31
Eastgate walked quickly to rendezvous with Olivia, consuming the red-brick streets of Cambridge with long, powerful strides as he scanned each doorway and window that he passed for the lens of a binocular—or the nose of a sniper rifle. If Jarrett was right about the involvement of the CIA, a bullet could be coming for him at any moment.
He and Olivia had agreed to rendezvous that morning at the Mathematical Bridge, which spans the River Cam, connecting the two halves of the University’s Queen’s College. Built in 1749, the bridge looked like an arch, made of a braid of curved boards and planks. In reality, each of the timbers making up the Bridge was completely straight. It was an engineering marvel in the eighteenth century. Despite everything on his mind, Eastgate found himself marveling at it in 2003.
“Do you like Sir Isaac’s bridge?” Olivia asked, surprising Eastgate from behind with a hand on his shoulder. Eastgate instinctively reached to his leg holster, but acted like he was merely checking his shoe laces when he realized it was only Olivia.
“Actually,” Eastgate said, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “that’s apocryphal. Isaac Newton didn’t engineer the Mathematical Bridge. People just assume he did because of the name.”
“Well, aren’t you just the fount of trivia this morning,” Olivia responded.
Eastgate smiled, trying to discern her mood. “I hope I don’t come off as pretentious. I always research rendezvous points. It’s a professional habit.”
“It’s rare that someone apologizes to me for being pretentious. That’s usually my line,” Olivia said. “And I really should be apologizing to you for my abrasiveness yesterday. I can be very cynical. I am British after all.”
“Professor, I’ve spent ten years in the Special Forces. I’ll take your abrasion over my commanding officer’s any day.”’
“That’s a compliment, I suppose.”
Eastgate nodded, and extended an arm towards the east end of the bridge. “Shall we?”
The sky was gun metal gray. Low hanging clouds spat pockets of rain across the university’s grounds, coating Eastgate and Olivia with a dewy sheen.
“I should warn you,” Olivia said, hoping to set expectations low. “The carbon dating will almost certainly prove your tablet to be a hoax. I hope it won’t upset you.”
“Nothing would please me more,” Eastgate said. “I thought it had put my life in danger. If it turns out it’s all been in my head, then all I need is an expensive shrink.”
Olivia was pretty sure he needed one anyway. Ten years in the Special Forces? Chased out of Iraq? It looked to her like a bad case of PTSD. How terrible war is.
“I probably shouldn’t ask, but, your life was in danger?”
“I hesitated to say anything before.”
Eastgate pre-empted Olivia’s response. “Listen, I know what you’re thinking. That I’m probably a lunatic. Or just a lonely loser looking for attention.”
“But—” Olivia interjected.
“But, to answer your question, this is what’s happened since I came into possession of the tablet: the man I seized it from pulled a gun on me and threatened my life; my fixer was held at gunpoint by an assassin, who chased us through the sewers of Baghdad and was poisoned to death; before we could get to my base, we were ambushed—two innocent men were killed; and it looks like the CIA was involved. Don’t bother searching for any of this on the web. None of this is in the news. It’s been covered up.”
Olivia looked down at the brick pavement. “You’re right. I don’t believe your story. I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate your honesty. You’re an analytical person who relies on facts. That’s one of the reasons I came to you.”
“How did you hear about me?”
“An antiquities dealer in Baghdad. He had some knowledge about cuneiform. He clued me into the unique writi
ng on the tablet and the symbol at the bottom. He said I had to search out its secrets.”
“What did he mean, ‘search out its secrets’?”
“First, the tablet’s meaning. The writing was too archaic. He couldn’t translate it. Second, the symbol. He believed it had a relationship to Tell Eatiq. But he couldn’t say what it was. That’s why he mentioned you.”
“Yes, well, I appreciate you bringing the tablet to my attention. I wish I could have given you more of my time. You’ve just caught me at a difficult moment. I’ve been trying to protect an archaeological site in Iraq from total annihilation by both allied and enemy armies.”
“Sometimes it’s difficult to tell them apart,” Eastgate said.
“Quite,” Olivia responded, wondering if Eastgate truly had a balanced view of the US military or if he was just trying to appeal to her radicalism.
“Neither NATO or the UN appear to be interested in providing the necessary security forces to allow the dig to go forward. I can read ancient languages and could have found my way around ancient Mesopotamia pretty effectively, but I’m relatively useless in navigating governmental bureaucracy.”
“Let me know if you’d like some help. I know people. Even local tribal elders, if that helps.”
“Thank you for the offer,” Olivia said, fiddling with her sunglasses. “But I wonder if these tribal elders are as friendly as you think. Perhaps your translator isn’t giving you the full picture.”
“No translator,” Eastgate said. “I speak fluent Arabic. Several dialects, actually.”
Olivia was unable to suppress her shock. Her eyebrows instinctively shot upward like antennae picking up an unexpected signal from outer space. It was another habit her father poked fun at. “You wear your emotions like a top hat,” he told her.
“Surprised?” Eastgate asked.
“You’ll have to forgive me. You just don’t look the type.”
“What type?”
Olivia chose her words carefully. “Language-y.”
“I also speak fluent Kurdish and Pashtun. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Not disappointed at all. Delighted in fact. How did you manage to learn them? Did your fraternity mix vocabulary drills with drinking games?”
“How did you know I was in a fraternity?”
“Sorry. You just kind of scream ‘frat boy.’ ”
“I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Eastgate could see the black and gray brick pattern of the museum building ahead in the distance. He was looking forward to getting the test results, if only to put an end to Olivia’s ball busting.
“My father led a golf training academy in Abu Dhabi when I was a kid. My parents enrolled me in an Arabic class so I could get a little extra out of the trip, and I was hooked.”
Olivia was tempted to ask him a question in Arabic to test his fluency, like they do in job interviews when an applicant claims to have conversational language skills. But even her pretension had its limits.
“And they come in handy in the Special Forces. It’s easier convincing tribal commanders to follow you into battle when you speak their language.”
“I see your point.”
The low, billowy clouds began to disperse. Pockets of sun broke through.
They entered the archaeology building and walked down the spiral staircase to the basement. Half-way down the hallway, Olivia could see that Allison’s lab was dark. She was surprised. Taking note of his keen interest in the tablet yesterday, Olivia had expected Allison to be in the lab busily summarizing the results of the carbon test.
She unlocked the door with her department key, and began composing in her mind the good-natured invective she intended to hurl at Allison for his delay when he arrived late.
She flipped on the light switch. A stream of dark, oily blood was pooled on the floor.
Eastgate reached for his M11.
The blood had flowed a remarkable distance—practically across the entire width of the lab. Olivia traced the thick river of plasma to its origin: the prostrate, lifeless body of Professor Allison. His pulmonary artery had been slashed, and half of his skull obliterated.
Olivia recoiled. The color in her face, normally tawny and florid, had given way to a tepid gray. Beads of perspiration lined her cheek bones.
Eastgate scanned the room. The security cameras had been bashed in. There was no trace of bloody footprints or evidence of an escape.
“I’ve got to look at the body,” Eastgate said.
Olivia doubled over and lunged for a wastebasket underneath Allison’s desk, emptying her stomach into it.
Eastgate rolled Allison’s corpse over. He had been dead for a while—maybe ten hours. “He was killed during the night,” Eastgate said. “Was he working late?”
“I don’t know,” Olivia shouted.
Eastgate noticed a piece of paper poking out of Allison’s jacket pocket. It was stained with blood. He picked it up.
“Conventional radiocarbon date: 5,800 years before present,” Eastgate read aloud.
“Give that to me.” Olivia snatched the paper out of Eastgate’s hands, trying not to look at Allison’s corpse. Her heart pounded. “That’s… not possible,” she said, staring at the number on the radiocarbon readout. “This means the tablet is real.”
“When does this building usually open?” Eastgate asked.
“Eight in the morning.” Olivia looked at the clock on the wall. “Now.”
“We have to go.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“No. Every law enforcement and intelligence agency in the world will know I’m here. More importantly, they’ll know the tablet is here.”
“The tablet!” Olivia said, looking to the empty table in the middle of the room. “Where is it?”
Chapter 32
The rising sun emerged from behind morning clouds and dried away the thin coating of early rain that had fallen on Cambridge. The University seemed to be bathed in a perfume of cut grass and magnolia petals.
Students carrying their back packs and faculty toting shoulder bags and briefcases speed walked past the cafes and lecture halls on Downing Street.
Sixteen clangs of the Great Clock peeled in the morning sky.
Olivia looked at her watch. 8:02 a.m. In a minute, one of Allison’s graduate students would walk into the lab and scream. The entire university would descend into chaos.
“We’ve lost the tablet,” Eastgate said.
“No, not necessarily,” Olivia responded.
“What do you mean?”
“The radiocarbon test requires only a small amount of material. Allison wouldn’t have needed the entire tablet to perform the test, and he wouldn’t have just left it lying around.”
“Where could it be?”
“He had a hiding place.”
“Show me.”
Rushing down the hall to Allison’s office three floors above the lab, Eastgate had to reach out and tug Olivia’s hand to slow her down. They had to avoid drawing attention for as long as possible. There was no commotion in the department offices yet. They still had a little time.
Despite the precautions Allison took to care for the artifacts under his custody, Olivia expected the office of the ever-absent-minded professor to be unlocked, which is how he normally left it. Olivia twisted and pushed the brass door knob. The door opened.
The office had been turned upside down. Old books had been knocked to the floor. Small artifacts, some of Allison’s personal favorites from his own collection, were shattered. Olivia resisted the urge to tend to them.
Find the tablet, she told herself.
Like her own office, the walls of Allison’s inner sanctum were made of stone. Olivia walked over behind his desk, and slid her index finger into a crevice in the wall, removing a panel of fake stone made of plaster. Behind it was an iron safe.
Eastgate was delighted with Allison’s precautions. “Do you know the combination?”
“I think so.”
Olivia crouched down to look at the dial, turning it to the right, to the left, and to the right again.
“1-15-1,” Olivia said.
They heard the soft click of the lock detaching.
“1-15-1. Genesis, chapter 15, Verse 1: ‘After these things, the word of the Lord came to Abram in a special dream, saying, ‘Do not be afraid, Abram. I am your safe place. Your reward will be very great.’ ”
Olivia noted Eastgate’s look of amazement. “Among other things, Allison was a scholar of the Pentateuch,” she said, “the first five books of the Old Testament.”
Olivia turned the dial and opened the door. The safe was empty, except for an object Olivia had never seen among Allison’s collection. A small idol, about four inches tall, depicting a winged creature with the four-sided face of a human, an ox, a lion, and an eagle.
“Do you recognize it?” Eastgate asked.
Olivia gasped, placing her hand on her chest. Her breath was loud and labored.
“It’s a cherub.”
“Easy,” Eastgate said. “Deep breaths.”
Olivia paused to collect herself. “It’s a creature identified in the Bible. In Mesopotamian culture, it was a messenger of God.”
“Is it Allison’s?”
“No, this wasn’t his.”
“Then it was left here, presumably by Allison’s killer. Do you have any idea what it means?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
Chapter 33
“It’s a warning,” Olivia said, shaking her head in disbelief. “The first reference in the Bible to a cherub is—” She removed a copy of The New Oxford Annotated Bible from Allison’s bookshelf. Its frail, waxy pages crinkled under her finger tips as she flipped past the preface.
“Here it is. Genesis, chapter 3, Verse 24: ‘He drove out the man; and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim, and a sword flaming and turning to guard the way to the tree of life.’ ”
“The warning is: ‘stay away from the Garden of Eden,’ ” Eastgate said.
“Yes.”
Olivia looked out the office window. A chorus of police sirens blared outside. A police cruiser sped towards Downing Street.