The Covenant of Genesis

by Andy McDermott

  Lewis gave up his seat to the computer scientist. After a minute Mark leaned back, more puzzled than ever. ‘Everything’s fine at our end; we’re still transmitting. But we’re not getting anything back. Either the satellite’s down, which is pretty unlikely . . . or someone at the other end’s blocked us.’

  Muldoon frowned. ‘What do you mean, blocked us?’

  ‘I mean, cancelled our access. Nothing we’re sending’s getting through, and nobody can send anything to us.’

  ‘The hell they can’t.’ Muldoon picked up the satellite phone’s handset. He entered a number, listened for several seconds, then jabbed with increasing anger at the buttons. ‘Not a goddamn thing!’

  ‘Try the radio,’ suggested an American, Brightstone. ‘Call Salalah. The guys there can patch us through to Houston.’

  Muldoon nodded and moved to the radio, donning a pair of headphones. He switched the set on - and yanked off the headphones with a startled yelp, making everyone jump. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘What?’ Mark asked, worried.

  ‘Beats the hell out of me. Listen.’ He unplugged the headphones. An electronic squeal came from the radio’s speaker, the unearthly sound making Mark’s skin crawl.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Spence quietly. Everyone turned to him.

  ‘You know what it is?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I used to be in the Royal Signals. That’s a jammer.’

  Muldoon’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

  ‘Electronic warfare. Someone’s cutting us off.’

  That prompted a minor panic, until Muldoon shouted everyone down. ‘You’re sure about this, Spence?’

  The Welshman nodded. ‘It’s airborne. The pitch is changing too fast for it to be on the ground.’

  There was a sudden rush for the door, the eight men spreading out to squint into the achingly blue sky. ‘I see something!’ yelled Brightstone, pointing north. Mark saw a tiny grey speck in the far distance. ‘Is that what’s jamming us?’

  ‘Where are the binocs?’ Muldoon asked. ‘Someone—’

  An ear-splitting roar hit them from nowhere. Mark had just enough time to see a pair of sleek, sand-brown shapes rush at him before the two aircraft shot less than a hundred feet overhead, sand whirling round the men in their barely subsonic slipstream. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the two planes had shrunk to dots, peeling off in different directions.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Muldoon yelled.

  Spence stared after the retreating aircraft. ‘Tornados! Those were Saudi Tornados!’

  ‘But we’re forty miles from the border!’

  ‘I tell you, they were Saudi!’ They watched as the two fighters came about. One them appeared to be turning back towards the camp. The other . . .

  Mark realised where it was heading. ‘The cave!’ he cried, pointing at the distant bluff. ‘It’s going for the cave!’

  Even as he spoke, something detached from the fighter, two dark objects falling away. Then another, and another, arcing down at the bluff—

  The hillside was obliterated, the explosions so closely spaced that they seemed to have been caused by a single giant bomb.

  ‘Jesus!’ someone shouted behind Mark as a churning black cloud swelled cancerously across the face of the bluff. The sound of the bombs hit them, shaking the ground even from over a mile away.

  The Tornado banked sharply north, afterburners flaring to blast it back into Saudi airspace at Mach 2.

  The second Tornado—

  Mark whirled to find it.

  He didn’t have to look far. It was coming straight at him, bombs falling from its wings—

  The encampment vanished from the earth in a storm of fire and shrapnel.

  Black smoke was still coiling from the bluff the next morning.

  The four thousand-pound bombs dropped by the Saudi Tornado ADV had caused a good part of the hillside to collapse into the cave beneath it. But the opening remained, a dark hole rendered more sinister by the soot streaking the surrounding rock.

  Men stood round it.

  Though they were all armed and in desert battle fatigues, none wore the insignia of any military force. In fact, they wore no insignia at all. Despite the identical dress, however, there were divisions within the team. Whether by order or by instinct, the soldiers had formed into three distinct groups, touching at their edges but never quite mixing: oil and water beneath the desert sun.

  The intersection point of all three groups was marked by a trio of men, all watching the sky to the south. Even without rank insignia, it was obvious they were the leaders, experience evident in every line on their faces. One was an Arab wearing a black military-style beret, a dark moustache forming a hard line above his mouth. The others were both Caucasian, but even so the differences in their backgrounds were clear at a glance. The younger, a tanned, black-haired man with a cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth, was Jewish; the oldest of the three had thinning blond hair and eyes of as intense a blue as the sky.

  The blond man raised a pair of binoculars. ‘Here he comes,’ he said in English.

  The Arab frowned. ‘About time. But I don’t see why we need him at all. Our airstrike destroyed the site - bury it and be done.’

  ‘The Triumvirate voted, two to one. Majority rules. You know that.’

  The Arab’s expressive face clearly revealed his displeasure at the decision, but he nodded. The blond man turned back to watch the approaching helicopter.

  It landed beside the choppers that had brought the soldiers to the site. Visible in the cockpit were two people: a man in his early forties wearing a pristine white suit, and a young woman in sunglasses.

  ‘What is this?’ snarled the Arab on seeing her. ‘He was supposed to come alone!’

  The blond man’s face briefly betrayed exasperation at the new arrival’s indiscretion. ‘I’ll handle it,’ he said. They waited as the suited man emerged from the helicopter and strolled towards them. At least his passenger was remaining in the cockpit.

  They wouldn’t have to kill her.

  Once clear of the rotor blades, the pilot donned a white Panama hat, then approached the trio, smiling broadly. ‘Ah, Jonas!’ he said to the blond man. ‘Jonas di Bonaventura, as I live and breathe. Marvellous to see you again.’ Though his accent seemed at first a precise upper-class English, there was a faintly guttural undercurrent that revealed his Rhodesian origins.

  ‘Gabriel,’ replied di Bonaventura as they shook hands. ‘You flew here yourself ?’

  ‘As you know, I prefer to be in control.’

  They shared a small laugh, then di Bonaventura looked pointedly towards the helicopter. ‘I see you brought a . . . guest. That was not something we were expecting.’

  ‘A life without surprises would be terribly dull.’ He smiled over his shoulder; the woman smiled back. ‘She’s a former student of mine. Her father hired me to take her on a tour of various African anthropological sites. We were in Sudan when I got your call for my help.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have brought her here,’ said the Arab, scowling.

  A Cheshire cat smirk spread across the new arrival’s face. ‘Oh, I couldn’t leave her behind. She gives me much more than just money.’ It took a moment for the Arab to get his meaning; when he did, he looked disgusted. ‘So, Jonas, are you going to introduce me to your compatriots?’

  ‘Gabriel,’ said di Bonaventura, indicating the Arab, ‘this is Husam al Din Zamal, formerly of the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate.’ He nodded at the cigar-smoking man. ‘And Uziel Hammerstein, previously of Mossad.’

  The suited man raised a faintly mocking eyebrow. ‘A Saudi spy working with an Israeli spy? To say nothing of your background, Jonas. The Covenant of Genesis really does make for strange bedfellows.’

  Di Bonaventura ignored the comment. ‘Husam, Uziel,’ he went on, ‘this is Professor Gabriel Ribbsley from Cambridge University in England.’

  The men shook hands. ‘And don’t forget,’ added Ribbsley, chest swelling smugly, �
��the world’s leading authority in ancient languages. Whatever that amateur Philby in New York might think. And as for Tsen-Hu in Beijing . . . hah!’ He looked past Zamal and Hammerstein at the cave mouth, voice becoming more businesslike. ‘Which is why you need me here, I imagine. So, what have you found?’

  Hammerstein spoke first, voice low as if to keep what he was about to say a secret even from the wind. ‘Our friends in the American NSA alerted us to a photo intercept from an oil company survey team. Their computers had performed a routine analysis of the images - and identified the language of the Ancients.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Ribbsley mockingly. ‘You’re still calling them that? How tediously prosaic. I use “Veteres” myself - I’m sure Jonas can appreciate at least the Latin.’

  Hammerstein drew impatiently on his cigar. ‘As soon as we realised what they had found, we arranged for a computer virus to be introduced through an NSA back door into the company’s servers to erase the photos, then locked out the survey team’s satellite link to isolate them. After that—’

  ‘We destroyed them and the site,’ cut in Zamal bluntly.

  Ribbsley looked towards the darkened opening. ‘So, you just decided to bomb the site. I see.’ A pause, then he wheeled about on one heel, voice dripping sarcasm. ‘And what exactly did you expect me to learn from a smouldering crater?’

  ‘We still have copies of the survey team’s photographs,’ said di Bonaventura. He beckoned a younger man, another blond European, to approach. The soldier held up a manila envelope.

  Ribbsley dismissed it. ‘Happy snaps taken by oily-thumbed roughnecks are hardly going to be helpful.’ He reached under the brim of his hat to knead his forehead with his fingertips. ‘Do you know why translating this language has been so hard? Why it took eight years for me to work out even the basics?’ He lowered his hand and glared at Zamal. ‘Because every time the Covenant finds even the tiniest scrap of anything new, they blow it up and kill everyone in the vicinity!’

  ‘That is the Covenant’s purpose,’ Zamal said angrily.

  ‘Yes, if you take the most literal, block-headed interpretation possible.’ Ribbsley let out a theatrical sigh. ‘Flies, honey, vinegar, catch . . . can anyone rearrange these words into a well-known phrase or saying?’

  ‘You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?’ offered the soldier with the envelope, a Germanic accent to his clipped English.

  Ribbsley clapped his hands. ‘Top marks! Jonas, who is this prodigy?’

  ‘Killian Vogler,’ said di Bonaventura. ‘My protégé.’ A note of challenge entered his words, as if daring Ribbsley to continue mocking him. ‘I will soon be retiring from the Covenant for a new position in Rome - Killian will take my place in the Triumvirate.’

  Ribbsley backed down, slightly. ‘A new position? Still in pectore, I assume . . . Well then, I hope this young gentleman keeps the saying he just recited in mind once he takes your place.’ Vogler gave him a sardonic look. ‘The next time you make a discovery like this, Mr Vogler, perhaps you might consider allowing me to examine the site before you blow it to pieces? If I can decipher more of the language, I may be able to locate other sites - before they’re stumbled upon by random passers-by whom you then have to kill.’

  ‘I will bear it in mind, Mr Ribbsley,’ said Vogler with a humourless smile.

  ‘Professor Ribbsley, thank you very much,’ Ribbsley snapped. He snatched the envelope from Vogler’s hand and riffled through the contents. ‘Well, it seems consistent with the other sites - the remains of the other sites, that is. And the characters on the tablet in this photo do match the Veteres alphabet. But there’s nothing I haven’t already seen.’ He looked back at the cave. ‘What else is in there?’

  Di Bonaventura nodded to Vogler. ‘Killian will show you. You may as well get to know each other - I’m sure you will be working together again in the future . . .’

  Ribbsley emerged from the cave just ten minutes later, disappointed and angry.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, shooting an accusing glare at Zamal. ‘Absolutely nothing worthwhile was left intact. Just more scraps.’ In one hand he had a clay cylinder about two inches in diameter, fine grooves encircling its length - up to the point where it ended in a jagged break. He dropped it to the ground at his feet; it shattered. ‘A complete waste of my time.’

  ‘For which you are being very well rewarded,’ di Bonaventura reminded him. ‘And you still have the photographs of the site.’

  ‘I already told you, there’s nothing new on them. I’ll be able to translate the text properly once I can check my notes, but I could read enough to know it’s nothing of interest.’ He looked at his helicopter. The young woman was still in the cockpit, clearly bored. ‘Well, since there’s nothing more for me here, I’ll be going. I do hate the desert.’ He irritably brushed some sand off his white cotton sleeve.

  ‘I’ll walk you to your helicopter, Gabriel,’ said di Bonaventura. Ribbsley started towards the aircraft without even looking back at the others, di Bonaventura beside him. ‘What were you thinking?’ said the soldier in a quiet growl once they were out of earshot.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Bringing your - your girlfriend with you. Are you mad? Zamal would have shot her without a thought just for being here, and Hammerstein would not have tried to stop him.’

  Ribbsley smiled. ‘Ah, but I knew you’d be in charge, Jonas.’

  ‘Not for much longer. Once I go back to Rome, all I can do is advise. Killian will be making the decisions in the Triumvirate. And despite my teaching, he is still young enough to see the world in absolutes. And one of those absolutes is that anyone who could reveal the secret of the Veteres to the world is a threat to be eliminated.’

  ‘Don’t even think about hurting her,’ said Ribbsley, a sudden hardness in his voice.

  Di Bonaventura regarded him with mild surprise. ‘She’s that important to you? Interesting.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘No threat intended, Gabriel, I assure you,’ di Bonaventura said with a placatory smile. ‘She just seems younger than I expected.’ He took a closer look as they approached. ‘How old is she? Twenty-one? ’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘And you are now . . . ?’

  ‘Her age isn’t the important issue,’ snapped Ribbsley defensively, forcing the older man to hide his amusement. ‘What matters is her personality.’

  By now di Bonaventura could see that Ribbsley’s passenger was extremely beautiful, with a toned body to put many a model to shame. ‘But of course.’

  ‘She’s quite incredible, actually,’ Ribbsley continued, his tone softening as he gazed at her. ‘An exceptionally cultured and refined woman. And as you know, I’m a man of very refined tastes.’

  Di Bonaventura caught the scent of over-liberally applied Bulgari cologne. ‘And expensive ones.’

  ‘Which is why I put up with you calling me across continents at a moment’s notice. The Covenant pays far better than Cambridge!’ Both men chuckled, then shook hands as they reached the chopper. ‘Well, good luck with the new post, Jonas. Maybe I’ll pop in to see you next time I’m in the Eternal City.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’ Di Bonaventura stood back as Ribbsley climbed into the cockpit, quickly and expertly running through the pre-flight sequence. The rotors groaned to life, rapidly picking up speed. The soldier moved back out of the whirling sandstorm.

  ‘Goodbye, Cardinal!’ shouted Ribbsley, giving di Bonaventura a jaunty wave. The helicopter left the ground, wheeled about and headed south.

  Di Bonaventura watched it go, then returned to the cave, looking in the direction of the ragged craters marking what had once been the survey camp. There was still clean-up work to be done; the bodies of the men at the camp, or whatever was left of them, had to be found and buried, all evidence of the camp itself removed. Anything that could expose the Covenant had to disappear. Without trace.

  Without exception.

  ‘Why did you call him Card
inal?’ the young woman asked.

  ‘Private joke,’ Ribbsley told her.

  ‘So who were they?’

  He paused before reluctantly answering. ‘They’re . . . archaeologists. Of a sort. I occasionally help them with translations of ancient texts.’

  ‘I had no idea Cambridge professors made house calls for translation emergencies.’

  ‘They’re very competitive about their work. Cut-throat, you might say.’

  ‘Really?’ She arched an eyebrow and smiled wolfishly. ‘I’m intrigued.’

  Ribbsley huffed. ‘They’re hardly your type . . . Lady Blackwood.’

  Sophia Blackwood grinned. ‘I suppose not. Can you imagine what my father would say if I spent time with some bit of rough trade? He’s suspicious enough of you as it is.’

  ‘Now, for what possible reason could his lordship be suspicious of a Cambridge professor?’

  Sophia leaned closer, her long dark hair brushing his shoulder as she slipped her hand between his legs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe because you’re secretly fucking his daughter?’ She cupped her fingers round his groin and squeezed gently.

  He made a muffled noise deep in his throat. ‘That might be one reason, yes.’

  She laughed, then tightened her grip slightly. ‘So, you aren’t going to tell me any more about those people?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Ribbsley, smiling back at her.

  Tighter still. ‘Really?’

  The smile vanished. ‘Ngh! No. Believe me, Sophia, this is one of those very rare occasions where ignorance really is bliss. Or at least safer.’

  She withdrew her hand, turning away in feigned offended disappointment. ‘I see, Professor.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that, my lady,’ said Ribbsley, playing along with her game. ‘I’m sure I can make up for it somehow.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I recall that you have a reasonable ability with languages . . .’

  ‘Don’t go out of your way to praise me, Gabriel,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘Compared to me, I meant. But you could help me with the translation - it’d save me a lot of time if you took care of the drudge work.’