The Covenant of Genesis_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

  Maybe it already had been deciphered. While Nina was necessarily well versed in ancient languages, it wasn’t her specialty—she was an archaeologist, not a linguist. There were experts whose specialized knowledge far eclipsed her own. Her former mentor, Professor Jonathan Philby, had been one such expert, but he was no longer alive.

  He’d had peers, though—well, more like rivals, she remembered. Even at the pinnacles of academia, one-upmanship was still a driving force. The names escaped her, but a few minutes’ trawling through online archives for some of Philby’s papers gave her one: Professor Gabriel Ribbsley of Cambridge. She vaguely recalled Philby’s once naming him as one of the world’s top paleolinguists … after himself, of course. Judging from Ribbsley’s own extensive list of published papers, that still appeared to be the case.

  She got Lola to obtain his contact details, then sent a brief email of introduction, accompanied by the barest details of her reason for getting in touch with him—considering recent events, it seemed prudent to keep the recovery of her pictures of the clay tablet as quiet as possible. That done, she forced herself to go back to work on the report. Her experience with tenured professors had taught her that they would respond to external inquiries in their own time, and the more prestigious the university, the greater that time would be—all the way up to the heat death of the entire universe.

  So it came as a surprise when Ribbsley phoned less than twenty minutes later.

  “This is, uh, quite an honor, Professor,” she said after introductions had been made.

  “Oh, the honor is all mine, Dr. Wilde,” Ribbsley replied. Nina couldn’t quite place his accent; there was an undertone that made her think his upper-class English manner was a hard-won affectation. South African, perhaps? “After all, it’s not every day one gets a request for assistance from the discoverer of Atlantis, and so many other great treasures. I visited the tomb of Arthur at Glastonbury just a month or so ago, in fact. They needed help with the Latin inscriptions—makes one wonder what on earth they teach these days, if something that simple poses a problem! But the tomb itself was quite impressive, so well done, well done.”

  “Thank you,” said Nina, picking up a less subtle undertone, this one decidedly patronizing. “But yes, I hope you’ll be able to help me. If you can spare the time.”

  “That depends what it is. I hope for the sake of your reputation it’s not Latin!” He chuckled at his own joke.

  “No, it’s not,” Nina told him, not feeling obliged to join in. “It’s related to some Atlantean text that was recently discovered. I see from your list of papers in the International Journal of Archaeology that you’ve done a considerable amount of work on the subject.”

  “Well, I’d hardly be able to call myself the world’s top paleolinguist with a straight face if I hadn’t!” He laughed self-congratulatingly again. “Mind you, I had a head start over the likes of Frome and Tsen-Hu and that imbecile Lopez. Hector Amoros asked me to do some preliminary work before the discovery of Atlantis was even officially announced. Benefits of having friends in high places.”

  “You knew Hector?”

  “In passing, poor chap. He was only an amateur, of course, but a moderately capable one.”

  Nina held back a sharp comment about how Amoros had actually held a master’s degree in the subject. “This text … while we’ve found some Atlantean characters in it, there are others we haven’t been able to identify. I was hoping you might be able to look at it.”

  “I’d be delighted. Just email me what you’ve got, and I’ll cast an eye—or maybe even two!—over it as soon as I can.”

  “That’d be a huge help, Professor. Thank you.”

  “No problem at all, Dr. Wilde. As I said, it’s an honor. Not everybody gets to change how we look at human history, after all.”

  Was there a hint of jealousy under his bonhomie? But still, she’d managed to get his help. Someone of Ribbsley’s experience might spot in an instant something that had escaped her.

  She certainly wasn’t going to send him everything she had, though, or even any of the photographs. Instead, she called up the picture of the tablet and carefully copied a single section of text including one of the V-shapes and the Atlantean numerals onto a sheet of paper, which she scanned and emailed to Ribbsley.

  Thinking it would take some time for him to work on the text, she returned to her report. Again, she was surprised to get a call in short order.

  He was less ebullient, more focused. “Dr. Wilde. This text you sent me, it doesn’t appear to be an accurate transcript. I don’t see any Atlantean characters in it.”

  Nina smiled; it was her turn to congratulate herself. “Really, Professor? It only took me a few minutes to find them, and I didn’t even know they were there.” An exaggeration, but it did at least knock his smugness down a notch. “I could send you another scan, mark them for you …”

  Ribbsley didn’t sound amused. “Or you could just show me. I assume you have a webcam.”

  “Er … yeah.” It took a minute to set it up, but Nina was soon able to see him in a window. The overblown self-confidence in his voice was reflected in his face; he was looking down his nose at her, and she doubted it was solely because of the camera’s position. A smirk seemed permanently etched around his mouth; his hair, though graying and thinning, had been carefully styled to conceal both facts. In the background, she could see several framed photographs of him, always white-suited, shaking hands with international dignitaries.

  “There you are, Dr. Wilde,” said Ribbsley. “Now, if you’d care to point out what I’ve apparently been too blind to see?”

  “Of course, Professor.” Nina held up the drawing. “These characters here, the ones arranged in blocks?”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re numbers. The forms are slightly different, but they’re definitely related to the Atlantean numerical system.”

  Whatever reaction she’d expected from Ribbsley, it hadn’t been the stunned look he gave her, his confidence shaken—however briefly. “Numbers?” he said, before repeating it more strongly. “Numbers! Of course!” He examined his screen closely.

  “You see? The symbols definitely correspond to each successive power of the Atlanteans’ modified base-eight system. They’re arranged differently, but the actual symbols are close enough—”

  “They are, they’re very close,” Ribbsley interrupted. “Numbers! I should have seen it at once.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment before turning back to the camera. “Unfortunately, Dr. Wilde, apart from the numbers, you know exactly as much as I do about this text. The other characters are completely unfamiliar.” His gaze intensified. “Where did you say it was obtained?”

  “I didn’t,” Nina told him pointedly. “That’s classified information, I’m afraid.”

  He wasn’t pleased at being denied, but he quickly covered it. “I understand. But without some hint of a point of origin, there’s really nothing more I can do to help. Would that I had the time to scour through records of every extinct language in my library in search of similarities, but alas …”

  “Alas, indeed,” said Nina, wishing she could reach through the screen to slap the smugness off his face. “Still, thank you for your help anyway, Professor.”

  “Not at all. Again, an honor to speak to you. We really must meet in person sometime—I’m sure we’d have much to discuss. Good-bye.”

  “Good—” Nina said, but Ribbsley had already terminated the link. “Bye, jerk,” she added quietly.

  She glanced at her laptop’s clock. Lunchtime. She’d been so preoccupied with work that she hadn’t realized she was hungry, but now she couldn’t deny it. Time to go and find something to eat.

  Before she did, though, she called Chase’s cell phone again. Nothing. Still unobtainable.

  Where the hell was he?

  Chase trudged blearily through the airport gate. Unable to get a direct flight back to New York at short notice, he had been forced to cobble to
gether an ad hoc itinerary, from Jakarta to Singapore, then on to Delhi, and—after a long wait for a connecting flight—to his current location, Dubai. He had another lengthy stopover before he could fly on to Paris, but at least from there it would be the last leg of his journey to New York.

  He checked his watch. Midnight in Dubai, 4:00 p.m. in New York. He needed to talk to Nina; he had left a brief message on her office voice mail before he left Singapore to assure her that he was all right but was looking forward to a longer conversation. First things first, though. Make his way to the departure area, check in, then find a way to kill time until the Paris flight boarded …

  If he reached it. His tiredness vanished instantly, replaced by wariness as he realized he was being watched. An Arab man in the uniform of the airport police stood nearby, accompanied by three large white guys in dark suits and mirrored sunglasses … and the mirror shades were all pointing his way. One of the trio held up a sheet of paper as if comparing the picture on it to Chase’s face, then nodded.

  That didn’t look good.

  They approached him, the officer holding up a hand. “Mr…. Chase?”

  “That’s right.” The three men stepped forward, moving to surround him.

  “These men would like to talk to you.”

  Chase eyed them, seeing himself reflected sixfold in the lenses. “You’re not going to make me miss my flight, are you, lads? It cost me a bloody fortune.”

  “You’ll be taking a different flight, Mr. Chase,” said one of the men. His accent was American.

  “Yeah? Where to?”

  The man’s mouth was a cold, hard line. “Guantánamo Bay.”

  “Any word from Eddie?”

  Nina looked up from her work to see Lola in the office doorway, a cup of coffee in her hand. “No, not yet,” she said gloomily. She glanced at the windows to see with surprise that it was dark. “Whoa! What happened to the afternoon?”

  The big-haired blonde smiled and came to her desk. “You were zoned out again. I wish I could do that—it must be great to be able to concentrate totally on one thing. I guess that explains why I’m the receptionist and you’re the boss!”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  Lola handed her the coffee; Nina nodded in thanks. “That’s why I’m still here so late—Professor Rothschild sent me a big long list of admin stuff she wants to see tomorrow, so I’ve been collating it all. Do I still call her ‘Professor’ if she’s not actually teaching, by the way?”

  “I have a feeling she’ll insist on it,” Nina told her, sipping the coffee.

  “Yeah, I kinda got that impression. To be honest, I’m …” She lowered her voice. “I’m not looking forward to her taking over.”

  Nina laughed sarcastically. “Tell me about it.”

  “Yeah. But I don’t care what she says, you did just as good a job at running the IHA as Admiral Amoros.”

  That went some small way toward improving Nina’s mood. “Thanks,” she said with a smile.

  “Well, you looked like you needed it. And it’s my job to make sure you get what you need, after all!” They shared an appreciative moment, then Lola regarded the printouts and documents on Nina’s desk. “Do you know how much longer you’ll be working?”

  “I’ll be awhile. You go home, I’ll lock up. Or is Al still here?”

  “No, he went home. I made him leave. He was here all last night fixing the servers—he would have slept in the computer room if I hadn’t stood in the doorway and not let him back in.”

  “That sounds like Al all right,” Nina said. “But don’t wait around for me.”

  “Okay.” Lola returned to the door, then looked back. “Dr. Wilde … don’t worry about tomorrow. I’m sure everything’ll be fine. And I’m sure Eddie’ll be fine too.”

  “I hope so. Thanks, Lola.”

  “No problem.” She left, heading back to reception.

  Nina took another sip of coffee, then switched on her desk lamp. Lola was right—she really had zoned out, fixated on the task at hand. Probably, she mused ruefully, so that she wouldn’t have to think about the two things currently worrying her: the future of her career once Rothschild took charge of the IHA and, more important, what had happened to Chase.

  She needed a break. Of course, she thought with amused self-awareness, her idea of a break wasn’t the same as other people’s. Forget going for a walk or having a snack; switching to a different kind of work was just as good as a rest.

  She brought the picture of the clay tablet back up, absently toying with the pendant hanging from her neck, a scrap of an ancient Atlantean artifact turned good-luck charm, as she scrutinized different sections of the text for several minutes before finally leaning back. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. Rather than trying to translate the text, she might have more luck at figuring out the tablet’s purpose.

  She closed her eyes, posing questions to herself. Why had it been made in the first place? To convey information, obviously. What kind of information? Something complex enough to need a permanent written record. Where had it been found? In a boat.

  Okay, so what kind of complex written information would you normally find in a boat?

  Nina suddenly clutched her pendant, eyes wide. She knew what the tablet was.

  She grabbed a pen, drawing each of the V-shapes from the photograph. Even though they faced in different directions, each formed a forty-five-degree angle.

  Like the shapes formed by the eight main points of a compass. The symbols were directions. Her pendant had been the subconscious clue, the orichalcum fragment once a part of an ancient Atlantean navigational instrument: a sextant. And the faint markings on it were subdivisions, more accurate measurements.

  Like the dots within the V-shapes. The lines gave the general heading, the dots a more precise bearing. The tablet was a chart: a navigational map for the mysterious sailors of over a hundred millennia earlier …

  “Damn,” Nina whispered. If the starting point was the Java Sea excavation site, then the end could be another settlement. If she could locate that …

  Her enthusiasm rapidly faded. For one thing, she still had no idea of the meaning of the rest of the text. For another, it was unlikely the IHA would be willing to let her embark upon another expedition—even more so with Rothschild in charge.

  But at least she’d discovered something …

  A faint sound outside the office caught her attention. She looked up at the doorway. “Lola?” No answer, though she heard a door closing. Lola must have just left. She shrugged and turned her attention back to the image on the monitor.

  If it was a navigational chart, the symbolic characters could represent landmarks. Set sail in the indicated direction until you reached a particular landmark, then change course and head to the next. Assuming the excavation site was the start, then a traveler following the chart would first go roughly southwest, then southwest again on a slightly different bearing to the triangle and tree (or whatever it was) symbol, travel another short stint in a similar direction, then make an abrupt change to head southeast for a long distance. She needed a map …

  Movement at her door. She glanced up, expecting to see Lola.

  Instead, she saw a man with a knife. A bloodied knife.

  Nina jumped from her chair and snatched up her phone to call for security. But the swarthy, black-haired intruder reached her desk before she punched in the first digit, his glistening blade slashing through the cord. The phone went dead.

  She threw the receiver at him. The man easily batted it aside and rounded the desk, coming for her. She ran the other way and raced for the door—but he was faster, tackling her before she reached it.

  “Help!” she screamed at the corridor beyond the doorway. No answer but silence. “Help me!”

  He slammed her face-first against the floor. Dazed, nose bleeding, Nina was unable to resist as he seized her by her ponytail and hauled her upright. He gripped her tightly around the waist from behind; a moment later, the black blad
e was at her throat.

  He dragged her back across the room. She tried to pull the knife away, meanwhile hacking at his shins with one heel. He twisted and smashed her head and shoulder against the window. The glass cracked. As Nina cried out, he kicked the chair aside and shoved her against the desk. “The computer,” he hissed. She couldn’t place the accent. “Wipe the drive. Use a secure delete, blank it.”

  “Who are you?” Nina whispered.

  In response, the blade’s edge pushed deeper. “Wipe the computer! Trash everything!”

  Terrified, she obeyed, then moved the cursor to the “Secure Empty Trash” menu option. She hesitated; he jerked the knife to one side. A trickle of hot blood ran down her neck. “Do it!”

  She did. A warning message popped up: was she sure? The knife slid back, a lethal prompt. Hand shaking, she tapped the return key. A progress bar slowly filled up as the files were overwritten. Gone forever.

  The pressure on her neck didn’t slacken. “The photos weren’t on the IHA servers,” her attacker said. “How did you put them on your computer?”

  Nina didn’t answer immediately, as much out of fear as reluctance. He shoved her harder against the desk, making the lamp shake. “Memory card,” she told him.

  “Where?”

  “In my jacket.” She gestured at the chair. Her jacket was hung over its back.

  The man turned his head to look, the blade lifting slightly—

  Nina snatched up the lamp and smashed the bulb in his face.

  He lurched backward, one elbow hitting the window and widening the cracks. Nina spun and struck again, trying to bash the lamp’s heavy base against his skull, but his other arm came up to deflect it. She jumped back as he slashed at her with the knife—and hacked straight through the power cord, its severed end sparking as it hit the floor. The black blade was carbon fiber, nonconductive. Invisible to the U.N.’s metal detectors.

  Nina dropped the lamp and threw herself across her desk. Papers scattered, the laptop’s hinge cracking under her. Her sleeve ripped as the tip of the blade whistled past, cutting a shallow gash in her bicep before stabbing into the wooden desktop.