by M. G. Harris
A beat passed. Connor saw confusion cross her face, uncertainty. Her eyes went to his clothes, the plain white T-shirt and blue jeans of Jackson’s into which Connor had changed as they rested outside the desert fort.
Hesitantly DiCanio said, “Are you telling me you’re Jackson . . . ?”
Pushing out from the yacht with all the force in his legs, Connor launched himself backwards into the water. He shot at DiCanio, twice in rapid succession.
At the edge of the pier, Jackson staggered in disbelief. He’d heard shots ring out, seen both DiCanio and his brother fall. It was far from obvious which way the gunfire had gone.
As he watched, to Jackson’s relief Connor began to move. He floated up to the surface, rolled onto his front and began to swim the thirty yards that separated him from the jetty. DiCanio’s yacht continued to navigate out of the harbor.
There was no sign of the young man in Arab costume who’d accompanied DiCanio to the moorings. Whatever DiCanio’s fate, someone else was steering that craft. Even now with the yacht around eighty yards away, Jackson could still just about see that she lay where she’d fallen, on the deck. Meanwhile Connor’s slow crawl brought him closer, the sidearm still clutched in his right hand.
By the time Connor reached the jetty and began to haul himself out of the sea, the yacht was fading into the distance, silhouetted in the sunrise in which finally, the faint sliver of a new moon had appeared.
Just another yacht making sail into the wide expanse of Doha’s bay.
Agent Fletcher
The same sweltering morning that had begun with the dusty taste of a desert mist, Jackson found himself transported back to the top secret NRO base near Eridu. He was under escort, guarded by Connor and two aides.
Connor had scarcely waited to watch DiCanio’s boat disappear. Dispassionately, he’d donned a pair of Air-Force-issue sunglasses taken from the flight suit that Jackson was wearing and then cut away the name label on the suit.
His knife had sliced through the fabric, the blade just millimeters from Jackson’s skin “Well, Jacko. Time to face the music.”
“You shoot at a couple of civilians; that’s nothing. But I try to take a hunk of ancient stone and you’re threatening me with Gitmo.” Jackson had said, angrily rubbing his injured shoulder. He’d checked the dressing; it was now soaked through with blood.
Connor had pushed Jackson’s fingers aside, examining the wound. He’d run his finger over the neat rectangle that Hafez Kazmi had begun to carve into Jackson’s skin. The inked drawing of the Stars and Stripes had mostly faded now, washed away by the sea and Jackson’s own blood and sweat.
“These marks are going to last,” he’d remarked. His eyes had met Jackson’s. “Don’t worry about it. Girls like scars.”
“Maybe the kind of girls you go out with.”
“Trust me. This Marie-Carmen chick? She’s gonna flip. Now, don’t be a jerk. I’ve seen guys make less fuss when they’ve lost a limb on the battlefield.”
Even so, he’d taken a fresh dressing from his first aid kit and applied it to Jackson’s shoulder. Then he’d taken up his position on the Harley again.
“If I ever see her again,” Jackson had said, his voice suddenly hollow.
“Play ball, little brother, and we’ll help you find Marie-Carmen. You’ve got my word on that.”
Jackson hadn’t been able to react. The constant alternation of threat and promise was becoming unbearable,
“We’re going back to Iraq, to Eridu. This time you’re not going to bullshit us; you’re going to spill. For example, that weird shit your girlfriend wrote about in her email. You’re going to explain that. Then I want to know everything DiCanio told you.”
“What makes you think she said anything?”
Connor had merely laughed. “It wasn’t finished between you and her was it? You know how come I know? Because she thought I was you, bro’. For just a second on that boat, I persuaded her that I was good ol’ Jackson come home to the team. That’s when I took the bitch out. So you tell me, what did DiCanio think you still had to offer?” He nodded, once. “Yeah. I told her you knew what was written on that Adaptor. She believed it, she stalled. It was a shot in the dark, but I was right, wasn’t I? You do know.”
***
Later that morning Jackson’s USAF Blackhawk had returned. It had picked them up from the US airbase in Al Udeid, some thirty-five miles south of Doha and flown the brothers back to Basra.
Back in Eridu, Jackson was shown back into the tiny room where he’d first been interrogated. Connor was joined by a female colleague dressed in civilian clothes: a white linen blouse and sand-colored cargo pants. “Mr. Bennett, it’s good to meet you. I’m Dr. Harper Fletcher. I work here with the Captain.”
She was a slim, petite African-American woman with short, sculpted dark brown hair, delicate hands and eyes, aged somewhere in her thirties. Even though she’d made no mention of the Agency, from her civilian clothing Jackson guessed at once that she was from the CIA branch of the National Reconnaissance Office. As she took a seat opposite Jackson, he found himself wondering which one of the two was planning to be ‘bad cop’. Probably Connor, he figured, with a measure of exhaustion. His brother seemed to enjoy an excuse to pound him.
“We understand that you have some more information for us,” said Harper, her tone even, reasonable. “Would you agree?”
“What she means, Jackson, is that you can tell us now if you’re planning on playing this straight, or you can save us all a lot of time and we can ship you to Guantanamo.”
Jackson didn’t know whether to laugh with scorn or hurl abuse at his brother. His threats – empty or otherwise – were becoming tediously repetitive. For a few hours in Qatar, Jackson had actually found himself beginning to admire those qualities in his brother that doubtless made him the effective fighter that he was. As boys, it had been difficult not to envy Connor the favor he’d inspired in their father – a man who’d seen Connor that way from the very beginning.
Yet how easily Connor, the bully, could emerge. Was it perhaps the presence of a milder, more considered and thoughtful expression of his own genes that goaded Connor into this machismo? Or did he simply lack the subtlety to behave any other way?
“Don’t waste your breath with threats, Connor. Unless that’s part of your strategy to impress Dr. Fletcher here. If it is, hey, don’t mind me; whatever gets you through the night.”
Connor and his colleague exchanged wry glances. “Asshole. I’m leaving you with Agent Fletcher. If I have to listen to more of your whining, I think I’ll be sick.”
He left the room without looking back.
Harper said gravely, “That was out of line, Jackson. The Captain’s doing his best to keep you out of serious trouble.”
Jackson rubbed his temples. “I guess we have some sibling issues.” What made this almost worse was knowing that, in some measure, he’d have to be grateful to Connor for whatever crumbs he now received. Jackson sighed, resigned. “We haven’t really communicated for the past few years. I didn’t even know he’d become part of the NRO.”
“Captain Bennett has been involved with this project from the very beginning. Like me, he was with the team that discovered the chamber when he was assisting the weapons inspectors.”
“Right. Next you’ll be telling me that this chamber was the real reason for the Iraq War.”
“Not the reason – but it made taking charge of this find an absolute priority. We couldn’t afford for it to fall into the wrong hands.”
“The wrong hands being?”
“Your friend Professor DiCanio. For example.”
“But the US is going to be out of Iraq by the end of next year, isn’t that what the President promised?”
“Now you understand our urgency to solve, finally, the riddle of the Adaptor.”
“So the NRO can control this ‘ancient’ technology. Sure, why not. You’re the good guys, right?”
She smiled for a second then
with a graceful movement, drew up a hand to conceal it. “Captain Bennett is of the opinion that you are afflicted with something that’s common in intellectuals; the ability to see all sides of an argument.”
There was a baffled silence. “Connor said those actual words?”
Very slightly, Harper shook her head. “Not exactly those.”
“His approach is so superior,” Jackson said, adding sardonically, “Hoo-ya!”
Harper continued to smile behind the folder that she now held before her face. She had the air of a highly-educated woman, used to interacting on the same level as someone like Jackson. He wondered whether she could be drawn into telling him more about the NRO’s operation in Eridu.
“What’s your story, Agent Fletcher? You seem to be hitting somewhat below your weight-class here with Connor.”
“Is that your roundabout way of asking me about my educational background? I consider myself honored to be part of this project. I think you know that, Mr. Bennett; I think you have some idea of what this is all about.”
“Look,” Jackson told her, folding his hands together. “What I know is total conjecture. I have no evidence for what I think I know. Everything was told to me by Melissa DiCanio – someone whom I have every reason to believe could be lying.”
“Why don’t you tell me anyway,” Harper conceded, “and let us be the judge? If in doubt, remember that actions speak louder than words. Whatever DiCanio told you, we’ve still got the evidence of the lengths she went to get hold of the Adaptor, and to escape.”
There was a momentary silence. Then, her eyes twinkling with more of the same self-satisfaction, Harper removed a single sheet of paper from the folder.
“Captain Bennett suggested I reacquaint you with the contents of your last email to your friend Marie-Carmen. You may have failed to recall quite the extent of your revelations therein, Mr. Bennett. Might I politely request that you take an opportunity to make a full and frank disclosure at this time? It would go well in your record, would enable the NRO to extend to you a relationship which I’m convinced would be mutually beneficial.”
“You want me to work for you?”
Harper demurred. “This is not a civilian organization, Mr. Bennett, and I’m not convinced that you are Agency material. However, there is scope for certain collaborative projects, with civilians of sufficiently high security clearance.”
“I’d qualify for that kind of clearance?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, Jackson, I think you’ll find it the only way to return to your normal life. People with this kind of knowledge simply can’t be allowed to roam free, talking to heaven-knows-who.”
Harper placed the single sheet of paper in front of Jackson, waiting quietly as he read.
Jackson scanned the very brief email he’d sent to Marie-Carmen. There was almost nothing to it.
Hans Runig is Melissa DiCanio. Ninhursag – I guess it’s her idea of a joke. I’ve stopped helping her. There will probably be consequences. If you haven’t already heard from your niece, find out where she is. Please stay out of sight. I’ll find you, we’ll be together soon. That’s a promise.
Had Marie-Carmen’s email to him on the subject been equally inscrutable? He’d read and replied to that email the first time he’d been left alone in this very interview room, whilst unknown to him, his every action on the computer was being observed. Without the exact text of the email in front of him, Jackson found it impossible to remember what they’d stated explicitly, and what they’d omitted.
“Do you have the text of her email to me?” he ventured hopefully. Either they knew everything now, in which case this was just a test. Or else they still needed Jackson to crack open the final mystery of the Adaptor.
A slow, knowing grin spread across Harper’s features. “The Captain mentioned that you might ask me that. I hope you see now that in this case most certainly, honesty is the best policy. Jackson, we’re on the same side. Trust your own people; we’re the only ones who can protect you now, and Marie-Carmen and her family.”
Jackson felt his resolve crumble. Harper was right; he couldn’t fight his brother any longer.
Over the next two hours, Jackson divulged almost everything that DiCanio had told him about the ancient chamber and her theory about the genetic link between members of her society and the civilization that built the chambers.
Agent Fletcher was mostly guarded in her response, but Jackson doubted that it all came as a surprise to the NRO. Jackson reminded himself that Connor may well have withheld a good deal of information about the underground chamber; in fact, he was sure to have done so.
“She made no indication as to the location of the chamber?”
“No. But I believe that Chaldexx – or DiCanio’s society – has some kind of base in Chetumal.”
“That’s in Mexico; in the state of Quintana Roo.”
“Right. There are a lot of Mayan remains there. One side of the Adaptor has Mayan inscriptions, doesn’t it?”
Harper nodded. “I think we may have some idea where to look. Did she mention any of the other chambers?”
“There are more?”
She gazed levelly at Jackson. “In total, there are five.”
“I see. Well,” he considered, “I’m really not sure that DiCanio knows that.”
“If her people have found one chamber, they know. The inscriptions inside the chamber near here make it quite clear that there are five.”
“Where are the other chambers?”
Harper was silent.
“I get it. You’re not going to tell.”
“I’d consider it, Jackson. But we need more from you. For example, what is the nature of this code, which you and Marie-Carmen discussed in your correspondence?”
“Marie-Carmen thinks that some cuneiform symbols – in modified form – might signify amino acids.”
“Then we can work out the code,” Harper told him. She removed a second sheet of paper from her folder. “This is a transcript of the cuneiform inscription on the Adaptor. We also noticed the strange supplementary signs; we didn’t know what they meant. I’ve seen nothing like it, especially not in the Archaic period signs, which is what is used on the Adaptor.”
“What’s the difference in the Archaic script?” asked Jackson.
“Well, one difference is the degree of pictography in the symbols. Compared with later versions of the script, the Archaic period symbols look more like drawings of something, less like abstract markings. The number of basic components from which all the language symbols are derived, is smaller. Nearly sixty per cent of the symbol repertoire is made up of modifications of other symbols. You see a lot of different kinds of modifications, including the kinds which are designed to help disambiguation of a symbol which can mean more than one thing. That’s what we think the supplementary signs on the Adaptor script are about.”
Jackson regarded Harper with appreciation. “This is your thing, isn’t it? This is why you’re on this case.”
She replied frankly but with modesty, “I’m a graduate of the London School of Oriental and African Studies. I specialized in Akkadian literature, so I’m very familiar with the Sumerian scripts. Although Sumerian and Akkadian languages are different, the Akkadians appropriated the Sumerian cuneiform script.
“So, Agent Fletcher, have you worked out what the Adaptor says?”
The question seemed to surprise her. “Naturally; I’ve known for a while. It says: Dubsag lugal anunnaki. Melim idim. Igilul na til dubsag melim.”
Her sudden transition into the exotic-sounding, barely comprehensibly ancient tongue was astonishing, not what Jackson had expected. Harper smiled again, widely and showing perfect teeth. “You already know that too, isn’t that correct? I’d translate it as Before the masters who came from Heaven and Earth, a frightening splendor makes men weak. The long-lived, awakened one is possessed of such frightening splendor.”
“If you already know what it means . . .”
“O
h, but it has another meaning too. This second meaning is what has eluded us for so very long.”
“That’s where you think I can help.”
Calmly, Harper blinked. “Indeed.”
“It’s an amino acid sequence,” Jackson said, his eyes fixed upon hers. “The formula for a molecule that might unlock the function of the chamber.”
Who We Serve
Two hours later, Harper emerged from another room, clutching the transcript of the Adaptor inscription. Her face, for the first time since Jackson had met her, displayed something akin to wonder, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone with the light of revelation.
“The inscription makes sense,” she said breathlessly. “As an amino acid sequence: I found a version of every one of the logograms found on the Adaptor.”
Jackson pushed back his chair. He looked at the single-letter sequence which Harper had scribbled underneath the copied inscription. It was fifteen amino acids long; a peptide.
He recognized it immediately: the sequence he and Marie-Carmen had derived from PJ’s DNA molecule; the amino acid sequence of hip33; hypnoticin.
Harper continued. “The rest of the inscriptions are instructions for where to apply the peptide molecule.”
“Where to apply it?”
“On the Adaptor. This molecule must act like a sort of conductor, interacting with part of the control panel of the chamber.”
“How soon can we get a sample of this made up?”
“There’s a pharmaceutical plant in Basra, which has a peptide synthesizer. They’re going to send it by courier. We should have it by the evening.”
Hours later as dusk was setting in, a plastic test-tube of the freshly-made peptide tucked into Jackson’s pocket, Jackson and Connor descended into the chamber. The elevator sank them into the abysmal darkness, a faint glow of light at the base of the shaft growing brighter by the second. In utter silence they walked into the chamber. This time, at leisure to look around properly, with no fear of imminent discovery and capture, Jackson stared, transfixed by his surroundings.