The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 2

by Christopher Cartwright

  “In that respect, Doctor – I believe you and I share the same beliefs.” Adebowale grinned. “Oh, and by the way, I wouldn’t worry about the two treasure hunters – they’ll be dead before the end of the day.”

  Zara was about to reply, when her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hysteria down the pit. Several miners were coming out of it. One caught her eyes, and ran towards her. “Come quick, Malikat Alssahra! We’ve struck something hard in the sand!”

  Chapter Two

  Sam Reilly hated traveling by camel. Unlike the measured gait of a horse, a camel's walk seemed odd, irregular, and kind of jerky. Likened to a small ship on the ocean, a camel had the tendency to provoke seasickness in a rider who was used to being in control. Sam decided this experience was as close as he was ever going to get to feeling seasick. He never liked relying on animals. They were unpredictable and unable to be trusted not to run off at the worst possible time. He’d suggested an endurance motor cycle, like a KLR 650 or a BMW HP2 for the assignment, but the notion was quickly disregarded – the U.S. couldn’t be seen to be picking sides in the local rebellion. Any assistance had to be from a distance, even when the stakes were so high.

  If he and Tom were successful, people would guess at the U.S. government’s involvement. But at least they would have maintained some semblance of plausible deniability. Worse still, if they weren’t successful and were captured instead, they needed to be able to maintain the pretense of two American treasure hunters in search of gold in the ancient fabled city of the Garamantes. Sam gritted his teeth, as his beast dropped off another sand dune, jarring his back. He wished they’d come here on endurance bikes in search of the fabled city.

  Instead of fighting it, Tom had worked out how to let himself sway with the beast, giving him the appearance of a sleeping man.

  “Would it have really killed you to stop for a drink at the last camp?” Tom asked.

  “You know the rules,” Sam replied.

  “Yeah, we were never here, which means as little contact with the locals as possible. Don’t you think they already knew we were foreigners?”

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “Because you ride a camel like you ride a horse.” Tom shuffled gently in his seat as his camel dropped off the sand dune into a steep descent. “And for the record, you look just as uncoordinated on horseback. Besides, it’s too hot to travel in the heat of the day – no real nomad would do that.”

  Sam laughed. “You don’t like the Temperature Suit on loan from DARPA?”

  “The Temperature Suit’s great. I just doubt anyone would believe they were purchased locally.”

  “No. You might be right there. When Ike set up DARPA in '58, I doubt he was looking at setting up a clothing shop in Libya.”

  Tom laughed. President Dwight Eisenhower had established the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency in 1958 in response to the Soviet Union launching of Sputnik. “All the same, I think these suits would be very popular here.”

  “Sure. But who can afford the hundred plus thousand dollar price tag?”

  Sam thought about the remarkable Temperature Suits. They were constructed using thousands of carbon fiber micro-tubes, which circulated cold or warm air in order to maintain a safe range of core temperatures by the wearer. Sam adjusted his position. There was no way they could have made such a quick journey through the heat of the day without it and time was vital if they would have any effect on the outcome of the war. And this time they needed to get it done right.

  “How much time do we have?” Tom asked, as though he’d read Sam’s thoughts.

  “Not much. Perhaps a week at best. After that, we either commit or forget we knew anything about it.”

  “You know what happened the last time we provided weapons for the regime we wanted to win?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah, we supported Saddam Hussein – and the rest of the world hasn’t let us forget about it!”

  “So, let’s make sure we’ve got the right man this time.”

  “We do. I think he can make a real difference to the stability of the region. Besides, from what I’ve seen, Gabe Ngige makes Saddam Hussein look like one of the good guys. Ngige has outside funding giving his regime the real opportunity to expand throughout central Africa. We don’t know where he’s getting his backing from, but there are reports he’s been hiring elite mercenaries to train his army, which is rapidly growing in size. He’s purchasing modern weapons, and military vehicles, including armored cars and tanks.”

  “So, where do we think he’s getting the funding?”

  “We don’t have a clue. The money’s being fed through a series of proxy accounts. There’s no way to see where the money originated, but one thing’s for certain. This is the best financed Rebel Group the DRC has ever seen. That’s what has everyone in Washington frightened – this guy isn’t going to stop once he controls the DRC. His rebellion is going to spread into Angola, Zambia and Zimbabwe in the south, and the Sudan in the north.”

  Tom asked, “You think if he gets that far he’ll stop?”

  Sam said, “Hell no. Did Hitler stop when he was winning?”

  “No. He kept advancing further.”

  “Exactly. The intelligence coming from Washington suggests this might be the most significant war to ever come out of Africa, with far reaching global repercussions.”

  “Do you think he’s found a new diamond mine?”

  “We don’t know. It’s not diamonds, that’s for sure. We would have heard if anyone was moving that amount of stones out of the country. If Ngige was sending that many blood diamonds onto the market required to fund his rebellion, we would have known about it. The artificially set price of diamonds would have suddenly crashed. De Beers would have stopped the market.”

  “Okay, what about oil?”

  “No. We could have traced that. Whatever it is, Washington is frightened, and it’s going to drive a lot more governments into the region. There are fears Europe is going to be dragged into this war. That’s why it’s so important to make the change now, and add some stability into the region. We can’t rule out the possibility that Ngige is gaining funding from the private sector outside of the DRC.”

  “You think they’ve discovered a new mineral mine that might be needed in manufacturing?”

  “Possibly,” Sam said. “Or even uranium and we don’t want to think who would be financially backing them in exchange for the rights to uranium. The fact of the matter is somehow Ngige is being funded well enough to form an army capable of taking over much of Africa. If Ngige is allowed to continue his tirade of violence, crime will ravage an already war torn, poverty stricken continent. But if someone from the inside were to rise up – good conquering evil – all projections show this will create a follow-on effect, which will have the chance of making the greatest change for good on the continent in four centuries.”

  “That’s if he chooses to challenge.”

  “He will.”

  “But will he win?”

  “If we give him the support he needs.”

  “What if we don’t find the diamonds?”

  “Then the U.S. government will have no choice but to let the entire thing go. We just don’t have the funding to come out publicly with this one. Besides, it’s a two-way street. He needs to prove his ability to partially fund his forces, as well as prove that he has the ability to unite his people.”

  “Anyway, we’ll reach the last oasis by tomorrow morning. It’s the last place on the list. If the diamonds aren’t there, the game’s off.”

  Sam smiled, confidently. He stopped his camel and climbed down to stretch his legs. Sam brought up a real time satellite image of the last oasis. At this rate they would reach it by tomorrow. “They’ll be there. And we’ll find them.”

  Tom looked at the image over Sam’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s that darkened section over there?”

  Sam stared at the image for a moment and shook his head. “It looks like we’re not the only fools attempting
to travel through the heat – that looks like a massive migration of nomads. At a guess I’d say there are nearly five hundred men heading this way.”

  Chapter Three

  Zara briskly walked toward the sand pit. She consciously forced herself to slow down as she ducked under the large tarpaulin that protected her dig, and approached the first of a series of ladders. The scorching heat of the Saharan sun dropped by a negligible five degrees. Hand over hand, she climbed down the first of the makeshift ladders, built from wooden rungs tied together with strands of reeds. Taking them two at a time, Dr. Delacroix felt her heart race in anticipation.

  Is this it?

  Is the search almost over?

  There was only one metal box carried by Nostradamus’s party. If it belonged to him at all, it had to be what she was looking for. That is, if they had indeed found the top of a brass container. It had been two years in the making. The outcome of their discovery would either make or break her career, after she’d spent more than a decade looking for it. Her financier was willing to pay big to find it, but even he’d lost interest with the last of her series of failures. The thought had been a relief – no matter what the outcome of the find, the Book of Nostradamus had plagued her family’s life for too long.

  More than two hundred people of at least a dozen tribes had flocked from the all ends of the Sahara to excavate the pit with the impatient zeal of those who shared the wealth of their very own gold mine. Only, what she was mining would be far more valuable than any amount of gold.

  Zara reached the final rung of the sixth ladder. She’d almost given up hope of finding the book. Her scientific mind had already concluded they were in the wrong place again. It seemed fanciful the thing would be buried any deeper in the sand. But she’d run out of places to dig – and so, with the knowledge that this was her last chance, she’d ordered her men to keep digging. Now it looked like she’d made the right decision, and it may have been discovered, finally, below nearly a mountain of sand.

  She stepped off the ladder and began walking through the narrow tunnel of sand, hardened by years of compression by the weight of sixty or more feet of sand above. It was noticeably cooler this far below. She followed one of the diggers to the area they had been searching. The tunnel opened up to a wide pit hole.

  At least forty people manned the bottom level of the pit like a swarm of black ants, seamlessly working with a combined goal. The men spoke animatedly in their own languages and dialects. They looked happy. They were here because she paid well, but they would have worked for her if she had not – because they were compelled by her story, in which their great land was the center of all existence. Some carefully brushed sand from the surface of the newly discovered structure, while others cleared sand from its sides, and a bucket chain hastily removed the excess sand.

  Zara’s presence instantly stopped all banter. Every one of her workers paused and stared at her as though she were their God. She smiled. It was this ability that had driven hundreds of tribal nomads to flock to help her with her goal. Inside, the irony seemed unfair – she had created an army of believers, for a purpose she didn’t believe in, because she needed the money.

  “Well done!” she praised them. Zara knelt down on her knees and ran her hand over the top of the hard surface. It glowed golden and confirmed that they had discovered a brass storage box. But would it be the one she was looking for? And, would IT still be inside? There was only one way to find out. “You five!” she said, pointing towards a group of men.

  “Yes, Malikat Alssahra?” they replied in unison.

  “I want you to lift this out. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  “Yes, Malikat Alssahra.”

  Moments later, the five workers levered the large brass container using padded iron pry bars. The strain of their wiry muscles stretched over their dark skin, as the box fought to remain sealed in sand. They worked their levers in unison and on the fourth attempt the box relinquished its fight, breaking free from the sand. The once hardened sand to its side cracked and a moment later the five men pulled the heavy box free.

  Zara carefully brushed the loose sand off the covering. It revealed a deep marking on the vault, an emblem that represented the chest’s owner. She ran her fingers into the grooves. Smiled and carefully blew away the remaining sand again.

  She took a deep sigh of relief. The emblem matched the family crest of Michel de Nostradame.

  Jesus Christ! They’ve actually found it!

  One look confirmed all her greatest hopes and fears. She placed two fingers to her lips and made a high pitched, sharp whistle, bringing every worker in the pit to a halt. “All right. I want everybody out.”

  The men instantly backed away from their discovery.

  Zara turned to her most ardent supporter. “Adebowale!”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “I want you to use your most trusted warriors and take this to my tent. Once inside I need you to guard the door and make certain I’m not disturbed while I examine the book.”

  “Understood, Doctor.”

  Chapter Four

  It took nearly two hours before the massive brass chest reached the surface and another hour to secure it inside Zara’s tent. She stayed with the group, keeping her eyes on the box, making certain nothing had been tampered with before she had the chance to examine its contents.

  Adebowale was the last to leave. He looked at her without saying a word. His eyes telling her he needed to know the truth as much as she did.

  Zara smiled at him in understanding. “You will be the first to see it once I know what we have found.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Adebowale turned to leave. “I will be right outside if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Adebowale.”

  Zara began examining the brass chest, alone. It had been secured by an intricate locking mechanism with seven ornamental dials. Words were engraved into the top section next to the seal of Nostradamus. She read the words to herself out loud –

  *

  Only the Chosen,

  onceived with one faith and born on the day of truth may open;

  To see the future, the correct date must be selected, or poison will be the next

  ut, to run free like nine fires and flood the CODEX

  *

  Zara read the message again and sighed. It was a simple quatrain, the four lined prophetic verse, in which Nostradamus wrote all his visions. He wrote a hundred in a book like an almanac and named each book a century. The basic concept behind the quatrain was simple, but she knew Nostradamus worked on many levels. Piling layer upon layer of hidden meanings inside.

  This one, she noted was missing the first letter of every second line. It might have been left out by accident, or worn away by years of movement, but it was most likely left out intentionally – and that meant Nostradamus wanted their absence to mean something. She nodded to herself, willing to play the game.

  In its simplest form, Zara knew that the quatrain meant that only the chosen person would know the answer, and if the wrong number was inserted, a poison would destroy the book.

  The rhymed quatrains of Nostradamus were written mainly in French with a bit of Italian, Greek, and Latin mingled in. He intentionally obscured the quatrains through the use of symbolism and metaphors, as well as by making changes to proper names by swapping, adding or removing letters. The obscuration was claimed to have been done to avoid his being tried as a magician, although Zara had always figured Nostradamus did so to avoid ever being caught out as a fraud and charlatan, who never had any idea what the future held.

  This quatrain, she noticed, was written entirely in English with the exception of the last word, which was written in Latin and in capitals. At first glance it could have been simply to make the English word, Book, become Codex so that it rhymed with Next. Zara recalled that Nostradamus wrote in a number of languages, but for the more simple he wrote in his native French, or in the language of the intended audience. In her case, it made sense
he’d use English or French. If Latin was used, the quatrain almost always had a higher, intellectual meaning. Which meant Nostradamus was trying to make another point about the word Codex.

  Well that clears that up, doesn’t it?

  The crest of her lip formed a smile. Nostradamus had been a great admirer of Leonardo Da Vinci. One of Da Vinci’s many inventions was a blood codex – a locking mechanism designed to destroy whatever valuables were stored inside if any attempt to force an opening was done by any other than the chosen person. Zara suddenly wished she’d concentrated harder during her cryptology classes when she studied for her undergraduate archeology degree.

  Great!

  So only the Chosen may answer this damned question!

  Doesn’t really help me much, does it?

  Zara ran her fingers along each groove to get a sense of the entire word. Her finger stopped at the end of the final word, CODEX. She’d missed something the first time she’d read it. A slight lateral indentation was found between the letters CODE and X.

  Could it be Nostradamus was talking about the tenth code?

  Or the answer to the code being the number ten?

  Or even the ending is ten.

  The ending to what, though?

  Zara thought about that for a moment. If there was an ending number, there must surely be a beginning, too. She stared at the image as a whole, trying to gain some sort of additional information. Trying to search for a higher plane of information. Anything that Nostradamus might have done to give her another hint. She brought her face right up to the image and then moved back again. Not looking at it in any particular order, simply letting her eyes relax both in and out of focus. The same technique used to see those magic images that frustrated her as a child, where the image ordinarily looked like a thousand dots randomly arranged, but if you relaxed your eyes just right, your mind could derive a unique picture as though by magic.