The Genesis Plague

by Michael Byrnes

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Meat said, clinking his glass, then gulping the champagne.

  ‘Hey, Google!’ a distinctly Bostonian voice called out.

  Jason turned and saw Flaherty strutting towards him with a confident swagger. When he saw the beauty on Flaherty’s arm, he almost swooned.

  ‘Hubba hubba,’ Meat said. ‘That the archaeologist?’

  ‘That’s her.’ Wearing an elegant evening gown that accentuated nothing but toned curves, Professor Brooke Thompson looked like she’d taken a detour off the red carpet at the Oscars.

  ‘She single?’

  ‘Flaherty’s already staked a claim,’ Jason replied flatly.

  ‘Luck of the Irish.’ Meat took another swig of champagne.

  ‘Hey, fellas,’ Flaherty said cheerily. He shook hands with Jason and Meat in turn, then formally introduced Brooke.

  ‘Really great to finally meet a pair of modern-day heroes,’ she said.

  ‘We could say the same for you,’ Jason said.

  Flaherty cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, and, of course, you’re a hero too, Tommy,’ Jason added with the utmost sensitivity.

  They all had a laugh as the attentive waiter delivered two more champagne flutes for Brooke and Flaherty.

  ‘By the way, Tommy,’ Jason said, taking another white envelope out from his pocket, ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Looks important.’

  ‘You could say that.’ Jason grinned and held it out for him.

  ‘It can wait, though, right? I mean, this is Brooke’s night.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jason pocketed the envelope.

  Flaherty raised his glass for a quick toast. ‘To the vanquished foe and the heroes we know.’

  They clinked glasses and sipped champagne.

  ‘This must all be pretty exciting,’ Jason said to Brooke. ‘To be the honorary guest at the world’s foremost museum for ancient artifacts. The press, the glitz . . .’

  ‘It’s all a bit nerve-racking, actually,’ Brooke admitted readily. She spotted the film crew from National Geographic shooting exclusive footage of the gala.

  The evening’s main event would be her highly anticipated dedication speech that would retell an ancient story of mysticism, betrayal, and retribution written in what proved to be the world’s oldest documented language. The feature-length documentary, tentatively titled The Queen of the Night, would premier on IMAX screens before being broadcast round the world in a two-hour National Geographic special. Included would be Brooke’s in-depth analysis of the cache of Mesopotamian tomb relics on display here tonight that bore testament to elaborate funerary rituals predating Egyptian mummification by over 1,500 years. Inevitably, she’d be pressed on rumours concerning the relics’ mysterious procurement, but she’d stick to her story that her client wished to remain anonymous and had provided explicit directives to return the collection to its rightful home in Iraq as soon as the political situation permitted.

  ‘I’m finally going to get to tell my story,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m just not sure if the world is ready to hear it.’

  ‘Speaking of telling your story,’ Flaherty said, reaching into his pocket. ‘I’ve got an envelope too.’ He handed the envelope to Brooke. ‘I received a Fed-Ex at the hotel this morning. But figured I’d surprise you.’

  ‘What is this?’ she asked.

  ‘Your carbon dates,’ Flaherty replied.

  Anticipation glinted in her eyes as she stared at the envelope.

  ‘Dates for what?’ Meat asked.

  ‘The organic stuff we found in Stokes’s vault,’ Flaherty explained. ‘Lilith’s head, of course . . . plus the snake and the rat it ate.’

  ‘I’ve had my share of rats, thanks,’ Meat said.

  ‘Actually, the rat wound up being the key to everything,’ Brooke explained. ‘We found out that the rat was also carrying the plague. In fact, it was the primary host. So we theorized that while Lilith was feeding infected rats to her pet snake, she was bitten and caught the plague . . . became a carrier, too.’

  ‘That is gross,’ Meat said. ‘Sounds like Lilith was a real prize.’

  ‘So let’s hear those dates,’ Jason said, before sipping more champagne.

  ‘Go ahead . . . open it,’ Flaherty said to Brooke.

  ‘Right,’ Brooke said, her pulse drumming. She fished out the papers, unfolded them and scanned the report. ‘Okay, Lilith dates between 4032 BC and 3850 BC. Just what we expected. And her DNA matches closest to . . . ancient Persia,’ she said, feeling a chill creep over her skin. Persia, where Lilith and Samael became lovers. She flipped to the next page. ‘The rat . . . is in about the same date range. And the snake—’ Her face blanched. She shook her head. ‘No, this can’t be right. This is impossible . . .’ she murmured.

  ‘What is it?’ Flaherty asked.

  ‘They couldn’t date it. Came up with an error.’

  Flaherty shrugged. ‘Okay. I guess that can happen, right?’

  ‘Shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Any organic substance from 4000 BC should have plenty of carbon-14 in it.’

  ‘But isn’t there an age limit for those tests?’ Jason said.

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘Well, what’s the limit?’ Flaherty asked her.

  She drew her lips tight and raised her eyebrows. ‘Typically the test is good for up to 50 or 60,000 years. After that, whatever carbon-14 is left in the specimen is usually too minuscule to measure.’

  It was Meat who cast rationale to the wind, saying matter-of-factly, ‘So maybe the snake is over 60,000 years old.’ Then he grinned and made his eyes go wide, saying in his best spooky voice, ‘Or maybe the demon snake was never alive to begin with.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Kudos to my wife, Caroline, for her diehard patience and encouragement, plus her keen guidance during this story’s conceptual development. Special thanks to my friends Greg Meunier and Gary Stephens for their technical input on all things military. Deepest gratitude to my uncompromising agent and publishing guru, Charlie Viney. Thanks to Doug Grad for his masterful editing skills. Cheers to Ian Chapman, Julie Wright, Jessica Leeke, Amanda Shipp and everyone at Simon and Schuster UK for their continued support. My stories would only be read in English if it weren’t for the global marketing savvy of International Literary Agency, so thanks to Nicki Kennedy, Sam Edenborough, Mary Esdaile, Jenny Robson, and Katherine West.

  Turn the page

  to read an extract from

  The Sacred Bones,

  also by Michael Byrnes

  and available from Pocket Books . . .

  1.

  JERUSALEM

  PRESENT DAY

  Salvatore Conte never questioned his clients’ motives. His many missions had taught him how to remain calm and keep focused. But tonight was different. Tonight he felt uneasy.

  The eight men moved through the ancient streets. Entirely clothed in black, each was armed with lightweight Heckler & Koch XM8 carbines equipped with 100-round magazines and grenade launchers. Padding along the cobblestone in soft boots, every man scanned his surroundings with infrared night-vision goggles. History loomed all around them.

  With an abrupt hand signal to hold position, Conte paced ahead.

  He knew that his team was just as apprehensive. Though Jerusalem’s name meant ‘City of Peace’, this place defined turmoil. Each silent road was bringing them closer to its divided heart.

  The men had travelled separately from a handful of European countries, convening two days earlier at an apartment leased in a quiet part of the Jewish Quarter overlooking Battei Makhase Square, their accommodation booked under one of Conte’s numerous aliases, ‘Daniel Marrone’.

  On arrival Conte had played tourist to familiarize himself with the web of alleyways and winding streets surrounding the thirty-five-acre rectangular monument in the centre of the fortified Old City – a massive complex of bulwarks and retaining walls standing thirty-two metres high that resemb
led a colossal monolith laid flat upon Mount Moriah’s steep ridge. Easily the world’s most contested parcel of real estate, the Islamic Haram esh-Sharif, or ‘Noble Sanctuary’, was more familiar by another name – Temple Mount.

  As the cover of buildings gave way to the towering western wall, he motioned two men forward. The wall-mounted floodlights cast long shadows. Conte’s men would blend easily into the dark pockets, but then so could the Israeli Defense Force soldiers.

  The endless dispute between Jews and Palestinians had made this the most heavily guarded city in the world. However, Conte knew that the IDF was rife with conscripts – teenage boys whose sole purpose was to fulfil three-year service requirements and no match for his hardened team.

  He peered ahead, his night-vision goggles transforming the shadows to eerie green. The area was clear except for two soldiers loitering fifty metres away. They were armed with M-16s, donning standard-issue olive-green fatigues, bulletproof vests, and black berets. Both men were smoking Time Lite cigarettes, Israel’s most popular – and, to Conte, most offensive – brand.

  Glancing over to their intended entry point at Moors’ Gate, an elevated gateway on the platform’s western wall, Conte quickly surmised there was no way to gain access to the Temple Mount without being detected.

  Shifting his fingers along the barrel, he flicked the XM8 to single-shot mode and mounted the rifle on his left shoulder. He targeted the first green ghost with the red laser, aiming for the head, using the glowing butt of the dangling cigarette as a guide. Though the XM8’s titanium rounds were capable of piercing the soldier’s Kevlar vest, Conte found no sport – let alone certainty – in body shots.

  One shot. One kill.

  His index finger gently squeezed.

  There was a muffled retort, slight recoil, and he saw the target buckle at the knees.

  The scope shifted to the remaining man.

  Before the second IDF soldier had begun to comprehend what was happening, Conte had fired again, the round penetrating the man’s face and cartwheeling through the brain.

  He watched him collapse and paused. Silence.

  It never ceased to amaze him just how token the expression ‘defence’ really was – offering little more than a word to make people feel secure. And though his native country had a laughable military competence, in his own way, he felt he had become its equalizer.

  Another abrupt hand signal ushered his men onto the sloping walkway approaching Moors’ Gate. To his left, he glimpsed the Western Wall Plaza nestled along the embankment’s base. Yesterday he had marvelled at the Orthodox Jews – men separated from women by a curtained partition – who gathered here to mourn the ancient temple they believed had once graced this holy place. On his right lay a small valley littered with excavated foundations – Jerusalem’s oldest ruins.

  A substantial iron gate sealed with a deadbolt denied access to the platform. In less than fifteen seconds the lock had been picked and his team funnelled through the tunnelled entrance, fanning out across the broad esplanade beyond.

  Slipping past the stout El-Aqsa Mosque abutting Temple Mount’s southern wall, Conte turned his gaze to the esplanade’s centre, where, just over tall cypress trees, a second and much grander mosque stood on an elevated platform, its gilded cupola illuminated like a halo against the night sky. The Dome of the Rock – embodiment of Islam’s claim over the Holy Land.

  Conte led the team to the esplanade’s south-east corner, where a wide opening accommodated a modern staircase, cascading downward. He splayed the fingers of his gloved right hand and four men disappeared below the surface. Then he signalled the remaining two men to hunker down in the nearby tree shadows to secure a perimeter.

  The air in the passage became moist the further the men descended, then abruptly cold, giving off a mossy aroma. Once they had assembled at the base of the steps, rifle-mounted halogen lights were switched on. Crisp, luminous beams bisected the darkness to reveal a cavernous, vaulted space with arched stanchions laid out on neat avenues.

  Conte remembered reading that twelfth-century Crusaders had used this subterranean room as a horse stable. The Muslims, its latest occupants, had recently converted it into a mosque, but the Islamic décor did little to mask its uncanny resemblance to a subway station.

  Running his light along the room’s eastern wall, he was pleased to spot the two brown canvas bags his local contact had promised. ‘Gretner,’ he addressed the thirty-five-year-old explosives expert from Vienna. ‘Those are for you.’

  The Austrian retrieved them.

  Slinging his carbine over his shoulder, Conte took a folded paper from his pocket and switched on a penlight. The map showed the exact location of what they’d been charged to procure; he didn’t favour references to ‘stealing’ – the term demeaned his professionalism. He aimed the penlight along the wall.

  ‘Should be just ahead.’ Conte’s English was surprisingly good. To keep communications consistent and less suspicious to local Israelis, he had insisted that the team converse only in English.

  Securing the penlight between his teeth, he used a free hand to unclip the Stanley Tru-Laser electronic measuring device from his belt and punched a button on its keypad. A small LCD came to life, activating a thin red laser that cut deep into the darkness. Conte began to move forward, his team trailing closely behind.

  He continued diagonally through the chamber, weaving between the thick columns. Deep into the space Conte abruptly stopped, verified the measurements on the LCD and swung the laser till it found the mosque’s southern wall. Then he turned to face the northern wall, the gut of the Temple Mount.

  ‘What we’re looking for should be just behind there.’

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Michael Byrnes lives in Florida with his wife and three children. He holds a Masters degree in business administration from Rutgers University and is a highly successful insurance broker. His writing is inspired by a lifelong fascination with science, theology, and the human condition. The Genesis Plague is his third novel.