The Genesis Key

by James Barney

  Sargon and Ahmed repeated this process several more times until, finally, the entire shovel head was lodged beneath the lid of the sarcophagus, creating a gap of about three inches. At that point, Sargon disconnected the pipe from the shovel head and slid the pipe off of the shovel handle. He maneuvered the end of the pipe through the gap that was now held open by the shovel head. The pipe just barely scraped through.

  “Pull down!” Sargon ordered as he, too, pulled down hard on the metal pipe. The massive sarcophagus lid responded by tilting farther upward with a deep, stone-on-stone grinding sound.

  “Okay, now, hold that! And don’t let go!”

  “I’ll try,” Ahmed responded through gritted teeth. He was clearly struggling.

  “Keep holding it!” Then, with a strength that came from somewhere deep in his soul, Sargon pulled himself up toward the metal pipe and swung his left leg up and over. He wriggled his body over the pipe and positioned himself lengthwise, so that the pipe was now running beneath his torso and through his legs. He was facing the sarcophagus and had a full view of the five-inch gap that had been opened by the leverage of the pipe—the very pipe he was now lying on.

  “Ahmed, can you reach the flashlight?”

  “No, it’s too far,” Ahmed grunted. “Mister, I’m getting really tired. How much longer?”

  “Just a little longer. Hold on!” Slowly, Sargon extended his hand toward the sarcophagus and inserted it through the gap. He blocked out of his mind the distinct possibility that, at any moment, something (including Ahmed’s skinny arms) could give way, sending the massive alabaster top slamming down on his arm.

  He reached in farther and felt . . . something . . . something cool and dry. It was . . . sand. Perplexed, he dug deeper with his hand, shimmying along the pipe to get as close to the lid as possible. As he repositioned his body, however, he felt the sarcophagus lid move slightly, putting pressure on his arm. His own weight, he realized, was helping to keep the lid open.

  With his hand, he felt sand in every direction. Cool, dry sand. He dug deeper and stretched his fingers as far as they would go. Again, he felt only sand.

  “My arms hurt!” Ahmed whined from below.

  “A little longer!” Sargon shouted. “Don’t let go!” He shoved his arm deeper into the gap, ignoring the pain as his elbow scraped tightly through. He now had his entire arm inside the sarcophagus. Still, though, he felt only cool, dry sand.

  “Mister . . .”

  “Not yet, Ahmed! Keep holding.” Sargon was searching frantically now with his hand. He repositioned his body again to get his arm even deeper into the sand—as deep as it would go. As he did, the lid jostled with a grinding noise, and he felt even more pressure on his arm. He began to wonder how he would ever get his elbow back out. But he pushed the thought aside.

  “Mister . . . I can’t hold on.”

  Sargon felt something!

  “It’s slipping!” Ahmed cried.

  “Hold on!” Sargon barked, “I’m almost done!” He had the object between his fingers now. Something smooth, something . . . not sand. But he couldn’t move it. It was connected to something else.

  The lid was now moving, coming down perceptibly. The pressure on his arm had turned distinctly to pain. “Hold onto the rope!” Sargon screamed.

  “I can’t!” Ahmed whimpered. “It’s slipping!”

  This was it. Sargon grasped the object firmly between his fingers and jerked it hard. It came loose! Frantically, he now attempted to extract his arm from the sarcophagus. But his elbow would not pass, no matter how hard he pulled. He didn’t care about the pain anymore. He had to get his arm out of there before that lid came down!

  “Ahmed, this is it, I promise! Pull as hard as you can! Now!”

  Sargon could hear Ahmed struggling behind him, and he felt the pressure on his elbow reduce slightly. But it wasn’t enough. His elbow was still stuck. Intuitively, he repositioned his body on the pipe. He knew that his weight, too, was contributing to the lever effect. If he could shift his weight down the lever arm . . . Delicately, he slid backward an inch and brought his feet up to the pipe. He was now fully prone and balanced on the pipe, with his outstretched arm wedged tightly beneath the lid of the sarcophagus.

  The slight shift in weight on the pipe made the lid jostle slightly, creating just enough room for Sargon to pull his arm out. He nearly dropped the object in his clenched fingers as it passed through the gap.

  A split second later, the rope slipped completely through Ahmed’s hands, causing an immediate chain reaction. The pipe popped upward—with Sargon on it—and came dislodged from the sarcophagus. Sargon and the pipe tumbled down toward the dirt floor. Simultaneously, the lid of the sarcophagus slammed down hard with a thunderous crash, flattening the shovel head instantly and snapping its handle clean off.

  The sarcophagus—which had remained tightly sealed for over five-thousand-years—was sealed once again.

  Sargon hit the floor awkwardly on his side, which knocked the wind out of him. He remained motionless for a few moments before finally rolling over and sitting up with a groan.

  For a long while, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Ahmed asked in a timid voice, “Hey, mister, what is that thing?” He pointed to the small object still grasped between Dr. Sargon’s fingers.

  Sargon inspected the object closely in the dim light and responded quietly, “I don’t know . . .”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Present Day. Washington, D.C.

  Carlos Guiterez double-parked his road-weary Ford Explorer alongside Dr. Sainsbury’s Subaru on the 1800 block of U Street and gazed with great concern at the brick townhouse directly to his right. At half past midnight, it was the only house on the block with its interior lights still on.

  He double checked the address he had jotted on a scrap of paper. What the heck is she doing in there? he wondered.

  Carlos cared a great deal about the welfare of Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury. Not only did he like her personally, he depended on her. He needed her to succeed, and that meant she had to stay safe. Of course, until about six months ago, her safety hadn’t been a particular concern of his.

  But that was before the incident in North Carolina.

  He’d first learned about it from Dr. Sainsbury herself, who, in turn, had heard it through the grapevine. Dr. Michael Kim, a molecular biologist and a friend of hers from Johns Hopkins, had been shot and killed in his house in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. The official story was that Dr. Kim had surprised a burglar, who shot him while escaping. But that story never made much sense to Carlos. Dr. Kim lived in a very safe area of Chapel Hill, and there were no other reported burglaries in his neighborhood during that time. Moreover (according to the rumor mill at least) the police found evidence that Dr. Kim’s phone had been tampered with—as if someone had been trying to insert a bug. In any event, the police never caught the shooter.

  All of this made for fascinating conversation and whispered conspiracy theories at biology conferences in the ensuing months. But what made Carlos particularly nervous was the exact nature of Dr. Kim’s research.

  Dr. Kim was one of a handful of biologists in the entire world studying the INDY gene.

  Since the incident in North Carolina, Carlos had kept a wary eye out for Dr. Sainsbury’s safety. He secretly worried about her living alone and her habit of dropping by the lab at odd hours of the night, by herself. He was also vaguely distrustful of Bryce Whittaker, her new acquaintance, although he had no rational reason for that suspicion.

  Now, with Dr. Sainsbury inside some stranger’s house in the middle of the night—especially after her disconcerting phone call an hour earlier—Carlos was worried to the point of distraction.

  He stared unblinkingly at the illuminated foyer window of the townhouse, trying to discern any movement inside. He thought about calling her again but decided against it. She said she was fine.

  It had been a little over two years since Carlos had first responded to Dr. Sainsbury’s o
nline ad for an office manager. At that time, he’d just graduated from Northern Virginia Community College with an accounting degree. He was thirty-nine and had served twenty-one of those years in the Marine Corps. Although he’d used the G.I. bill to defray tuition costs, his wife, Ana, still had to work overtime as a dental technician just to make ends meet. With two young children, a mountain of debt, and an overworked wife, Carlos needed a job. He was therefore thrilled when he received the offer to be QLS’s office manager.

  But also a little worried.

  QLS was a small startup with no revenue, no infrastructure, and no commercial product. In fact, the only thing QLS had going for it was Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury and her promising research.

  To her credit, Dr. Sainsbury had always treated Carlos fairly. More than fairly, in fact. He’d always received a decent salary—including bonuses—even when Dr. Sainsbury herself went without pay. Carlos knew this because he kept all of the company’s books. And he appreciated Kathleen’s generosity more than she would ever know.

  He checked his watch and looked up again at the brick townhouse. What was she doing in there? His Marine Corps instincts were telling him something wasn’t right.

  His thoughts raced quickly through the past year at QLS, which had been a tough one. They’d missed two important milestones: isolation of a therapeutic treatment and commencement of Phase I animal studies. Although Dr. Sainsbury had quickly dismissed these stumbling blocks as trivial—a “natural part of science,” she’d said—Carlos knew better. He knew these missed milestones were causing great concern among the investors. Indeed, for the past several months, he’d managed to assuage a few of them only with vague promises of something big being “right around the corner.” Their patience was wearing thin, and he wondered how much longer QLS could realistically stay afloat.

  Something inside the townhouse caught his attention. Two moving figures in the foyer were casting shadows on the curtained window. His muscles tensed.

  Kathleen checked her watch. It was past 1:00 A.M., and she was fading quickly. Between the wine at dinner with Bryce Whittaker, the anxiety preceding her meeting with Dr. Sargon, and the unexpected bombshell about her parents’ murder, she was drifting into a mental fog. She desperately needed sleep.

  Sargon had just finished recounting his escape from Iraq in 1979. How he drove from Tell-Fara to Najaf the night of the shootings and called Charles Eskridge at Harvard from a private phone in the back of a bakery, paying the owner the extortive sum of fifty British pounds for the privilege. How Dr. Eskridge, in turn, had contacted the U.S. Embassy in Turkey and made arrangements for Sargon—now traveling under the assumed name of Tariq Khalid Al-Fulani—to pass safely into Turkey. How Dr. Eskridge, himself, had flown to Turkey to meet Sargon and had eagerly inspected the truckload of artifacts that had been recovered from Tell-Fara.

  That had been the deal, after all. More than a hundred priceless relics from Tell-Fara in exchange for Sargon’s freedom and safe passage to the United States. Sargon had upheld his end of the bargain by handing over every artifact he’d found at Tell-Fara.

  Except one.

  Dr. Eskridge had likewise upheld his end of the deal. Twenty months and three political-asylum hearings later, Sargon—now Dr. Tariq Khalid Al-Fulani—became a naturalized citizen of the United States of America. A free man.

  “Those pieces from Tell-Fara,” Sargon said, concluding his monologue, “are still on display at the Oriental Institute in Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

  Kathleen yawned, too tired to even pretend to be interested anymore. “I need to go,” she announced, rising to her feet.

  “Yes, of course. It’s been a very long night.” Sargon stood and said nothing for several seconds.

  Kathleen broke the silence. “Uh . . . you said you had something to give me?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Dr. Sargon shuffled quickly out of the room and returned a short time later holding an ornate silver box, similar to the antique Quran boxes on the table. He handed it to her ceremonially. “This box is from Turkey, eighteenth century.”

  “Wow,” said Kathleen, doing her best to fake enthusiasm. “It’s beautiful.” She had absolutely no need for an antique Quran box, but maybe she could use it as a makeshift jewelry case or something.

  “No, no, the box is not important,” Sargon said. “It’s what’s inside the box . . .”

  Kathleen took the box and carefully unlatched and lifted the lid. The interior was lined with faded crimson silk embroidered with an intricate gold pattern. A small object, about an inch long, rested in the center of the box, wrapped tightly in cheesecloth. She looked at Sargon, who nodded approvingly for her to unwrap it.

  “I believe this artifact is very significant,” he explained. “Perhaps one of the most important ever found in Iraq.”

  Nervously, Kathleen set the box on the table and picked up the clothbound object. It was surprisingly light in her palm. She began to unwrap it slowly.

  “This would have been the culmination of your mother and father’s professional work,” said Sargon. “I am convinced it would have been the most important find of their careers.”

  Kathleen unraveled the object more quickly now, removing layer upon layer of the gauze-like cloth. “What is it?” she asked before she was even done unwrapping.

  “It’s something I’ve had it in my possession for a very long time. Since that day at Tell-Fara.”

  “This is from Tell-Fara?”

  “Yes, from the sarcophagus that was inside the temple.”

  Kathleen removed the final layer of cheesecloth and recoiled at the small object now resting exposed in the palm of her hand. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Dr. Sargon nodded slightly.

  “But I . . . I don’t understand.” Kathleen inspected the grotesque object in her hand. It was a human tooth—a front incisor including the conical root—brown with age and well worn at the crown. She quickly replaced it in the box and brushed her hands together with a slight feeling of revulsion.

  “It’s several thousand years old.”

  “But . . . why do you want me to have it?”

  “I’ve had it for so long,” said Sargon. “I never knew what to do with it. I asked Allah for guidance many times. But, for thirty years, I never received an answer. This secret”—he pointed to the tooth in the silver box—“has weighed heavy on my heart for many years.”

  Kathleen stared through bleary eyes, unsure of how to respond.

  “And then, just today, I saw the article in the newspaper about your company—Quantum Life Sciences.” Dr. Sargon enunciated the words with reverence, as if the company’s name itself had some religious significance. “And I saw your picture. You looked so much like your mother that I knew immediately . . . This is God’s will!” He motioned emphatically toward the silver box and the ghoulish artifact it contained.

  Kathleen stood dumbfounded. Was Sargon speaking incoherently, or was she just too exhausted to understand? “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked, gesturing toward the tooth in the silver box.

  Sargon shook his head and spoke in a reassuring, almost patronizing tone. “It’s late. And you’re tired. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. Can you come by in the morning?”

  Kathleen was taken off guard by the question. “I, uh . . . I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Just for an hour,” said Sargon insistently. “I promise.” There was a twinge of desperation in his voice.

  “No, really, I can’t—”

  “Please. I have some important things to tell you about this artifact. You’ll understand after I explain, I promise. Just an hour . . . that’s all I ask.”

  Kathleen sighed. She was too tired to argue about it. “Okay, I’ll try.” In her mind, though, she’d already decided that Sargon was, at the very least, odd. All this talk about Allah and God’s will was making her uncomfortable, and she had no desire to spend another minute with him, let alone an entire hour.

  She ma
de her way to the front door, opened it, and bid him good night. She stepped out onto the porch, exhausted both physically and emotionally, and relished the rush of cool, nighttime air.

  “Wait,” Sargon called after her. “You forgot this.” He caught up with her on the porch and held out the silver Quran box.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “But you must take it. It’s important.”

  “I’ll get it when I see you tomorrow.”

  Sargon thrust the box toward her emphatically. “No. It belongs to you. It’s connected to you . . . through your parents, through—” He paused. “Through God.” He held the box inches from her hands. “You must take it. Please.”

  Kathleen needed sleep, and the path of least resistance was clearly just to take the box. Besides, this man had been her parents’ friend. “Fine,” she relented, taking the antique box from his hands.

  Sargon smiled wanly. “Good. You’ll understand tomorrow, I promise.”

  Kathleen turned quickly and started down the steps. She was surprised to see Carlos’s car double-parked beside hers.

  “Dr. Sainsbury!” Carlos called, getting out of his car. He waved and hurried over to meet her at the bottom of the steps.

  “Carlos, what are you doing here?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “I told you I was fine.”

  “Well, you didn’t sound very convincing to me. I thought you might be in trouble.”

  “How did you even know where I was?”

  Carlos shrugged. “You said you were on U Street. So, I drove up and down until I spotted your car.”

  Kathleen shook her head in disbelief.

  “I would have called, but, uh . . .” Carlos nodded toward the house, where Dr. Sargon was still standing on the front porch, arms folded, watching the two of them intently. Carlos lowered his voice to a whisper. “I didn’t know if you might be with someone.”

  “Oh Jeez, no!” Kathleen pointed to the house and tried to explain. “That’s . . . he’s . . . we . . . it’s complicated.”