The Alboran Codex

by J C Ryan

  “Wow, that sounds like a gigantic task,” Carter quipped.

  Rick smiled. “But you must keep in mind, all of this is going to rely on your ability to break down complex sentence structures, identify parts of speech, and even resolve ambiguities in the direct translation so that Samantha and I can code the rules of the language into the program. That will complete the development of the software. We’ll know we’re doing it right when the machine starts to spit out intelligible content without the need for a human translator.

  “Even so, it will never reach the level of accuracy of human translation. It is only ever going to be a gisting version, meaning it searches for the main idea or most important point in the text. It will simply be a thousand times faster than human translation for finding the specifics you’re looking for. Once it has found them, for the real detail and subtle, deeper meaning, you’ll still have to do a final translation yourselves. Give it the human touch, so to speak.”

  “A thousand times faster is what we’re looking for,” Carter answered. “The reason is classified, but we are in a big damned hurry to have this thing translated. On a human level, it would take years. We don’t have years.”

  Rick suppressed his curiosity. As an employee of the CIA, he knew the rules of the “need to know” game. He and Samantha didn’t need to know what Carter and the others were looking for, and he knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer if he asked. The answer would probably be something along the lines of “if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He laughed nervously.

  Carter and Liu settled in for hours of work, the two of them barely able to keep up with the original, word-to-word translation. At first, it was arduous work, and the text made little or no sense. But gradually, as they found matches and fed the information back into the program and the algorithms processed it, they began to see patterns emerge that corresponded to the ancient Semitic languages they’d fed into the databases.

  With those patterns, Rick and Samantha could develop more rules, that turned out grammatically functional sentences. As they filled in the blanks with more and more sensible information, Carter and Liu began to see more accurate translations, enough to enable them to start putting two and two together.

  A few days into the process, the new software had picked up speed. Liu gave a shout. The translation of the plate she was examining appeared to be an index. With all effort brought to bear on translating the next few sheets, they discovered that the plates were uniquely numbered. With that discovery, they could map the sheets to the index and locate those most likely to contain the information they specifically sought — nuclear weapons and respirocytes.

  Naturally, those weren’t the words the ancients used, and considerable time was put to the task of brainstorming words or phrases that might have corresponded to them. The library, vast as it was, remained a black hole as it pertained to the topics of interest. They soon realized that it was going to take a massive amount of computing power and time. In other words, they needed access to the supercomputers that were used within the no-name agencies.

  James had an idea.

  “Mr. President, you and Bill might want to see what we’re doing over here,” he said as soon as he’d worked his way through the red tape involved in calling the President directly.

  “By Bill, I assume you mean the Director?” the President responded. “I know a few bills.”

  “Yes, Sir. William Griffin, Director of the CIA.” James kept a lid on his amusement. He knew, and he knew the President knew he knew, that the President knew exactly who he was talking about. The man did like his little jokes.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the President said with a wry twist. James could just imagine him poking his tongue against his cheek to keep from laughing at his own humor.

  James was more than a little surprised when, an hour later, the President, with Bill Griffin in tow, arrived to inspect the progress of the top-secret project. James suppressed a little smile when the thought crossed his mind, James Rhodes can summon the President of the United States to a meeting in one hour.

  What their visitors found, only days after the beginning of the translation effort, made their eyes pop out. The President was particularly interested in how they’d even begun to understand the language, preserved as it was in ideogram form, like Chinese, he thought.

  “More like ancient Arabic,” Carter corrected him. “Here, let me explain. Written language, to the best of our knowledge so far, consists of only a few types of writing systems, and those can be expressed in a table. The first thing to look at is the form of the written word, or typology. Archaeologists have agreed on what to call these systems. The next thing to know, which we can discover by statistical analysis, is how many characters exist in the written document we’re studying. That will tell us whether the characters are an alphabet, a syllabary, or a logography.”

  Seeing the President’s puzzled expression, Carter explained further. “An alphabet, such as we use, is a way of building the pronunciation of words in written form. Your brain translates the characters into sounds, which we recognize as words. You’d know what a remarkable feat that is if you had reached adulthood without learning to read.

  “A syllabary on the other hand, is a larger set of characters that each stand for entire syllables. Putting the syllables together serves the same purpose as the root words of our language.”

  “You mean like Latin and Greek,” the President observed.

  “Yes, along with Anglo-Saxon. Take any word that ends in -ology. That means the study of whatever the first syllable is. Theology, therefore, is the study of God or religion. Theos — Greek for God, plus -ology, the study of.”

  “Gotcha,” replied the President.

  “In that case, you can probably work out for yourself the meaning of logography.”

  “Word-writing or word-picture,” the President guessed.

  “Precisely. An image, or a stylized image, that carries the meaning of an entire word, which are then combined to form ideas.”

  “And you used this knowledge to design this clever software,” the President concluded, his head shaking in astonishment.

  “Yes and no. We used it to begin to understand the structure of the language. We also used our prior knowledge of ancient Semitic languages to guess that this was related to them, based on where we found the plates as much as anything else. And of course, without the coding geniuses, Rick and Samantha, we wouldn’t be this far along. The computer is now doing most of the work. Unfortunately, there’s such a huge amount of work to do the computers we have are not fast enough. We haven’t found what we’re looking for yet.”

  “Congress is going to turn me on a spit for this,” answered the President, who immediately knew why he was invited to the meeting “but on my authority, you may commandeer as much computing power as you need. I assume Bill is here because he can tell you where to find it.”

  Carter turned to Griffin. “The thing is, there could be any number of topics here that represent danger to our national security, not to mention world peace. I’ve said it before. The giants were much more advanced in certain aspects of technology than we are today, that much we know. However, thus far, we have only discovered their competency with electricity and electromagnetism, and we have no clue how they did it. The question is, what else did they know that we haven’t uncovered yet? What we don’t know is what’s dangerous.”

  Griffin pretended to make a sour face, but he was as impressed with the project as the President was, and even more eager, if that were possible, to get his hands on the information in question. The possibility of ancient nukes lying around to be found by terrorists had been giving him ulcers ever since he’d heard about it. The prospect that there could be something even more dangerous was about to make him throw up.

  “I’ll find you your computing power,” he said. “Let me know how much and if you need more after we set you up. Cost is no object. I’ll let the President handle the fallout.” He flexe
d his jaw to relieve the pressure he’d put on it from clenching his teeth.

  The President, wincing at the double-entendre, had the last word. “Gee, Bill, thanks for that. I always could trust you to pass the ball at just the right moment.”

  Chapter 36 -

  Accepted

  Mathieu Nabati didn’t waste much time in anguish over losing a valuable asset. Charlie had bungled the most important assignment Nabati had ever given him. Furthermore, he had to be speculating there was a valid reason why Nabati was so upset about it. It was only a matter of time before he learned more and decided to turn the tables. Charlie had become a liability as quickly as a cat twists in midair — but he couldn’t be allowed to land on his feet. He had to die, and so did his subcontractor.

  Six hours after his text to Nabati, Charlie was on his way from his base in Lyon to Paris, where he expected to confront and kill Durand, when he met his end in a spectacular head-on collision with a petrol tanker. The resulting explosion and fire reduced Charlie, his car, and most importantly, his special cell phone with its evidence of texts to Nabati’s number, to a small pile of ash.

  Miraculously, the tanker driver had bailed out of the cab at the last moment, but he had no explanation for being on the wrong side of the road. He was arrested for vehicular manslaughter, losing control of his vehicle, reckless driving, and — unfairly — drunk driving. But to the annoyance of the local police, word came down from above to release him, and he promptly disappeared.

  In Zürich, Nabati received a report from his new contractor that the Charlie part of the mess had been taken care of. He thanked the man and promised more work when the occasion arose.

  However, the biggest part of the mess was still at large, and Nabati was the most qualified to track down the mess-maker. It was a little-known secret from the world at large that, although the Swiss banking industry was the most secure in Europe, perhaps the world, the bankers readily exchanged information amongst themselves. At least, those who were under the control, however disguised, of the Council of the Covenant of Nabatea. And that was virtually all of them.

  Through his contacts, Nabati discovered everything he needed to know about the owner of the accounts to which he’d transferred the Girards’ $17 million. Within twenty minutes, Nabati had a name, passport number, address, and even photos taken by concealed security cameras two years previously when the account owner had opened it. No doubt, thousands of account owners would have been disturbed to know these records existed, but the banks all followed the practice to protect themselves. Durand would have reason to be more than disturbed within a matter of hours.

  The account particulars led Nabati, through yet another of his assets, to Durand’s special forces record. The DRM, Direction du Renseignement Militaire (Directorate of Military Intelligence) supplied a current address when pressure from the government official responsible for their budget applied pressure to do so. Not only an address, but also every detail about his military history, girlfriend, friends, family — everything, in other words, from his weight and height to the brand of toothpaste he used.

  Armed with the information and photos from the DRM, Nabati got in touch with Swiss border control and within a few minutes learned that Durand had crossed the border into France from the Swiss side a few hours before, at Basel. He was able to confirm visually when the images from the security cameras at the border post were emailed to him. Unfortunately, Durand had an almost eight-hour head start. But he had to be found at all costs.

  Nabati had a contact he and the Council used only when in the direst of circumstances. The cost to use the services of the Sweeper, as he was known, was enough to give even the Council pause. Therefore, and also because the Sweeper took only rare assignments to avoid catching the eye of international security agencies, it had been several years since the Nabati’s last had contact with him. As soon as he had all the information he could readily gather, Nabati used his secure, quantum encrypted PDA to reach out.

  The Sweeper replied promptly in response to the code word indicating this was a highly sensitive assignment, and one that had to be completed at all cost, preferably yesterday. He sent back a one-word answer:

  Accepted.

  Nabati relaxed some. There was still reason to believe the Council’s very existence was in danger of being revealed, but if anyone could contain the bombshell, the Sweeper was the man to do it.

  Chapter 37 -

  A strange bedfellow

  Durand was making his way to his apartment in Paris when the news broke of an international incident. As he already knew, but the Swiss police were just now discovering, the victims in Zürich were traveling with fake passports and IDs.

  He had little doubt that the Saudi secret service was behind the murders, but he was surprised that they’d worked through Charlie to hire the assassin he shot. The Swiss police seemed convinced the Saudis were directly responsible. It was the official version of events, and the one the media was reporting. Only Durand knew he was involved at all, except for Charlie, but Charlie had no reason to suspect him. Or so he thought.

  With everyone blaming the Saudis, it meant he was home free, the mystery solved and no one the wiser regarding his involvement. It only remained for him to disappear with his money, and at his leisure find out everything that was on the laptop and the flash drive to perhaps help him make some more.

  Nabati, of course, knew better. His mother had orchestrated the whole diversion in the media, hoping to stop speculation, and it had. He himself had sent the anonymous tip to the police that the victims were not who they appeared to be. That tip, plus a little bug in the ear of a police contact, sent the authorities tracing the Girards’ movements and surprisingly quickly turned up the information they were now reporting.

  But of course, it didn’t solve the Council’s core problem, which was that the laptop and flash drive almost certainly contained information to expose them. Everyone who’d had those items in their hands must be killed. Only that would assure their safety.

  Durand was in good spirits, whistling as he skipped up the steps to his apartment. He’d composed a speech to his girlfriend — an “I need a break” speech designed to get her out of the way while he disappeared. He was rehearsing it in his head when he opened the door and walked into a trap.

  A man he’d never seen before was waiting for him inside. “I’ll take that laptop. And the flash drive.”

  Durand hadn’t made it this far in life by being indecisive. He clutched the laptop bag to his chest, prepared to fight his way out of the situation or flee, whichever seemed more likely to succeed. A bitter thought passed through his brain in a flash. If only he hadn’t had to dump his handgun to cross the border.

  The man opened his jacket to display a knife that, to Durand’s eyes, appeared to be the size of a short sword, but didn’t draw it from its scabbard. Durand’s next move was too quick. He intended to retreat, but he didn’t get the chance. As he whirled to go back the way he came, the man jumped to the open door and kicked it shut to cut off his escape. While the man was distracted, Durand raced toward the back of the apartment, where he could access the fire escape and maybe outrun his assailant. His plan was cut short by the sight of his girlfriend, lying in a pool of blood in the kitchen, dead.

  Before he could process the image, his assailant was on his back, an arm snaking around his throat to get him in a choke-hold. With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Durand fought like a wild animal, twisting violently out of the choke-hold and punched his assailant in the kidney with a massive blow. The man went down.

  Durand ran into his bedroom, where he kept a pistol in his nightstand drawer, loaded and ready. He’d barely managed to snag it when the man was again at his back. Durand turned, shoved the gun into the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. The muffled shot left a very small hole in the man’s chest and heart and a large exit wound on his back.

  Durand sat heavily on the bed, his heart beating wildly. Who the hell is this?
Who had I pissed off? Is it really the Saudi secret police this time? Or is this Charlie? Whoever it is must have a serious interest in the laptop and flash drive. What’s on those things that is so important?

  He pulled himself together. With his girlfriend dead, there was no need for a break-up conversation and no ties to anyone in Paris now, and though the gunshot had been as quiet as a small-caliber weapon could be, he knew there was a good chance that someone, including the police, would show up at his door shortly. He had few possessions that meant anything to him, and virtually unlimited funds to replace his basic needs. Gathering what small items he needed to keep with him, he walked calmly out the door of his apartment and out of his life as a killer for hire.

  Durand needed someplace quiet to study the contents of that laptop and flash drive, the sooner the better. He found it in a fleabag hotel well off the main tourist areas on the outskirts of Paris. Paying in cash for two nights in advance, he holed up and read everything. Even with what he had overheard before, he could not be prepared for what he was reading now that he had full access to all the information. Did that really say the organization Algosaibi belonged to was formed nearly two millennia ago? And that the history predating it was . . . mindboggling, to say the least.

  But the real dynamite or more likely, kryptonite, was the information about the Council of the Covenant of Nabatea. Reading that sent waves of cold shivers down his spine. How could he possibly hide from this powerful organization? He had no doubt, it was they who’d sent the man to kill him in his apartment. The information on the laptop and flash drive was what they wanted and as they had so clearly demonstrated, they would kill to get it. Even for a man with no loyalties to any political party and no interest in world events except when they provided work for him, it was a terrifying prospect. To be on the termination list of an organization with worldwide influence, their hands in every government and police force, and truly unlimited funds, was much more than he could handle.