by J C Ryan
The irony, of course, was that he had no real interest in any of the information. He was interested in money and a life of luxury and peace. He would be more than happy to just hand it over to them and walk away. Maybe he could pack these hot bombshells and mail it to or have it couriered to Mathieu Nabati. But he had a gut wrenching feeling it was not going to appease them — he knew too much. Attempting to use this information for blackmail against the Council to guarantee his own safety would be the same as committing suicide. He could just leave the laptop and flash drive here in this squalid hotel and disappear . . . and that was what he was going to do until it dawned on him that his $17 million was now in the same bank accounts where he kept all his other savings, banks that these Nabateans probably either owned or controlled.
Dammit what an idiot I've been.
Despair sank in. I’d be lucky to get away with my life.
Run and hide.
He changed his appearance to fit one of his many fake profiles, destroyed his mobile phone, packed his backpack, including the cursed laptop and flash drive and left Paris, hitchhiking his way to Eastern Europe, avoiding all forms of public transport, public places, cities, and security cameras. In some of the Eastern European countries he would be able to live in remote areas, off the grid.
Weeks of wandering around aimlessly, feeling and looking like a hobo, worrying, and contemplating his future, finally produced another idea. With the information in his possession, he could buy his life — maybe. It was a long shot. But it was worth a try — trade the information for protection — and perhaps money. Not to the Council of the Covenant of Nabatea but to the only organization he thought powerful enough to protect him from them. The CIA. It was going to be a strange bedfellow.
His time with the French Foreign Legion's, special forces had been relatively short, but filled with survival training and covert operations that gave him the skills that served to keep him alive now.
During his time as a Legionnaire, he’d done a life-saving favor for a CIA operative, Scott Brown, on a mission to Mali, formerly the French Sudan. Brown had been in a pickle. In fact, he’d been captured by Tuareg rebels, and if it hadn’t been for Durand and his men, Brown would have lost his life then. But Durand’s team had managed to set him free. He owed Durand his life, and now it was time to call in the favor.
Chapter 38 -
The offer
Durand had withdrawn thirty thousand in cash of the money he got for the Rome job when he received his payment. He had about twenty-five thousand left. It was no trouble at all to travel to Canada under one of the many pre-arranged false passports and legends he had. To be sure, he took all of them and hid them in a false bottom of his valise, covered with other papers to throw off the x-ray examination of his bag. To his relief, he went through both airport security and Canadian customs with no problem.
Once in Canada, he secured a hotel room with an in-room safe, locked the laptop, flash drive, his extra passports, and half the cash into it, and prepared for a trip across the border to the US and down the coast to Washington, DC. It wasn’t easy to reconnect with Scott Brown. The man had been promoted and brought in from the field, and it took several hours to track him down amid the security paranoia in the US capitol. However, in the late afternoon, his burner cellphone rang.
“Hello, old friend. I hear you need to talk to me.”
It had been years since Durand had heard the voice, but he was reasonably sure it was Scott. Nevertheless, he took the precaution of making the man prove he was who he said, running him through several tests of information designed to trip up anyone who wasn’t Scott Brown. Brown patiently answered all the questions until Durand had satisfied himself he was talking to the genuine Scott Brown. With anyone else, he might have become impatient, but he had a good idea that Durand must have something of value to convey to him, or else he wouldn’t be in this part of the world, taking such precautions.
At last, Durand was prepared to give Brown the gist of what he had, hinting that he knew of a worldwide conspiracy that was heading for world financial domination, at the very least. When he mentioned Algosaibi, he heard Scott’s breathing change. He’d hit a hot button! Durand knew to press his advantage, and soon he had Scott convinced there was something to his story.
That was a bite, and from a very large fish. Now he had to set the hook.
“I have a laptop and a flash drive outlining the entire organization, giving their history, secret places, leadership, and everything you would need to bring these people down. But I won’t turn it over without a written guarantee of my safety, immunity from prosecution, and commitment to be placed in your witness protection program. That will need to be signed by your President himself.”
Scott’s tone betrayed his irritation. “You know very well I can’t commit the President to anything until he sees the evidence. You’ve tied my hands.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, but I’ve screwed the pooch, as you Yanks so colorfully say. I must have these assurances before I give up the only protection I have. You have two days to text me at this number.” Durand gave the number of a new burner phone he’d purchased that day at an appallingly crass store with the oddest customers he’d ever seen. When had it become de riguer to shop in one’s nightclothes?
After hanging up, he slipped into the restroom of the coffee shop where he’d held his conversation and changed his clothes, dumping the used cell phone in the wastebasket along with the distinctly European clothing. When he exited, he could have been any tourist from a Western state, and he carried only the cell phone on which Scott would hopefully text him with the answer. He turned in his rental car at Reagan National Airport with a ruinous one-way drop-off charge and walked to a bus stop, took the first bus that came along, and changed busses several times before hailing a taxi to take him to Dulles International, where he went through the process of renting a car again, this time under a different name, and then drove to Philadelphia to await Scott’s text.
Scott, in the meantime, persuaded his boss to pass the request up the line. He arranged for a meeting between Scott and the Director. Bill Griffin knew of Scott, as he knew of every one of his top agents. Nevertheless, he had Scott’s personnel file open on his desk when the man was ushered into his presence on an urgent mission with vital information.
“Do you trust this man?” Griffin asked when he’d listened without comment to the evidence Scott had.
“I do, sir. He saved my life in Mali, and he has no reason to gaslight me. He has gotten himself into trouble, I think he’s telling the truth, and I think it scares him to death. I think we should take the risk and get hold of this laptop and flash drive he has.”
“What do you make of this claim about giants and ancient humans and this ancient super powerful, secret organization?” Griffin asked. “Is the guy nuts?”
“I can’t say, sir. The man saved my life, I trust him. I know he believes what he’s telling me is true. Whether it’s indeed true, I can’t say. But if it is, we have a big damn problem on our hands. Bigger than any Middle Eastern terrorist group, I’d say. If what he says is true, these people have us by the short and curlies, even if half of what he says is true.”
At the mention of giants and ancients, Director Griffin couldn’t help but wonder if this would somehow be connected to Carter Devereux’s work. If he hadn’t heard this type of talk and saw some of the evidence produced by Devereux before, he would probably have been inclined to blow this whole thing off as a lunatic’s rants. However, what tipped the scales were the mention of Xavier Algosaibi's name.
“Well, I tend to agree with you. We can’t take the chance of dismissing it without examining the evidence. However, before I involve the President, let’s see what we can do to verify his claims," said Bill, dismissing Scott with a warm handshake. “Glad you brought it to my attention.”
Bill’s next urgent call was to A-Echelon headquarters. “James, we need Carter in the Oval Office ASAP. How soon can you get him the
re?”
James took the question in stride. He was getting used to being summoned to the Oval Office at the drop of a hat lately. Carter maybe less so, but he’d get used to it. “How soon do you want him?”
“Day before yesterday,” Bill answered. The grim tone in his friend’s voice told James there was no time to waste.
Chapter 39 -
Where did you get this information?
While Durand was scrambling for his life and Scott was persuading Bill Griffin that a conspiracy of worldwide proportions had been afoot for two millennia, Carter and Liu were by turns elated and in the depths of frustration.
The software was performing brilliantly, and they’d found the index, but so far, no reference to the subjects they most wanted to know about. In fact, what they found was mostly history.
The race that had created the record named themselves the Zuzim or Zamzummim, and they had, according to their history, moved from somewhere else to the vicinity of the City of Lights site in Egypt some sixty-five thousand years ago. After living there for about fifteen thousand years, the Zuzim found it necessary to move away but the reason for moving away was not given in those parts of the narrative.
The records revealed that this hadn’t been the only city where a substantial population of Zuzim had resided. It mentioned others, including a main location, but Carter’s team couldn’t make out where it was based on the names, which of course didn’t correspond to modern names or those on any ancient maps. The time lapse had simply been too great, and somehow the giants had become extinct except for rare instances when, as Carter suspected, genetic traces showed up as gigantism in modern humans.
There was some evidence that the Zuzim giants were related to other ethnic groups or races of giants that lived in other parts of the world, and that those races had been in existence for some incredible two-hundred-thousand years, at the time the record was made. Even Carter, who had long suspected ancient civilizations rivaling our own admitted that was mind-blowing. The day they discovered that passage, he poured Liu and himself a bracing shot of Irish whiskey. Liu, of course, choked on it, prompting Carter to say he’d drink a shot on her behalf, if for no other reason than to calm his racing mind.
The record continued to reveal historical secrets, such as the fact they were using quantum technology to power the lights in the city. Carter was proud of deciphering that bit of information, even though he’d had to call on one or two DARPA scientists to test the ideas out. They, of course, were anxious to know more, but unfortunately the technological details were not available anywhere in the record.
The same was true of the record of wars they’d fought, using flying machines that were apparently looking very similar to the “flying saucers” of conspiracy theory. Carter’s mind went racing with the speculation that perhaps some of those had been found and reactivated by persons with malevolent motives. Yet, the references to something that could only be hydrogen fusion and others venturing into quantum physics were maddeningly vague.
Liu found a section of genealogical records of the inhabitants and worked out that the lifespans of these giants were longer than even that of Methuselah, the 969-year-old man of Biblical fame. About fifteen hundred years as near as she could make out. By then, they had uncovered so much amazing information it barely fazed her. A 1,500-year-old giant? An entire race of them? Hell, several races of them? Why not?
Liu’s uncharacteristic, “Nothing turns me on a like a 1,500-year-old giant,” provided a welcome humorous interlude to the serious atmosphere in the room.
It was Carter who finally found the reference to what he believed were nuclear weapons, and the appearance of the first modern humans — people whose size was more in line with those of modern humans. They wanted to destroy the giants. Initially, Carter found himself strangely torn as to whose side he was on.
The answer to what happened to the advanced civilizations, or at least the human side of the equation, was in the historical record. The giants were peace-loving, but the smaller races had developed nuclear weapons, or something like them, and the giants were forced to take preventative action. They used technology that nullified the nuclear reaction, in a way Carter couldn’t understand even after he’d translated the literal words. Back to DARPA, and with their blessing, to certain colleagues in the University physics department he went, only to become thoroughly confused by their speculations about the concept of zero-point energy and other quantum physics concepts.
Within the limited circle of physics professors to whom he put the questions, some were alarmed.
“Where did you get this information?” a former mentor asked bluntly.
“I’m sorry, but that’s classified,” was his unsatisfactory answer. He repeated that phrase too often for their comfort. In doing so, he was almost lynched by his former colleagues, who insisted on knowing where he’d gotten the translated texts he’d shown them.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he told them, as seriously as he could manage, before beating a hasty retreat.
Back in the confines of his translation cave, as Carter called it, he learned finally that the giants had conquered the aggressors, taken away their technology, and banished them into the jungles of Africa and other remote regions.
However, Carter and Liu agreed, after exhaustive searches of anything in the index about scientific details, that the technological information simply wasn’t there. The giants had apparently deliberately not left it behind. When they left the City of Lights, the Zuzim effectively disappeared into the mists of pre-history.
It was at this point, a low one for the research team, that Carter received James’s urgent message to come to the White House immediately.
Chapter 40 -
The conspirators
Carter arrived, breathless and bothered, in the Oval Office, where the President, Bill Griffin, James Rhodes, and Irene O’Connor waited for him.
“Apologies, Mr. President. I got here as quickly as I could.”
“I’m sure you did, Carter. And thank you for interrupting your research to meet with us,” the President answered. “But you look like you could use a glass of water before you begin. Help yourself.” He indicated a carafe of ice water on a side table, which Carter took grateful advantage of.
While Carter was pouring the water, Bill started. “We have an unaffiliated operative who has what he describes as explosive intelligence about a group of conspirators we’ve never heard of. We need to determine within the next twenty-four hours whether his claims are credible. That’s what you’re here for.”
Carter turned a puzzled face toward Bill. “I don’t understand. I don’t know anything about conspiracies, except those involving ancient history” —he paused and broke into a smile— “and of course those of some of my archaeology colleagues. What help can I be?”
“That’s just it, Carter. Our informant claims this group has been in existence since 106 AD. Under the radar all that time, and now they appear to be poised to take over world financial markets, energy, and pharmaceuticals, to name only a few. And we don’t know a damn thing about them. We need to get up to speed right away. We figured you were the best candidate to inform us.”
Carter gaped at Bill, his mind stuck on “106 AD.” The date sounded vaguely familiar. He couldn’t place it immediately, but then remembered. “That year, 106 AD, was the year when the Nabateans surrendered their empire to the Romans without so much as ‘firing one shot.’” Carter grinned. “Is that what you are talking about?”
The four people in the room were gawping as they exchanged looks. The expressions on their faces clearly saying now how the hell did he know or remember that?
Bill got over the surprise, cleared his throat, and said, “Yes, that seems to be the conspirators we’re concerned about. These days they call themselves the Council of the Covenant of Nabatea. We’d like you to tell us what you know about the history of the Nabateans.”
Carter began slowly, his mind racing to u
nderstand the link between the conspiracy group and the ancient tribe he was about to explain. “The Nabateans? Well, no one knows much about them. They left no written record that we know of. Oddly enough, what I do know is that they ceded their empire to Rome and were absorbed into the Roman culture. But I can summarize what else we archaeologists believe we know about them, if you’ll give me a moment to collect my thoughts.”
“Take your time,” urged the President, still spellbound by Carter’s eidetic memory. “The clearer you can make it to us, the more likely we can understand how this remained a secret so long and what the risks are now.”
Carter slowly nodded and wondered what the President meant with the words “a secret so long and what the risks are now.” He took a few moments to think, took a sip of water, and started.
“They were nomadic traders. You might call them arbitrage dealers now. They purchased goods from one place and sold them for a profit at another, but they never established diplomatic ties to the great historical empires. Instead, they lived on the fringes, kind of like ancient Gypsies. How much detail do you want?”
“Everything you can tell us,” Bill interjected. “We don’t know what will be relevant and what won’t, so give us the full rundown.”
“Okay, you asked for it.” Carter took a deep breath and started. “We think the word Nabatea is related to the name Nebajoth. The book of Genesis relates somewhere around chapter 25, if my memory serves me correctly, though I can’t recall the exact verses, how Esau was looking for a wife that would please his father, Isaac. He went to his half-uncle, Ishmael, the son of Abraham’s slave woman, Hagar, and took Ishmael’s daughter, Mahalath, as his wife. Mahalath was Nebajoth’s sister. We believe that the Nabateans were an Aramaic tribe descended from this Nebajoth.”