The Oracle Code (11 page)

18

39 Miles Southwest of Herat

Herat Province

Afghanistan

February 14, 2013

Lights hung from the tomb’s low ceiling and splashed brightness around the rough stone walls. The ceiling made an arch over the small room, but even the highest point was close enough for Lourds to reach up and touch.

The stone sarcophagus occupied a carved niche in the wall. The niche was about eighteen inches taller than the sarcophagus, whose heavy stone lid sat slightly ajar.

Lourds spoke without taking his eyes from the bas-relief on the sarcophagus’s side. “You opened it?”

“I could not resist.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to either. Did anyone help you?”

“An intern. Evan. He’s probably off sleeping. Or playing one of his videogames. He has no true vision for what we do.”

Lourds crossed over to the sarcophagus and knelt. He dug a flashlight from his backpack and played the beam over the carved images, bringing them into sharper view. Boris had obviously spent some time cleaning them up. They were dust free.

The images were plain, rough, and beautiful at the same time. The central figure was a caped warrior on horseback, a shield on his left arm and a spear in his right hand. His cape streamed out behind him, floating over the warriors that rode at his heels. Another army lay in the distance on the right.

Most curious of all, though, was the image of a man sitting behind the army on the left. Small and unassuming, he was in a crouched position and held a stylus in one hand as he worked on a sheet of papyrus.

There was writing under the man. Lourds leaned forward so he could examine it. “This is Ancient Greek.” He knew the language intimately. It was an independent language that had come from the Indo-European family. Originating in the Balkans, it had the longest history of being in use, spanning thirty-five hundred years.

“You can read it?”

Lourds did. “‘Here lies the scribe Callisthenes of Olynthus. Placed here after his murder by his friends at court.’” He paused. “Some friends they turned out to be.”

“The sentence construction and word usage is comparable to that used in Alexander’s time, isn’t it?”

Lourds nodded. Excitement stirred up in him, building quickly now. He worked to keep it tamped down. Boris was already excited enough for both of them. He needed to be the steady one, the one who would challenge the enticing leaps of both logic and fantasy.

“The language has been around for three and a half millennia. You know that. Let’s get our ducks in a row.”

“This ties to Alexander, Thomas. I can feel it in my bones.”

“We need to find out what’s in these bones. Where are the documents you said you found?”

“Inside the sarcophagus. I didn’t want to chance moving them any more than I had to. Not until you were here.”

“I’m here now.” Lourds stood. “Let’s have a look at Callisthenes.” He grabbed one end of the sarcophagus lid and Boris grabbed the other. Together, they managed the massive stone slab and lifted it from the bottom, gently settling it onto the floor with a series of scrapes.

Inside the sarcophagus, a skeleton lay draped in rags. Whatever else Callisthenes might have been, he was a small man. His hands lay over his heart, and his feet were crossed.

Lourds shined his flashlight over the skull. “He has all of his teeth. He was probably a young man when he died.”

“When he was murdered, you mean.”

“I don’t see any signs of fractures to the skull or the ribs. They all appear intact.”

“You can kill a man by slicing his throat too. Or by forcing him to drink hemlock. Either way, it’s still murder.”

Lourds nodded.

“But there is something more.” Boris pointed to the skeletal feet. “Have a look here.”

Moving down the length of the body, Lourds shined his light on the dead man’s feet. Several of the metatarsal bones were broken, and there was a hole through the talus of each foot.

Boris stood grimly at Lourds’s side. “Crucifixion, yes?”

“That would be my guess, but you’ll need someone more expert on it to give a better opinion.”

“No, I trust us. We’ve seen these kinds of things before. And look at how the ankle joints are shattered and separated. I would bet that this man was crucified upside down.” Boris shook his head. “That would be a most painful way to die.”

Lourds silently agreed.

“The documents are here.” Boris pointed to a collection of clay pots that occupied one corner of the sarcophagus.

Lourds had been so engrossed in studying the skeletal remains that he had overlooked the pots. Scrolls filled the pots. Gently, Lourds removed one of the scrolls. The Greek language was easy enough to read. Callisthenes had possessed a good hand for his craft.

“‘Now it came to be that my lord, King Alexander III of Macedon, also known as the Great, was in terrible wrath after discovering the excesses and abuses committed by the satraps he had put into power to govern in his name while he sought out more glories on the battlefield.

“‘There was a military governor named Vahyadata who had caused to be executed three young women he took to be wives and later claimed to have lied to him about their virginity. When my lord discovered this, and that the young women lay in fresh graves, his righteous anger knew no boundaries.

“‘My lord rode his horse into the palace of Vahyadata, threw a rope around the man’s neck, and dragged him from the palace and into the street. There, the populace of the city spat upon the foul murderer, cursed him each in their way, and cheered on my lord.

“‘The satrap proved not to be hardy enough to make it to the end of the street. Still, my lord’s anger was so fierce that he did not give up dragging the body until dogs ran up after it and tore it to pieces.’”

Boris shifted and smiled slightly. “Not exactly bedtime reading, is it?”

“No, but it does have the ring of authenticity about it. What makes you so certain the location of Alexander’s tomb is revealed in here?”

With great care, Boris lifted one of the scrolls from the pot. “This is the scroll I read from.” He handed it to Lourds.

The scroll was different from the others, and it took Lourds a moment to spot the snakes engraved on the ends of the wooden roller that held the papyrus. “You saw this?”

“It was what first caught my eye.”

Lourds ran a finger across the roller end. The carving had faded over time and only stood out faintly. “Evidently, you have better eyes than I do.”

“I stared at them for a long time before I chose one to look at. I had the benefit of patience.”

“I am being patient.”

“I know. Now, the scroll, please.”

Lourds opened the scroll and began to read. “‘I am Callisthenes of Olynthus, from the town founded by Olynthus, the son of Heracles and Bolbe.’” He grinned. “Well, now we have proof that Heracles was real.”

“You say that in jest, my friend, but there are many things in this world that we do not know.”

Lourds paused, recalling the showdown he’d had with United States Vice President Elliott Webster. Webster’s disappearance from the world was still an unexplained mystery, but Lourds knew the truth of it, and it was the most supernatural thing he had ever witnessed.

“You are right, Boris. I stand corrected.” Lourds cleared his throat and continued reading. “‘Now am I come to recite the last will and testament of my lord, King Alexander III of Macedon, also known as the Great. It has come to my lord’s attention that death waits for every man, even a man like him, after the passing of his beloved friend, Hephaestion, son of Amyntor and General in the army of my lord.

“‘These final tenets are written in the secret language devised by my lord and will describe what will be done with his mortal shell, as well as his personal armor and sword. These things must be done to preserve balance in the world.’” Lourds stopped reading.

“Well?” Boris gestured impatiently. “Don’t stop now. Go on.”

“I can’t.” Lourds sighed with frustration. “This is where the code begins.”

“That should be simple enough for you.”

Lourds showed his friend the scroll. “This isn’t the Greek alphabet, and it isn’t cuneiform either. This is something new.”

“Ah, well, we knew this couldn’t be all easy. There had to be some stumbling blocks.”

“Stumbling blocks? Do you know how long it could take to decipher a code?”

“No. But I know I have the right man on the job.” Boris clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, my friend. Put those scrolls away for further examination later. For the moment, let us go bask in the glory and accolades the media is primed to deliver unto us.” He smiled. “After that, we will drink vodka the Russian way.”

Shaking his head, Lourds knelt and packed the seven scrolls into a protective box inside his backpack. “This is not going to be as easy as you seem to think it will be, and I still have every intention of spending some kind of Valentine’s Day with Layla.”

“As well as proposing?”

“Yes.” Lourds stood and hefted his backpack over his shoulder. He resettled his hat.

“Come on then. After you are a newly minted celebrity—again—she will most certainly be in love with you.”

They headed out together. Just as they entered the passageway, the distinct, staccato roar of rifle reports echoed from the front of the cave.

A few feet away, Anna Cherkshan stood working on a computer tablet, doubtless reviewing her notes for the story or already writing parts of it. Startled by the cracks of the small arms fire, she looked up, then shoved her tablet PC into her messenger bag and ran toward the front of the cave.

“Anna! Wait!” Lourds’s shout seemed to galvanize her into greater effort.

“I can’t! There’s a story going on out there, and I need to see it!”

Fearing for the young woman’s safety, Lourds held the backpack strap crossing his chest and ran after her with Boris racing along behind him.

19

39 Miles Southwest of Herat

Herat Province

Afghanistan

February 14, 2013

Lying in the frozen waste overlooking the mountain where the diggers worked so diligently, Mafouz Abu Walid took aim again through the telescopic sight of the Dragunov sniper rifle that was his pride and joy. He’d carried a lot of black tar opium through the mountains to purchase the Russian long gun, and he had never been more enthusiastic in using it than right now.

He ignored the searing cold of the packed snow against his left cheek as well as the hard ground and winter’s chill embrace that tried to leach the warmth from his body. Instead, he let his desire for vengeance and his bloodthirstiness run rampant.

The Dragunov was capable of delivering its 7.62mm rounds out to thirteen hundred meters and still kill a man. At eight hundred yards it was extremely lethal. Most of his men carried AK-47s, which only had an effective range out to four hundred yards.

Below Mafouz’s sniping position, his scattered men squeezed off concentrated fire at the group of Westerners in front of the cave.

Mafouz didn’t know or care what the dirt diggers had found that was so important. All that mattered to him was avenging his brother’s death by killing the man who had murdered him. Ghairat had died back in June, in another cave not far from here. At the time, Mafouz had learned of the Russian professor Boris Glukov and the American professor Thomas Lourds, but going after his brother’s killer hadn’t been possible then because the ANP had locked down the area.

Now, though, there were too many people for the ANP to protect. In fact, they couldn’t even protect themselves.

Mafouz peered through the telescopic sights, caught sight of an ANP policeman taking cover behind an SUV, and focused on the man. When the policeman popped up again to fire a volley of rounds at the ridge where the Taliban warriors lay, Mafouz stroked the trigger and felt the Dragunov bang against his shoulder with the force of a camel kick.

He managed to keep the sniper scope locked on his target and saw the man’s head turn into a raging mist of flying blood and broken bone. He searched again for another target and found one. This was a woman, one of the Westerners who worked with the dirt diggers. She ran from one of the vehicles, obviously frightened at being alone, and headed back to the cave.

Mafouz led her slightly, practiced at his skill from years of using the sniper rifle against fleeing victims. He squeezed the trigger again, and this time the bullet caught the target in the side at heart level. The bullet’s velocity and mass knocked the woman aside like she was a doll.

The cacophony of rifle shots cracked again and again. Mafouz had brought in forty-three warriors during the night, and they’d lain there all day, waiting for the reporters to cluster. He’d planned to attack at dawn, while the Westerners were still in their tents and unprepared for the death that would come for them. Then one of his men had overheard that Thomas Lourds was coming to the site as well.

Giving in to his desire for revenge against both of the men responsible for Ghairat’s death, Mafouz had told his men to wait, that there would be even more Westerners for them to kill soon. And so they had waited.

Twenty-two of his warriors remained with him on this ridge to the west where the sun was now starting to drop. The ANP policemen below were partially blinded, staring into the sun as they tried to return fire.

The other twenty-one men were making their way around to the south side of the mountain and would be in place any moment. Then they would have the dig site trapped in a lethal crossfire.

Herat was thirty minutes away even by the fastest military Jeep. Unless the ANA or the ISAF arrived in force, they would only be targets awaiting Taliban vengeance as well.

One of the vehicles suddenly raced from the pack.

Mafouz took aim and put a round through its left front tire. Out of control in the snow, the truck jerked hard to the right and careened into a ditch. Unable to handle the steep grade, it rolled over onto its side.

Patiently, Mafouz waited, knowing the driver was probably not badly injured. A moment later, the man clambered from the truck. Mafouz took aim again, then squeezed the trigger, and another dead man joined those already lying on the blood-drenched snow.

Bullets chopped into the icy ridge, but they didn’t get close enough to Mafouz to drive him into hiding. He searched for new targets, found yet another journalist, and grinned with glee.

Ghairat would be avenged several times over today.

***

Taking cover behind a cargo van filled with television equipment, Colonel Sergay Linko knew he was a lucky man. He hadn’t been one of the first people targeted when their unseen attackers had launched their offensive. If he had been, he would have been among the first casualties.

He’d been drinking hot coffee from one of the media trucks, crouched down out of the wind, and thinking furiously about how he was supposed to get close to Boris Glukov while the professor was still inside the cave. Now he wanted a gun, something with more range than the 9mm pistol he’d set up in the video camera shell he’d been given by the crew aboard the airplane that had brought him to Herat.

He’d planned on using the handgun to kill Boris once he’d found out what the professor knew. That plan hadn’t come even close to fruition yet. Now, it looked as though it never would.

Calmly, he watched as the journalists and media people foolishly got themselves killed by abandoning their positions in search of another one. If they hadn’t gotten killed in the first onslaught, chances were good that their attackers wouldn’t see them on a second pass through.

Linko crept to the front of the vehicle and peered around the bumper. Scanning the western ridge of the mountain, he counted at least eight men. A dead ANP policeman lay in the snow four meters away. The man was on his back, face and chest bloody and his rifle practically resting in his hand.

The itch to dart out for the weapon was almost too strong to resist, but Linko did. He’d been in bad circumstances before. With the way the ANP police were dying around him, there’d probably be a closer weapon before long.

Running footsteps came up behind him. He turned and watched as a woman ran toward the cargo van. Snow flew in all directions as she sprinted, trying to stay low to the ground. She grabbed the door to the van and levered herself inside, snatching the radio mic and switching on the engine.

“Hello! This is an emergency! The archeology dig thirty-five miles south of Herat is under attack! I repeat, this is an emergency!”

Linko gazed up at the woman and saw that she was sitting up in the seat. He was just about to call up and advise her that such a course of action was foolish.

Before he could do more than open his mouth, a bullet cored through the windshield and exploded the woman’s head. Pummeled by the heavy-caliber, high-velocity round, the woman’s corpse fell back out of the cargo van and on top of Linko, showering him with blood and brain matter.

“Hello? Hello? Caller, this is Foxtrot Leader of the United States Army Airborne. Can you hear me?”

Linko reached up for the mic and pulled it down to him. He tasted the dead woman’s blood in his mouth. “I can hear you.” He spoke in an American accent.

“Okay, you people just keep your heads down. We’ve got planes in the area on recon missions. We can get there in seven minutes.”

Linko didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything he needed to say. All he had to do was stay alive—and find Boris Glukov.

And he only had seven minutes to do that.

Once that window of opportunity was over, he felt certain getting information from Glukov was going to be even more difficult. He gazed back at the cave where Glukov had disappeared with the American, Thomas Lourds.

Cursing, Linko returned to the front of the van and peered at the cave mouth. He kept expecting Glukov to appear there like a cuckoo bird popping out of an alarm clock, then get shot down.

If that happened, there might be no promotion. Even worse, Linko was certain he would secure the enmity of the Russian president.

Forcing himself up, he lunged from the cargo van and raced for the cave seventy meters away. He counted his steps, hit ten, and threw himself into the nearest pile of snow. He leaped in like a swimmer, hands thrust forward to break the surface before him, then he was kicking to get in more deeply.

Bullets zipped through the snow and slapped into the earth around him. He forced himself to be still, to allow the gunners to think they’d killed him and move on to other targets.

Then he pushed himself up and ran again, knowing that the playing dead trick wouldn’t work again on any of the attackers that had fallen for it before.

Luck was with him, and he made it to the incline leading up to the cave. His breath came in ragged gasps, throwing out gray clouds in front of him. He shoved a sawhorse aside, noting the dead ANP guard draped over another sawhorse only a short distance away.

Linko ran hard, digging his boots into the frozen ground and staying bent over as he ran, using his hands and arms as another set of legs and feet to keep himself balanced and on course. He had a better sense of their attackers now and knew there were a lot more of them than he’d originally thought.

When he reached the same level where the cave was, he flattened against the mountain two meters away. The mountain had a natural crevice there that just fit him and kept him out of the field of fire.

Almost at his feet, a wounded ANP officer lay choking in his own blood. He looked to be about twenty-two or twenty-three, and Linko knew he wouldn’t be growing any older. Part of his neck had been ripped away, and even if Linko had wanted to help him, there was no way to stem the flow.

The young ANP officer reached out toward Linko. He was clearly unable to speak, but there was no mistaking his plea for help.

Linko ignored him, looking around for anything he could use. Almost immediately, he saw that the officer had dropped his service pistol in the snow nearby.

Linko squatted down and picked up the weapon, taking some confidence just from having it in his hand. He popped the magazine out and found that there were still nine rounds in it. Shoving the magazine back into the pistol, he scanned the man for spare ammo, ingoring his rasping, bubbling breath. Moments later, the ANP officer went silent.

Rocks tumbled down across his shoulders, and he knew things had gone from bad to worse. The attackers had set up a secondary force to catch them in a crossfire.

At that same moment, Anna Cherkshan ran out of the cave and froze, staring at the bodies spread out all around her. Gazing at the young woman, Linko knew she was moments away from being shot dead.