The Resurrection File (41 page)

He spoke.

“Will Chambers, why do you struggle against the truth?”

“Who are you?”

The man in the white robe reached his hand toward Will and answered.

“I am…”

When he spoke those words, the men with the guns were thrown down to the ground, as if they were toy soldiers.

“I am the One you are searching for.”

“Am I dreaming?” Will asked, barely able to speak.

“Is this a dream?” Will asked again, trembling in the presence of something so overpowering that—if it were not for the ocean of calm in the robed man's voice, a voice that sounded as if it could still the rushing of a thousand waters—Will feared his heart might stop in his chest.

Will regained consciousness, coming to the awareness of a rushing, roaring noise all around him. He had no idea how long he had been out. His head felt as though it were splitting.

Then he became aware that, even though he was awake, he was in darkness. Will felt some rough material wrapped around his head, covering his
eyes. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was lying on his side, on a hard surface. He seemed to be floating—up, and then down, then up again.

Just below the edges of the blindfold Will caught a glimpse of the riveted metal floorboards he was lying on. As he struggled to sit upright he heard a man near him yell, and then he felt a blow to the side of his head that knocked him down. As he hit the floor, his blindfold loosened and he saw a man in a seat in front of him, seated at the controls—of a helicopter.

Will lay quiet, still groggy and confused. He heard the men talking back and forth in a language he couldn't recognize. While he lay there he tried to connect the bizarre events he was starting to remember.

He had been chased, and caught. But where was that? And he remembered having a dream.

Struggling to think, Will recalled that he had been pursued near his office. Two men. A van. He had been caught, and something had been stuck in his neck. He must have been given a drug.

Where was he being taken? He was sure he was being kidnapped. What did these men want with him? What was the reason behind it?

Then something hard and cold was put underneath his blindfold, between his eyes. He recognized a gun barrel, and heard the click as the hammer was pulled back. One of the men was laughing.

The gun barrel moved from between his eyes to the middle of his forehead. Then the laughing stopped.

Now there was no more thought about reasons, no more wondering about answers. There was only the reality of the gun at his head. Only Will's belief that he was now just seconds from death.

Will was praying silently, feeling the gun barrel pressed against his forehead, hearing only the roar of the helicopter's engine above him.

“God, please help me. I think this is the end.”

50

I
N HIS OFFICE AT THE
S
TATE
B
UILDING
, Department Undersecretary Kenneth Sharptin received a call. When he picked up the phone he heard the familiar digital voice requesting that he dial a specific number. He did so immediately.

In his research center in Maryland, Dr. Albert Reichstad received the same call, heard the same familiar computer voice, dialed the same number out, and became part of a three-way teleconference.

The third party led the conference.

“Dr. Reichstad, enlighten us about the status of your case. You are going to court on Monday morning are you not?”

“Yes. Sherman's firm is arguing our motion for a Summary Judgment.”

“And you will prevail?”

“Sherman tells me our chances are excellent.”

“I don't care about ‘excellent' chances. Chance and probability, to me, are meaningless. Before the event, they are empty guesses. After the event, it is too late for such things to do any good. I prefer certainty. I'm sure you know that by now.”

“Sherman is a typical lawyer that way, I'm afraid,” Reichstad explained. “He says he can't guarantee the results. But he feels very certain that we will win both of the issues we are going after. And if we win
both
issues, we will not need to turn over the 7QA fragment at all.”

“And if you don't win
both
issues on Monday?”

“Then we have to turn over 7QA for their inspection that same afternoon.”

“That is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” the third party said.

“It's not the end of the world if another set of experts has to inspect 7QA. Though I've fought off the rest of the academic world up to now, I
really thought it was going to happen eventually,” Reichstad continued. “But this way, if we
have to
, then we produce it to MacCameron's two experts. I would much rather submit 7QA to those ‘experts': Dr. Giovanni—this disgruntled former nun—and the other one, that materials engineer who has never dealt with antiquities before. Better those two, who have to comply with all our court-ordered restrictions, than the whole of the archaeological world.

“Then after the analysis, we can tell the whole world we have permitted 7QA to be examined by ‘outside experts.' That will shut the mouths of the critics who have been complaining that I've kept it all to myself. And even if MacCameron's people disagree with my conclusions about the fragment, we can still bury them in terms of public opinion. I mean, just look at their lack of credentials, and their lack of world-class credibility compared to me and my group.”

“It sounds like win–win to me,” Sharptin commented.

“Mr. Sharptin, I'm glad you see eye-to-eye with Dr. Reichstad on that,” the third party said, “but I am still not satisfied that it gives us the kind of control I want over the big picture. I really don't want to see your case go to trial. I know you were going to have Sherman talk settlement with attorney Chambers.”

“He tried,” Reichstad said, “but he wasn't successful.”

“Not surprisingly,” the third party replied. “Which is exactly why I thought that Chambers was going to be a problem in the first place. Which is why I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands regarding the quixotic Mr. Chambers.”

“Can I just point out that I am very uncomfortable with this conversation right now?” Sharptin interjected.

“Would you like to be more uncomfortable?” the third party shot back. “How would you like your name to be taken off the top of the shortlist for the vice-presidential slot?”

“Yes, I understand. But I need some assurance of my chances,” Sharptin replied.

“Then let me reassure you again,” the third party said. “If you can simply adapt to playing the ultimate game of hardball—if we all play our parts, you, Kenneth, will be the vice-presidential selection on the ticket.”

Then the third party focused back on Dr. Reichstad.

“Do you still think you can use this lawsuit to get the remaining information we need?”

“Yes,” Reichstad responded eagerly. “As you know, we have already had our experts analyze the recorded message that Richard Hunter left for
MacCameron. Chambers just produced it to us a few days ago. That was one of the benefits of our lawsuit, you see. I left you an encrypted e-mail on that, with the exact wording of the message, together with my attempts to decode his reference to the ‘resurrection order.'”

“I have reviewed that, and we are already taking steps to follow that up. We are taking a direct operations approach.”

“May I also join Kenneth in saying,” Reichstad added, “ that ‘direct operations' in this have never been my idea—nor my preference. I have never been a man of violence.”

“I really get a kick out of you, Reichstad,” the third party said. “Do I need to tell you your own business? Do I need to repeat the great history lesson of Middle Eastern archaeology? Now, you remember the key to understanding the Egyptian hieroglyphics? All of those magnificent records—right there in front of the world—but the human race couldn't read them. We didn't have the code. Somehow the human race needed to build a bridge of knowledge between the ancient Egyptians and the modern world. Then comes Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Yes,” Reichstad interrupted, “I'm very familiar with the story…”

“But you haven't learned the point of the story,” the third party said. “Napoleon wages a silly, useless military campaign, starting in France and extending all the way into Egypt. It costs the lives of thousands of his troops. Napoleon gains little strategic or military benefit from all that blood—all that violence. But what did he discover while in Egypt? The Rosetta Stone. The archaeological find that would open up for us the meaning of all the other ancient hieroglyphics. How many treasures beneath the sand have owed their discovery to blood shed upon the sand? That even has a bit of a biblical flair to it, don't you think? The shedding of blood that, in turn, leads to truth.”

“When do we get past this 7QA issue—and on to the second phase?” Sharptin asked.

“Hopefully,” the third party explained, “after we get a victory in court on Dr. Reichstad's case, we can lift the media blackout. We can hit the press—starting with the
Washington Herald,
of course. Spread the word around the world that the 7QA discovery has been upheld by a federal court in Washington, D.C. Then we move into the second phase.”

“And what if Reichstad is not successful in court?” Sharptin asked.

“I have contingency plans for everything,” the third party added. “I want the second phase to be implemented, regardless.”

“How soon after the election?” Sharptin asked.

“We'll talk, you and I, about that,” the third party answered. “You know, I have a few more ideas to build some more bridges between East and West. After the election, there is the traditional Christmas tree–lighting ceremony. I thought there ought to be some kind of joint celebration for the Christians and the Muslims—maybe something about the annual pilgrimage to Mecca, you know, just like everybody coming to the Bethlehem stable to see Jesus. It could all happen at the same time, right there on the front lawn of the White House. What do you think?”

“Sounds inspirational,” Sharptin replied.

“Of course,” the third party responded. “I'm an inspired person.”

51

T
HE OCEAN WAS CALM AS THE HUGE
Portuguese freighter cut its engines and dropped anchor off the coast of Newfoundland. From the air, it looked like any other shipping vessel. Just below the water line, however, it was carrying a small five-person, submarine attached to its hull, in the event that a quick escape was needed for its passengers.

The lookout in the tower was peering through his binoculars when he spotted the approaching helicopter, off in the distance. A radio announcement crackled throughout the vessel. Soon the helicopter was hovering near the lookout. He waved to the pilot and his passenger.

With little crosswind, the helicopter landed with ease. The two men jumped out and greeted the lookout, who now was on the deck helping them tie down.

“Where's the cargo?” the lookout asked the pilot and his passenger.

“Back in the helicopter,” one of them answered, and then they laughed.

The lookout slung a short-barreled automatic over his shoulder, and clumbed into the helicopter.

He looked at the figure of Will Chambers, lying on the floor slumped to his side.

“So, what are we going to do with him? Throw the body over the side?” the lookout said loudly to his compatriots, this time in English, and laughed again.

“Feed the body to the hungry sharks?” he added again in a loud voice, still in English.

The lookout unstrapped his machine gun and held it in his right hand. Then he bent down to take a look.

“Get up, American infidel!”

Will stirred, then struggled up to a sitting position.

The lookout pulled him up by one of his arms, which were still tied behind him, and pushed him out of the helicopter, across the deck, and then down the metal stairs that led to the hold.