The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  Michael didn’t have an answer.

  “She’ll do what any girlfriend or spouse would do,” implored Cam. “She’ll call the police. And tell them how her fiancé died mysteriously with his two best friends.”

  “She’s going to call the police anyways. He was supposed to be home by now.”

  Cam grumbled with exhaustion. “As unfortunate and callous as it sounds, we are better off with Trip being reported as a missing person right now than we are if they launch an investigation into his death. We have to think rational,” he explained, “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Fine,” Michael agreed. “But she needs to know.”

  The two shared a silent nod and returned to their beers.

  “She’ll be the first one we call once we get out of this,” promised Cam. “Now, any luck with the symbols?”

  “Nothing. Like, nothing even remotely close.”

  The contents of the ossuary had left them with more questions than answers. They had spent the last couple days researching the symbols carved into the mysterious stone slab.

  “It’s got to be some sort of code or lost language,” Michael guessed.

  Cam picked up the slab and frowned at it, begging for the damn thing to reveal its secrets.

  “As far as the polymer blocks go,” Michael continued. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, there’s either photos inside or just images ghosted into this…synthetic resin or whatever.”

  There were seven of them; each roughly measured eight inches wide, four inches high and two inches thick. The polymer resin blurred any further details of what lay beneath.

  “Fuck it. Let’s crack these things open,” Cam finally said.

  “I don’t know,” Michael questioned. “I mean, how the hell do seven photographs and an electronic device wind up in an ancient tomb? This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s why we need to know what’s in those blocks.”

  In a shared moment of reluctance, they waited for a sign—for the spirits of history to guide them toward the right decision.

  “Listen to me,” Cam began. “The handoff went south, we’re on our own here.”

  “Even if Rook sends help, they’ll never know where to find us,” Michael added.

  “We’re going to rip open these polymer blocks, then find a symbologist or something to decipher the stone.” Cam took a moment to breathe before the lightbulb went off. “Dr. Diaz! We need to find Diaz.”

  Michael jumped off the bed to a nearby table, where he pegged the keyboard with a few strokes and produced an online search result for Dr. Ricardo Diaz. There, at the top of the list was an article dated one week ago.

  Cam peered over his brother’s shoulder at the monitor. The headline read, Scientist Found Dead in Peru. The article detailed the horrific circumstances in which Diaz and his wife had been brutally tortured and murdered.

  “Jesus Christ.” Cam rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

  “Rook’s probably dead, too,” Michael guessed.

  Cam shuffled over to his bag and pulled out a hunting knife, then randomly snatched one of the polymer blocks from the bed.

  The first strike went right into the center of the clear block and stuck. Cam pried at it until the entire thing snapped. Shards of polymer broke off and littered the bed.

  He turned and placed what was left of the block on the table and began pulling more chunks away, one by one. Finally, after a little wiping, he held a black-and-white photo in his hand.

  Michael leaned in for a better look. “What the hell?”

  “There’s no way,” Cam whispered. He held the photo into the air. After a moment of close examination, he placed it on the table. “Give me another one.”

  As they made their way through the strange blocks, the first one lay eerily on the table, breathing oxygen for the first time in almost a thousand years. The grainy, sepia pixels captured one of America’s greatest political figures. It was Dwight Eisenhower sitting at the Resolute desk, surrounded by his peers.

  Moments later, another photo fell onto the table. This one, a rather bleached-out image taken in poor sunlight, showed what appeared to be ethnic slave laborers pulling large stone blocks on sleds. Next to the slaves were three men in midcentury-style suits and hats and in the background stood a half-built pyramid in the desert.

  A third image fell—tribal men in war paint and headdresses, standing in the jungle with a group of white men in sweat-stained dress shirts. A fourth—starving soldiers wading through a river with muskets raised above their heads. A fifth—more indigenous tribesmen. And photos six and seven showed small groups of white men in slacks and shirts at remote outposts around the world. It was a bizarre collection of historical photos.

  “This has to be a hoax,” Michael presumed. “These could just as easily have been taken at a Hollywood studio. Either that or someone went out and bought an old Polaroid and a time machine, traveled to the distant past and snapped a few shots, then buried all of this crap in Bolivia.”

  “A thousand years ago?” Cam questioned.

  “I think Diaz was batshit crazy and all of this is one big joke,” chided Michael.

  “Maybe. But who the hell would pay fifteen million dollars just to retrieve a bunch of fake photos, a stone slab and a lightsaber?”

  “I say we throw it all in the trash and never look back. Our money’s already in the bank and there’s a perfectly normal life waiting for me back home.”

  “There’s nothing waiting for you back home except a bullet in the head,” Cam reminded his brother.

  “No, I’m not buying it. The CIA has no idea who we are. We covered all our tracks in Mexico. They’ll never put it together.”

  Cam was already busily typing away on the laptop. “Never underestimate the CIA, my friend. They will follow this thing back to us. We have to be careful.”

  “What are you doing?” Michael asked.

  “Digging through the National Archives.”

  “For what?”

  “For this.” Cam spun the laptop back to his brother. It was a picture of Dwight Eisenhower sitting at the same desk as in the photo plucked from polymer, with the same group of men standing around him. The image was from a slightly different angle and had been digitally enhanced, but it was, without a doubt, from the same day, by the same photographer.

  “Where’d you find that?”

  “A simple search of ‘Dwight Eisenhower’ in the Archives database. Almost too easy.”

  “So…what?”

  “Snap copies of all these photos with the burner phone,” ordered Cam. “And the tablet, too.”

  “For what?”

  “We’re sending them to James.”

  The words sent a shiver down Michael’s spine. Their oldest brother, James Lyle, was a professor of English Studies at Wilmington University in Delaware. He still lived in Hockessin, a stone’s throw from the house they grew up in. Neither Cam nor Michael had spoken to him in months.

  James Lyle was a scholar with immense professional reserve. His relationship with his two younger brothers had always been one of distant closeness. He was loyal, faithful and trustworthy. Just the type of ally they needed.

  “I don’t know about this, Cam. We should really think this through.”

  “Listen, he’s smarter than both of us combined, and he knows more about this kind of shit than we do.”

  The men hastily snapped pictures of the seven photos and the tablet, then connected the burner phone to the laptop and uploaded them.

  “His email isn’t secure, Cam. This is a huge
mistake,” Michael argued.

  “We don’t have time for every security measure in the book. And we can’t sit here forever, so, if we don’t have a game plan by sundown, we’re just sitting ducks.”

  Cam clicked the Send button.

  Sensing Michael’s anxiety, he grabbed his brother by the arm. “I think you could use some fresh air. Go outside, take a walk and relax.”

  Through a scowl, Michael complied with the suggestion and left the room for a stroll around the property. Cam took a seat at the edge of the bed and held the small phone in both hands. He hung his head and tried his best to collect his thoughts.

  He dialed James’ cell number by memory and held the phone to his ear.

  “James? It’s me, Cam.”

  “Hey, great to hear from you! I didn’t recognize the number.”

  “Yeah, I—I had to get a new number. Work stuff, you know.”

  “Gotcha. So, to what do I owe the pleasure, everything going well?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, did you get the email I just sent by chance? I’m working on something pretty time sensitive and I’ve hit a roadblock. Could really use some help.”

  “No, I haven’t checked yet. What can I do?”

  “I’m not sure exactly,” Cam nervously chuckled. “Are you in front of your computer?”

  “I can be.” James was pillaging around his office looking for curriculum notes when Cam had called. He now turned his attention to his laptop, sitting discarded on a cluttered wooden desk. “Alright, what am I looking for?”

  “I just sent an email from a random address. Check out the attached files, especially the last one.”

  “Okay.”

  Cam could hear his brother clicking through the files.

  “Interesting,” James finally responded.

  “Ever seen those symbols before?”

  “Never,” the professor said. “Looks like—I dunno, it almost looks Babylonian. Or maybe even South American—Incan or Mayan perhaps. I really have no idea, I’m an English professor, not an archaeologist. Where’d you get this anyways?”

  “A friend,” Cam coldly replied.

  “Sure you did. Wish I could be more help. Have you talked to mom and dad lately?”

  “Maybe six weeks ago.”

  “I’m sensing something’s up, Cam. You’re not with Michael, are you?”

  Cam rolled his eyes. “No. He’s at a travel seminar in Arizona I think.”

  James could tell when his brothers were lying, especially Cam. It was an instinct of shared blood. He looked up from his desk, then stood to close his office door.

  “What the hell are you guys up to?” he whispered into the phone. “Are you in trouble?”

  Cam took a deep breath and rubbed his brow. “Yeah, we’re in a bit of a jam. I can’t tell you any more than that. If someone comes around asking about me, you just have to… just tell them you haven’t talked to me since Christmas.”

  “I haven’t talked to you since Christmas.”

  “Exactly. Listen, James, I just need to try and find out what all this stuff is. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  James was examining the images closer now. “What the hell am I looking at, Cam?”

  “Download those to a thumb drive and keep it somewhere safe. Then erase the email. Make sure you empty your deleted folder as well. You’re gonna have to ask your IT department to wipe your computer. I’m really sorry, James, just tell them one of the students mistakenly put a virus on it.”

  “This doesn’t sound good.” James was uncomfortable now. “Where can I contact you?”

  “By this time tomorrow, this number won’t be any good. Just see what you can make of the photos without sharing them with anyone and I’ll be in touch soon, okay?”

  “Listen Cam, I can’t make any promises. And to be totally straight with you, I don’t think I’m going to be able to help. But there’s a symbols and linguistics expert our History department uses quite a bit. His name’s Corin Baker—Dublin, Ireland. Best in the world.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, James. I’m sorry I called.”

  “Give me a week or so and I’ll see if anything else turns up.” James exhaled in disappointment. “Goodbye, Cam.”

  Minutes later, Michael returned to the room.

  “What’s the deal?” he asked, slamming the door behind him.

  “You’re going to Ireland.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  FBI Field Office, San Francisco, California

  Rand Kershaw stared deep into the matrix of information in front of him. A young female intelligence analyst sat quietly nearby, waiting for a response from her new lead agent.

  “William Montgomery the third,” Rand finally announced. “Twenty-nine years of age from Lodi, Texas. A programmer, correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said without hesitation. “Born on a family farm. Both parents deceased. He had one sibling—a brother, also deceased. A programmer and analyst by trade, a hacker in his free time. He spent eighteen months in federal prison for a cyber security attack on the DOS. He currently works as a programmer with a firm in Silicon Valley—Spartan Security.”

  “Personal relationships? Love interests?” Rand asked.

  The analyst read deeper. “He was recently engaged to a one Elena Getty.”

  There were a dozen dossiers on the table in front of them—each daring to be pieced together.

  “We interviewed local PD,” she went on. “No reports of missing persons. Scoured every John Doe within a hundred miles. Nothing.”

  “Wonderful,” Rand grumbled. “And the fiancé?”

  “No contact yet, but we’ve got a team headed to her last known address now.”

  “Okay.” Rand took a moment to think. “Let’s move on to known acquaintances.”

  “Well, there are some interesting connections.” The attractive young analyst was on her feet now, pulling folders from the table. “Of the inmates he was closest to in prison, most are still incarcerated, some have since passed away and a few have been released and accounted for. There’s nothing of interest from any friends he made there.”

  “What about other hackers he used to run with?” Rand pressed.

  “Are you kidding?” she teased. “They’re all shadows. Non-existent.”

  The agent pursed his lips. Of course they are. “Talk to me about his older brother. The dead SEAL.”

  “Mark Montgomery,” the analyst read aloud. “Joined the Navy at eighteen, high marks from his commanding officers and scored well above average on his ASVAB. After a couple years abroad, he made it through BUD/S, fast-tracked Green and was drafted by Echo platoon, SEAL Team 8. Served six years, active duty. KIA five years ago when the Taliban attacked an outpost in the Korengal Valley.”

  Rand was silent, waiting for his other two ghosts to emerge. He could feel them. They were close.

  “A Navy SEAL would have more than enough talent to knock over a casino,” he pointed out. “And Trip has all the tools to carry out a cyberattack on Hamilton. Are there any military contacts that Trip might have made through his brother?”

  “This man here,” she immediately replied, pulling a dossier from the stack. “Another former SEAL that we’ve connected to Trip. His name’s Cameron Lyle.”

  “What’s the relation?” asked Rand.

  A devious grin swept across her face. “I thought you’d never ask. Cameron Lyle served with Trip’s brother Mark on Team 8. They pulled off some of the most dangerous missions JSOC has ever executed in the Middle East. He was with Trip’s brother
when the outpost was attacked, probably watched him die. Cameron went on to be a BUD/S training officer at the Naval Special Warfare Center in San Diego. He now works as a tactical weapons and training consultant for not only the US Navy, but our Army and Marine special ops units as well. Not to mention a litany of private military companies.”

  “Background?”

  “Grew up in Hockessin, Delaware. Both parents still alive, they never moved away. He has an older brother, James, who’s a professor, and a younger brother, Michael, who—I dunno,” the analyst stumbled as she read through the folder. “Looks like he owns an extreme travel agency or something in D.C.”

  Rand hesitated. “Did you get any info regarding freighter heists off the coast of Mexico?”

  “No,” she reluctantly replied. “There were no reports from Mexican authorities or US Coast Guard. And for good measure we checked with all freighter companies working those waters and came up empty.”

  “CIA?”

  “They didn’t have anything remotely matching our criteria.”

  Rand flared his nostrils in contempt. “Fine. Do we have eyes on Cameron Lyle?”

  “Not at the moment, sir.”

  “Reynolds!” Rand yelled out to the bullpen. “Can you join us?”

  A moment later, Agent Reynolds shuffled into the large conference room.

  “Alright,” Rand announced. “I need eyes on Cameron Lyle as soon as possible. Track credit cards, email addresses, home address, clients, family, everything. This guy fits our profile perfectly, but we need to locate him. Grab his cellphone records and find the last tower it pinged. Start there and work your way out.”

  With that, the analyst dove back into her laptop and began plundering the nation’s communications databases for anything that would help locate Cameron Lyle.

  Reynolds and Kershaw dipped out of the conference room and lingered in the hallway.

  “So this is suspect number two?” Reynolds asked.

  “I can’t say for certain. But he’s a perfect match on paper.”