The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller (The Origin Mystery, Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  Josh had to send David what he’d found and a way to contact the source. Options? Normally they would establish an online dead-drop: a public web site where they exchanged coded messages. Clocktower routinely used eBay auctions — the pictures of the product for sale included embedded messages or files that a Clocktower algorithm could decrypt. To the naked eye, the picture looked normal, but small pixel changes throughout added up to a complex file Clocktower could read.

  But he and David hadn’t established any system. He couldn’t call. Emailing would be a death sentence: Clocktower would monitor any email addresses, and when David checked it, Clocktower would trace the IP of the computer he used. The IP would give them a physical address, or a very close idea. Video surveillance feeds nearby would fill in the rest, and they would have him within minutes. An IP… Josh had an idea. Could it work?

  Erasing… 37% Complete

  He had to work fast, before the computer stopped functioning.

  Josh opened a VPN connection to a private server he used mostly as a relay and staging area for online operations — transforming and bouncing encrypted reports around the internet before delivering them to Central. It was just added security to make sure Jakarta Station’s downloads to Central weren’t intercepted. It was off the grid, no one knew about it. And it already had several security protocols he’d written. It was perfect.

  But the server didn’t have a web address — it didn’t need one — just an IP: 50.31.14.76. Web addresses like www.google.com, www.apple.com, etc really translated to IPs — when you type an address in your web browser, a group of servers called domain name servers (DNS), match the address to an IP in their database, and send you to the right place. If you typed the IP into your browser’s address bar, you’d actually end up in the same place without the routing; 74.125.139.100 opens Google.com, 17.149.160.49 opens Apple.com, and so on.

  Josh finished uploading the data to the server. The computer was starting to run slowly. Several error messages popped up.

  Erasing 48% Complete.

  The drumming had stopped. They were using the torch again. A round bulge of strained metal had formed in the center of the door.

  Josh had to send David the IP. He couldn’t call or text. All the sources and case officers would be monitored by Clocktower, and besides, he had no idea where David would end up. He needed somewhere David would look. Some way to send the numbers in the IP Address. Something only Josh knew about…

  David’s bank account. It could work.

  Josh also maintained a private bank account; he imagined almost everyone in their line of work did.

  The cry of bending metal filled the cavernous room like a dying whale. They were close.

  Josh opened a web browser and logged in to his bank. Quickly, he keyed in David’s bank routing number and account number. Then he made a series of deposits to David’s account:

  9.11

  50.00

  31.00

  14.00

  76.00

  9.11

  It would take a day for the transactions to post, and even after they did, David would only see it if he checked the account. Would he know it was an IP address? Field operatives weren’t exactly tech-savvy. It was a long shot.

  The door broke. Men were through, soldiers in full battle armor.

  Erasing 65% Complete.

  Not enough. They would find something.

  The box, the capsule. 3-4 seconds. Not enough time.

  Josh lunged for the box on the table, knocking it off. It crashed to the glass floor and he followed it. His shaking hands reached inside, grabbing the gun. How did it go, slide, shoot, press here. God. They were at the entrance to the glass room, three men.

  He raised the gun. His arm shook. He steadied it with his other hand, and squeezed the trigger. The bullets ripped through the computer. He had to hit the hard drive. He fired again. The sound was deafening in the room.

  Then the sound was all around. Glass was everywhere, tiny pieces. Josh was rushing to the glass wall. Then glass fell all around him, on him, cutting him. He looked down, seeing the bullet holes in his chest and the blood running from his mouth.

  CHAPTER 26

  Pesanggrahan River

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  The fishermen paddled the boat down the river, toward the Java Sea. The fishing had been good the last several days, and they had brought extra nets — all they had in fact. The boat sagged with the weight, riding lower in the water than it normally did. If things went well, they would return as the sun set, dragging the nets behind the boat, full of fish, enough for their small family and enough to sell at the market.

  Harto watched his son Eko paddling at the front of the boat, and pride washed over him. Soon, Harto would retire and Eko would do the fishing. Then, in time, Eko would take his son out, just like this, just like Harto’s father had taught him to fish.

  He hoped it would be so. Lately, Harto had begun to worry that this would not be the way things would come to pass. Every year there were more boats — and less fish. They fished longer each day and yet their nets carried fewer fish. Harto pushed the thought from his mind. Good fortune comes and recedes, just like the seas; it was the way of things. He must not worry over things past his control.

  His son stopped paddling. The boat started to turn.

  Harto yelled to him, “Eko, you must paddle, the boat will turn if we don’t paddle evenly. Pay attention.”

  “There’s something in the water, Papa.”

  Harto looked. There was… something black, floating. A man. “Paddle quickly, Eko.”

  They pulled up beside him, and Harto reached out, grabbed him, and tried to pull him into the narrow boat loaded with nets. He was too heavy. He wore some kind of shell. But the shell floated. Some special material. Harto turned the man over. A helmet, and goggles — they had covered his nose, kept him from drowning.

  “A diver, papa?”

  “No, he’s… a policeman, I think.” Harto tried to pull him into the boat again, but it nearly tipped over. “Here Eko, help me.”

  Together, Father and Son dragged the water-logged man into the boat, but as soon as he cleared the side, the boat began taking on water.

  “We’re sinking, Papa!” Eko looked about nervously.

  Water rushed over the boat’s side. What to throw out? The man? The river flowed to the sea, he would surely die there. They couldn’t drag him, not far. The water rushed in more quickly now.

  Harto eyed the nets, the only other thing with any weight in the boat. But they were Eko’s inheritance — the only wealth his family had, their only means of survival, of putting food on their table.

  “Throw the nets over, Eko.”

  The young boy followed his father’s orders without question, throwing the nets over one-by-one, feeding his birthright to the slow-moving river.

  When most of the nets were gone, the water stopped, and Harto slumped back into the boat, staring with absent eyes at the man.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?”

  When his father said nothing, Eko scooted closer to him and the man they had rescued. “Is he dead? Did—”

  “We must get him home. Help me paddle, son. He may be in some trouble.”

  They turned the boat and paddled back up the river, against the current, toward Harto’s wife and daughter, who would be preparing to clean and store the fish they brought back. There would be no fish today.

  CHAPTER 27

  Associated Press

  Wire Release - Breaking News Report

  Explosions and Gunfire Rock Indonesian Capital of Jakarta; Police Chief Arrested

  Jakarta, Indonesia (AP) // The Associated Press has received multiple reports of explosions and gunfire across Jakarta. Although no terrorist groups have claimed responsibility, insiders within the Indonesian Government, speaking on the condition of anonymity, said they believe the attacks were a coordinated strike. It’s not clear at this time who the target or targets were.

  At
about 1 pm local time, three separate bomb blasts ripped through high-rise buildings in rundown residential neighborhoods across the city. Observers said at least two of the buildings were thought to be abandoned.

  Those blasts were followed minutes later by explosions and automatic gunfire on the streets of the market district. Casualty figures are unavailable and police have declined to comment.

  In what is believed to be a separate incident, the Chief of the West Jakarta Police Station was arrested on child pornography charges. The new chief of the station, Paku Kurnia, issued this statement: “This is a sad and shameful day for The Jakarta Metro Police and The West Jakarta Police Station, but our willingness to confront this evil within our own ranks will ultimately make us stronger and affirm the public trust in us.”

  The AP will update both stories as details emerge.

  CHAPTER 28

  Immari Jakarta Headquarters

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  Kate sat in a chair, her hands bound behind her, the dark hood still over her head. The trip had been rough. The soldiers had tossed her about like a rag doll for the past thirty minutes, transferring her from one van to another, marching her down a series of hallways, and finally throwing her into the chair and slamming a door. The sensation of moving in pure darkness had made her nauseous. Her hands ached from the zip ties, and she couldn’t see a thing through the thick black hood. The absolute dark and quiet was disorienting, like sensory deprivation. How long had she been there?

  Then she heard something coming closer: footfalls in a hallway or large room. They echoed louder with each passing second.

  “Take that bag off her head!”

  Martin Gray’s voice. Martin — the sound of her adoptive father’s voice sent waves of relief through Kate’s body. The darkness didn’t seem so dark, and the pain in her hands near the bindings seemed to ease. She was safe. Martin would help her find her children.

  She felt the bag lift off her head. The lights blinded her, and she squinted, grimaced, and turned her head away.

  “And unbind her hands. Who did this to her?”

  “I did, sir. She was resisting.”

  She still couldn’t see them, but she knew the voice — the man who had taken her from the truck, who had taken the children at the clinic. Ben Adelson’s killer.

  “You must have been pretty scared of her.” Martin’s voice was cold and forceful. Kate had never heard him talk to anyone that way. She heard two more men chuckling, then her captor responded, “Complain all you want, Grey. I don’t answer to you. And you seemed satisfied with our work earlier.”

  What did he mean by that?

  Martin’s voice changed slightly; it was more amused. “You know, it almost sounds like you’re resisting, Mr. Tarea. Here, I’ll show you what happens when you do.”

  Kate could see Martin now. His face was hard. He stared at the man, then turned to two other men — soldiers who must have accompanied Martin. “Take him to a holding cell. Shroud him and bind his hands, the tighter the better.”

  The two men seized the kidnapper and put the bag that had been on Kate’s head on him and dragged him out of the room.

  Martin bent down to Kate and said, “Are you ok?”

  Kate rubbed her hands and leaned forward. “Martin, two children were taken from my lab. That man was one of the kidnappers. We have to find—”

  Martin held up a hand. “I know. I’ll explain everything. But right now I need you to tell me what you’ve done to those children. It’s very important, Kate.”

  Kate opened her mouth to respond, but she didn’t know where to start. Questions raced through her head.

  Before she could speak, two more men entered the large room and spoke to Martin. “Sir, Director Sloane would like to speak with you.”

  Martin looked up, annoyed. “I’ll call him back, this can’t—”

  “Sir, he’s here.”

  “In Jakarta?”

  “In the building, sir. We’ve been instructed to escort you to him. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Martin stood slowly, looking worried. “Take her downstairs, to the observation deck for the excavation. And… Guard the door. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Martin’s men escorted Kate out, keeping a safe distance, but watching her like a hawk. She noticed that the other men treated Martin the same way.

  CHAPTER 29

  Pesanggrahan River

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  Harto watched as the mysterious man pushed up onto his elbows, tore his helmet and goggles off, then looked around, confused. He threw the head gear over the side of the boat, and after lying down for a few minutes more, he struggled with some straps at the side of his suit. Finally, he managed to tear them loose, and he tossed the bulky vest over the side as well. Harto had noticed a large hole in the chest area of the vest. Maybe it was damaged. The man rubbed his chest, breathing heavily.

  He was an American or maybe a European. This surprised Harto. He knew the man was white — he could see part of his face when they brought him aboard the boat, but he assumed the man was Japanese, or maybe Chinese. Why would a European soldier be here, in the river? Maybe he wasn’t a policeman. Maybe he was a criminal, a terrorist, or a drug cartel soldier. Had Harto gotten them into something dangerous? He paddled faster. Eko saw the boat starting to turn, and he paddled faster too. The boy was learning so quickly.

  When the white man’s breathing had leveled off some, he sat up and began speaking English.

  Eko looked back. Harto didn’t know what to say. The soldier spoke slowly. Harto said the only English he knew. “My wife speak English. She help you.”

  The man sunk again to his back. He stared up at the sky and rubbed his chest while Harto and Eko paddled.

  David assumed the bullet to the chest had killed the bio-monitor in the body armor. It had sure done a number on him. The tracker in the helmet would still be active, but it was at the bottom of the river.

  God bless these Jakartan fisherman. They had saved him, but where were they taking him? Maybe Immari had announced a reward for him — these two had simply caught a lottery ticket. Or maybe David was on the dinner menu tonight. He could barely breathe, would probably put up about as much fight as a Thanksgiving turkey. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He had to rest. He watched the river for a minute, then closed his eyes.

  David felt the soft comfort of a bed beneath him. A middle-aged Jakartan woman held a wet rag at his forehead. “Can you hear me?” When she saw his eyes open, she turned away and began yelling in another language.

  David grabbed her arm. She looked frightened. “I’m not going to hurt you. Where am I?” he said. He realized that he felt much better. He could breathe again, but the pain was still there in his chest. He sat up and released her arm.

  The woman told him their address, but David didn’t know it. Before he could ask another question, she backed out of the room, watching him cautiously, her head tilted slightly.

  He stood and walked around the home. It was several rooms with paper thin walls covered with homemade art, mostly depicting fisherman. He opened a rickety screen door and walked out onto a terrace. The home was on the third or fourth level of a “building” with many similar homes — all with white plaster walls, dirty screen doors, and terraces stacked like stair steps climbing up the banks of the river below. He looked out into the distance. As far as the eye could see, he saw stacks and stacks of these homes, like pasteboard boxes stacked on top of each other. Clothes hung on lines outside each one, and here and there, women were beating rugs, sending dust rising into the setting sun like demons fleeing the earth.

  David glanced down toward the river. Fishing boats were coming and going. A few had small motors, but most were powered by paddlers. His eyes searched the buildings above. Would they be here already, looking for him? Then he saw them. Two men, Immari Security, exiting on the second floor below him. David backed into the shadow of the balcony and watched the men go into the next home. How long d
id he have? Five, maybe ten minutes?

  He walked back into the home and found the family huddled together in what passed for a living room, though it had two small beds in it as well. The two parents corralled a boy and a girl behind them, as if David’s look could harm them.

  At 6’3”, David was almost two heads taller than the man and woman, and his muscular frame almost filled the narrow doorway, blocking the last rays of the setting sun. He must look like a monster to them, or an alien, a completely different species.

  David focused on the woman. “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes. A little. I sell fish in the market.”

  “Good. I need help. It is very important. A woman and two children are in danger. Please ask your husband if he will help me.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Immari Jakarta Headquarters

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  Martin Grey walked into the room cautiously, eyeing Dorian Sloane as if he were an apparition. The Director of Immari Security stood on the far side of Martin’s corner office on the 66th floor of the Immari Jakarta Headquarters. Sloane looked out over the Java Sea, watching the boats come and go. Martin thought the younger man hadn’t seen him come in, so he was startled when he spoke. “Surprised to see me, Martin?”

  Martin realized Sloane had watched him enter in the glass’s reflection. He saw Sloane’s eyes there now. They were cold, calculating, intense… Like a predator watching his prey, waiting to strike. The incomplete reflection hid the rest of his face. His hands were clasped behind his back. His long black trench coat looked so out of place here in Jakarta, where heat and humidity forced even bankers into less formal attire. Only body guards, or anyone with something to hide covered up so much.