The Lucifer Code

by Charles Brokaw

  ‘Why?’

  ‘From the beginning, Khalid has chosen a much less generous path than his father and brother. His mother, one of King Yousef’s many wives, was killed during an alleged Shia attack when he was only seven. She died in his arms.’

  Webster remembered seeing the video footage of that attack twelve years ago. It had been most compelling and had, briefly, captured the attention of the world.

  ‘If this attack on his father and brother also turns out to be Shia initiated,’ Doolan said, ‘the young prince may choose to retaliate.’

  ‘Against the people who killed his father and brother?’

  ‘No. He won’t settle for a handful when he’s got a whole people to punish. He’s been very vocal about wanting the Shia driven from Saudi Arabia. That attitude has already fomented political and economic repercussions for the country and the royal family. He’s also not been a big supporter of the United States policies in those areas.’

  ‘Are we talking about the country possibly being torn in half as a result of Khalid’s ascendancy? If that is indeed the case?’

  ‘Not Saudi Arabia, no. That country is primarily Sunni. However, you have to remember that country is bracketed by Iran, Azerbaijan, Bahrain and Iraq, all of which are primarily Shia. Lebanon and Kuwait are almost equally divided between the two Islams. But there are many Shia in Afghanistan, India and Pakistan.’

  As the professor spoke, a map appeared on the wall behind him, quickly marking the mentioned countries as Shia or Sunni.

  ‘What you’re talking about,’ Doolan said, ‘is the distinct possibility that the Middle East might draw battle lines that we haven’t seen before. The continued American presence in Iraq, on the ground militarily and lurking in the political background, is a constant red flag to the Islamic world.’

  ‘Looking at the map, I see that Iraq is marked as a Shia region.’

  ‘Yes, though there are many who disagree, myself among them, with that designation.’

  ‘You don’t agree that Iraq is primarily a Shia nation?’

  ‘I don’t. I think those numbers were inflated at the beginning of our second Iraqi conflict.’

  Another limousine pulled up in front of Webster’s location. As he watched, the driver helped a beautiful woman from the back seat. Her blonde hair, neatly coifed, shone in the afternoon sun. A black leather coat hung to her sculpted calves. Her burgundy red Manolo Blahniks were anything but sensible. Webster wouldn’t have expected anything less.

  He knocked on the window and the secret service agent nearest the door let him out.

  ‘Thank you, Brandon,’ Webster acknowledged.

  ‘My pleasure, sir.’

  Webster approached the woman and he watched her head swivel to face him. She smiled, and the effect was dazzling.

  ‘Mr Vice-President,’ she greeted him.

  Smiling, Webster waved a hand. ‘Vicky, please, if I’ve told you once, I told you a thousand times. Call me Elliott.’

  Eserin Crown Hotel

  Sultanahmet District

  Istanbul, Turkey

  17 March 2010

  Inside the bathroom, Lourds set the shower for a hot, invigorating spray, lathered quickly – twice – and shampooed. Despite the promise of the lovely woman waiting for him in his bedroom, his mind kept wandering back to the book in his backpack. When it came to his relationships, the women in his life could only be mistresses that pulled him away from his love of his work. Or, in Olympia Adnan’s case, he could share that work. Unfortunately, they were both tied to different fields of expertise and to different geographical locations. Neither of them would give up their university environment. Those were their retreats as well as recharge centres.

  When he returned to the room, Olympia still sat in a state of near undress while sitting cross-legged on the bed. The book Lourds had stolen from the men in the catacombs lay in her lap and consumed her attention so much that she didn’t know he was there for a time.

  ‘Find anything interesting?’ he asked.

  Olympia started, then swept the hair from her eyes and smiled. ‘My apologies. I thought I’d set up your workstation.’ She waved to the nearby desk where she’d spread out his books, computer, map tools, cameras and digital recorder. ‘Then I found this. Something new you’re working on?’

  ‘It is. Does it look familiar to you?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s written in Greek, but not any kind of Greek I was ever trained to read.’

  ‘I think very few people could read that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I believe it’s an artificial language.’

  ‘Hundreds – I’m assuming here, of course – of years ago?’

  ‘More like two thousand, unless I miss my guess.’

  ‘I would trust your instincts on something like that.’

  ‘Good.’ Lourds sat on the bed beside her.

  ‘But what makes you think this is so old?’

  ‘A test?’ Lourds grinned.

  ‘As I recall, you always did well with tests.’

  Lourds flipped through the pages of the book. ‘The paper is old, probably hundreds of years. Handmade. Not purchased off a rack at a department store.’

  ‘The size gives that away immediately.’

  ‘Very good.’ Lourds dipped his head in appreciation. ‘But that only covers the handmade part. The age I’m going to guess at because of the stylized lettering and because of the rag content in the paper rather than wood. Charles Fenerty and F. G. Keller invented a paper-making machine and technique that used pulped wood instead of rags in 1844.’ He tapped the book. ‘These sheets were made out of a rag-fibre slurry and calendered to improve the writing surface.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  Lourds shrugged, but he was pleased with himself. ‘Even if this turns out to be a copy of something else, which I think it could well be, its age alone makes it a worthwhile artefact.’

  ‘So what’s this about?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘You?’ Olympia smiled in disbelief. ‘The incredible Professor Thomas Lourds is stumped?’

  ‘Only a minor setback, I assure you.’ Lourds ran his fingers over the textured pages. ‘I’m already starting to make some headway, I think.’

  ‘All this while dodging terrorists at the airport?’

  ‘Multi-tasker, remember?’ Lourds gazed longingly at the flowing script, then reached out and flipped through the pages.

  Olympia closed the book. ‘Nope. Not at this moment, Professor. You’re tired, and you know you’re not at your best when you’re overly fatigued. All you’ll do is stare at those pages while your brain spins helplessly.’

  ‘Really?’ Lourds loved the way she knew him so well.

  ‘Yes, really.’ Olympia ran her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp. ‘After you get a few hours’ sleep, you’ll perform much better.’

  ‘At solving the riddle of the book, I assume you mean.’

  She tweaked his nose playfully and grinned. ‘That. And certain other distractions.’

  ‘Any clue as to what those distractions might entail?’

  Without a word, Olympia set the book aside, then put a hand on his chest and pressed him back on the bed. When Lourds lay supine, she shimmied out of the skirt suit and straddled him wearing only her teal panties. The gauzy material didn’t leave much to the imagination.

  She leaned forward and kissed him, and her hips naturally pressed against his hips. His erection was trapped against her sheer panties and her warm excitement soon allowed her to glide up and down against him. They continued kissing, and Lourds’ tongue parried hers again and again. Her breath came in shorter gasps and she inadvertently shivered as she stroked against him harder and harder.

  Lourds thrust up against her and held in check his own impulse to flip her over and rip the thin material away. Within the next moment, though, she shivered and convulsed, then collapsed against his chest. He luxuriated in the warm feel of her f
lesh pressing against his. He stroked her back, running his fingers from her shoulder blades to her buttocks.

  Minutes passed. Lourds was beginning to think she’d fallen asleep.

  ‘That,’ she said groggily, ‘was better than I’d expected.’

  ‘I’m only here to please.’

  Olympia pushed her head and shoulders up and rolled her hips against his erection. ‘I don’t totally believe you, Professor.’

  ‘Well, please you, please me.’

  After a quick kiss, Olympia rolled onto her back. Lourds gently followed her over, grateful for the spacious bed. He watched as she hooked her panties and slid them off.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged, opening her legs to receive him.

  Lourds moved above her, supporting his own weight, then he teased her, rubbing his slick length against her desire-thickened centre without penetrating her. She squirmed against him in an attempt to find the proper angle to capture him within her.

  ‘You… you really aren’t playing… nice,’ Olympia protested.

  ‘As nice as you were earlier.’ Lourds leaned down and nuzzled her neck, licking right below her ear and sending her into a paroxysm of jangled nerves. He knew she loved and hated the sensation equally. Before she could admonish him, though, he adjusted and sheathed himself in her hot flesh. Whatever complaint she might have intended to lodge died as she gasped in pleasure.

  Lourds moved against her, amazed at how familiar and how different everything seemed. He had missed her, and knew he would miss her again in the near future. But for now he gave himself to her and took what she had to offer.

  It was over far quicker than he thought it should be. For a time, he lay atop her, stroked and held her, basking in their shared delight. Then she nudged him off politely, and he lay beside her.

  ‘Wow,’ Olympia said quietly as she snuggled into the crook of his arm.

  ‘Likewise,’ Lourds gasped.

  She ran a forefinger over his lips. ‘Why don’t you sleep for a little while and later, when you wake up, we’ll go to dinner.’

  ‘I may sleep through dinner.’ Lourds felt himself already fading.

  ‘I won’t let you. You’ll need to eat. You’re going to need your strength.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Lourds grinned.

  ‘It’s a promise.’

  He closed his eyes and let his senses go away, but in the back of his mind, that part of him that never slept, the lizard brain that kept heart and respiration cycling, still worked on the book’s contents.

  Washington Dulles International Airport

  Washington D. C.

  United States of America

  17 March, 2010

  Vicky DeAngelo was from old money, earned the old-fashioned way. Her great-great-grandfather had been infamous, the head of an organized crime family that got rich during the Prohibition era. Francis DeAngelo had dreamed of being a respectable man, though. While his contemporaries had continued to toil in illegal industries, DeAngelo had gone legit. Not only that, he’d been smart about it, and ruthless. He had battled and blackmailed his way into the ranks of the major capitalists who hung out with the Rockefellers and other captains of industry.

  Francis DeAngelo had been inventive about making his money. He had sunk his criminal profits into Hollywood, radio and television. Those risky investments had proven themselves successful and he had managed to gain leverage in other businesses in the health and electronics industries. Today, the DeAngelo television network maintained a prominent presence in news and entertainment. Vicky had been friends with Webster even before his wife’s death, and it had been Vicky who had produced Vanessa Webster’s show.

  The DeAngelo communications empire had also been a major player in President Waggoner’s campaigns, publicly and behind the scenes.

  Vicky smoothed Webster’s coat lapel into place.

  ‘If my great-great-grandfather could see me now, hobnobbing with the vice-president of the United States, I know he’d be pleased,’ she said. ‘Not everyone gets to hang with the Veep.’

  ‘Trust me, my dear, not everyone would want to.’ Webster took her hands in his and squeezed.

  She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Then they’d be fools and I don’t want to talk about them.’

  Webster chuckled. ‘I’m so glad you could join me on this trip.’

  Vicky gave him a knowing look. ‘The king of Saudi Arabia has just been assassinated, possibly by religious rivals, the oil trade may hang in the balance because the successor to the throne isn’t a big United States fan, and you think I would pass up a chance for a front row seat to the coming Apocalypse?’

  The choice of words surprised Webster. His eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I hoped you wouldn’t.’

  She smiled. ‘And here I am.’

  Vicky pulled her coat a little more tightly around her.

  ‘Come on,’ Webster said. ‘Let’s get you out of this weather.’ He held out his arm and she took it, automatically falling into stride with him as he walked toward the jet.

  Two more luxury vehicles sped along the tarmac heading for the jet as well. Overhead, an executive Bell helicopter dropped in for a landing nearby.

  Vicky shaded her eyes with a hand as she looked at the new arrivals. ‘Stephen Napier and Tristan Hamilton?’

  Webster nodded. Stephen Napier was CEO of Prometheus Experimental Energy Research, one of the leading alternative energy developers. Tristan Hamilton was the scion of the legendary oil wildcatter Wesley ‘Dusty’ Hamilton, the latest mogul in one of the biggest oil families in Texas.

  ‘Bringing in the big guns, aren’t you?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘The president wants me to make an impression over there,’ Webster said. ‘I aim to do that.’

  The helicopter touched down effortlessly. The door opened and a young man with dreadlocks, skin the colour of good coffee with cream, a soul patch and a copper-coloured Armani suit got out. Wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes. He carried a slim valise and walked with innate rhythm. Bright turquoise iPod earbuds nestled in his ears.

  ‘Who is Mr Cool?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘My secret weapon,’ Webster answered.

  Vicky lifted an eyebrow. ‘After all these years, you still find ways to surprise me. I felt certain I knew everyone you knew who was worth knowing.’

  ‘Not all my friends want to be known.’

  Stephen Napier was a solid block of a man in his late forties with black hair. He worked out religiously and had a chiselled jaw line. The weightlifter’s physique camouflaged the gifted scientific mind. Napier had graduated from college at fifteen and earned dual doctorates in physical science and chemistry by the age of seventeen. He had taken out his first three million-dollar patents between graduating college and earning his PhDs.

  Tristan Hamilton wore jeans, cowboy boots, a dark brown leather duster and a chocolate-coloured Stetson complete with a turquoise and silver hat band. In his late twenties, he had practically grown up dividing his time between the family ranch and the family offshore oil wells in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Both Napier and Hamilton watched the newcomer with cool gazes. The young man ignored them and walked straight up to Vicky DeAngelo. He took her hand delicately and pressed his lips to the back of it as he peered over the sunglasses.

  ‘Ms DeAngelo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr…’

  He released her hand and stood straight. Up close, he was taller than he looked, six-three at least.

  ‘Call me Spider. All my friends do.’ His voice was musical. A hint of Jamaican ran through it, though Webster knew the man wasn’t a Jamaican by birth or upbringing.

  ‘And what is it you do, Spider?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘These days, I do whatever it is I wish to do. And I like it like that.’

  ‘So you like playing mysterious?’

  ‘I don’t play at being mysterious.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘If Vice-President Webster had wanted you to know who I was, you’d know
by now. So I guess you’ll know when he gets ready for you to know.’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe not.’

  Napier and Hamilton joined them. The Texan towered above them, standing six feet six barefooted. The boots and the hat pushed him up over seven feet tall. He tipped that hat to Vicky.

  ‘Good to see you again, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Call me ma’am again and I’ll punch you in the eye,’ she threatened him.

  Hamilton gave her a slow smile. ‘Honestly, I don’t think you could reach that high. You’re just a little bit of nothin’.’

  Vicky smiled sweetly. ‘How would you like to be the centre of an exposé, cowboy? Maybe we’d get a few of those skeletons in your closet to rattle around.’

  The easygoing grin held firm. ‘Vicky it is.’

  ‘Thought you’d see it my way.’ Vicky turned to Webster. ‘Are we expecting anyone else?’

  ‘No,’ Webster answered. ‘Not on this flight, at least. There will be others showing up in Saudi. People who have vested interests in the Middle East. But I expect you four to be the key players in this enterprise.’

  Spider glanced round the group. ‘I guess this promises to be some shindig.’

  That, Webster knew, was an understatement. If everything happened the way he hoped and planned, the meeting in Saudi Arabia was going to be world changing.

  The only obstacle in his way was the book in the hands of Professor Thomas Lourds. But that would be taken care of soon.

  14

  Beyazit Tower

  Istanbul University

  Beyazit Square

  Istanbul, Turkey

  19 March 2010

  A cool breeze blew in from the Golden Horn, the inlet of the Bosphorus River. Lourds stood with the breeze in his face and smelt the salt of the sea.

  From his vantage point at the top of Beyazit Tower, he could see all the Old City, both banks of the Golden Horn and the mouth of the Sea of Marmara. If he squinted, he could even see Princes’ Islands where he had once taken Olympia Adnan to picnic. Travel there was by horse and cart, and the pace was a lot slower than on the mainland. Many of the cottages and dwellings dated back to Victorian times when the island became a vacation resort for the wealthy. Throughout the history of the islands, royalty had been banished there again and again. European kings and princes had been followed by sultans as Constantinople fell to be reborn as Istanbul. As a seaport and as a tie between the East and the West, the city had never had a peer.