The Babylonian Codex

by C. S. Graham

  Chapter 13

  “It’s known as the Cross of St. Thomas,” said Dr. Stein, her gaze on October’s sketch. “Or sometimes the Nasrani menorah, since it’s based on the Jewish menorah. These candles—three on each side—represent God as a burning bush, while the central branch is the cross. The dove at the top is the Holy Spirit.”

  “But . . .” October frowned. “What does this have to do with Babylon?”

  “Legend has it that St. Thomas came to Babylon after leaving Syria, before traveling to India.” She traced the outline of the Byzantine-style cross with one finger, her brows drawing together in a frown.

  “What is it?” asked Jax, watching her troubled, lined face.

  “I don’t know if I should—” She broke off, then began again. “I’ve heard persistent rumors that there was nothing accidental about the looting of the National Museum and Library in Baghdad. That it was in fact the result of a carefully planned project to steal the country’s historical treasures.”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that the looting was not random. Oh, some of it was—especially on the second day, when people from the surrounding neighborhoods descended on the smashed galleries with wheelbarrows and carts. But many of those items have since been recovered. The first thieves on the scene knew exactly what they had come for—and they arrived with special equipment to lift and transport the heaviest items. These were men with the skills to open locked vaults—and with the knowledge to focus on the most valuable antiquities. They were there for very specific objects and they knew where to look. It was almost as if they had lists of the most important items—as if dealers and collectors had placed their orders in advance.” She paused. “I’ve even heard reports that a U.S. military armored vehicle stood in front of the gates while the thieves loaded their trucks.”

  October glanced from the professor to Jax, and back again. “But . . . that’s not possible. Is it?”

  Professor Stein shook her head. “I don’t know what to believe. But I do know that even after the museum authorities alerted the Americans to what was happening, the military made no effort to prevent the objects from leaving Baghdad. Seriously, think about it: some of the missing artifacts were huge. How did the thieves get them out of Iraq, unless they had someone cooperating with them?”

  “In other words,” said October, “the people who now possess the antiquities on Elaine Cox’s list could actually have placed orders in advance for them?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Not only that,” said Jax, “but whoever was behind the theft has some serious connections in both the United States military and the previous administration.”

  “Okay,” said October, leaning back in her chair, her hands flat on the table. “I think I’m more scared now than I was before.”

  Later, when Dr. Stein walked with them to the door, she said, “If you like, I can contact some of my colleagues—attempt to reconstruct the list of items Elaine might have chosen.”

  “No,” said Jax with more force than he’d intended. He swung to face her. “You can’t do or say anything to betray the least interest in what has happened.”

  As if affronted, Professor Stein drew herself up to her full, considerable height. “If you are by chance concerned that I am incapable of concocting a plausible story should the police become aware of my inquiries—”

  Jax laid a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, “It’s not the police I’m worried about. Two people are already dead, another is in the ICU, and October here is the object of a massive manhunt. I don’t know exactly who we’re dealing with, but whoever these people are, they’re scary. Promise me you won’t do anything.”

  She stared back at him mulishly.

  He gripped her other shoulder. “Dr. Stein, please. You can’t help us if you’re dead. Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about this.”

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  But Jax was afraid he’d already put her in danger, just by coming here.

  “I still don’t get it,” said October, shivering slightly as they walked back toward where Jax had parked his car. The rain had eased up again, but the night was cold, the streetlights shining through the bare branches of the trees overhead casting long shadows across the wet sidewalks. “What could some ancient Christian manuscript possibly have to do with the assassination of the vice president of the United States?”

  “We don’t know that Hamilton has anything to do with this,” Jax reminded her. “That’s your interpretation of what you saw. But Hamilton’s death could be just—what’s the RV word you use?—imagination overlay.”

  October’s eyes narrowed. Imagination overlay was the term used to describe the intrusions that could bleed into a viewing from the viewer’s own imagination. It had always been one of the most troublesome aspects of remote viewing: there was simply no way to distinguish between actual information a viewer was accessing about a target versus what was simply coming out of the viewer’s own head—supplied by her imagination.

  She said, “It wasn’t imagination overlay.”

  “You don’t know—” he broke off, his gaze focusing on a sedan cruising slowly down the street toward them, the silhouette of its lightbar marking it as a patrol car. As in so much of Georgetown, the tall, narrow rows of town houses lining Dr. Stein’s street had been built when elegant Washingtonians either walked or rode in carriages. Now, the street was narrowed by the parked cars that lined both sides to the point that there was barely room for one lane of traffic.

  “Turn your face away. Quick.”

  But October must not have understood him, because instead of looking away, she glanced toward him and said, “What?” just as the police car rolled past them.

  The cops slammed on their brakes and threw the car into reverse, the engine roaring as they backed up. The alley light at the end of the bar flashed on, shining a spotlight at a ninety-degree angle to catch Tobie square in the eyes.

  “Shit.” He grabbed her hand. “Run.”

  Chapter 14

  They raced to the end of the block, the police cruiser roaring in reverse beside them. A woman’s voice boomed over the car’s loudspeaker, “This is the police. Stop where you are and put your hands up.”

  “This way,” hissed Jax, dragging October around the corner.

  A long block of rowhouses reared up before them, hemming them in on both sides. Tires squealing, engine revving, the police cruiser plowed backward into the intersection.

  “We can’t outrun them!” shouted October.

  Jax laughed. “No. But we can outsmart them.”

  Without breaking stride, he leaped sideways to bring down his right foot, hard, on the bumper of the Beamer parked beside them. The Beamer’s alarm rumbled to life, horn honking, lights flashing. Two cars down, he did the same thing to a Jag, then a Mercedes, then a Lexus. One car alarm set off the next until the entire street was filled with flashing headlights and wailing sirens and the monotonous, maddening beep-beep-beep of car horns.

  “Didn’t you just draw more attention to us?” she asked, sprinting beside him.

  “Watch.”

  Windows went up. Doors banged. Someone shouted. Irate car owners spilled into the street just as, red and blue beacons pulsing, the police cruiser wheeled in a clumsy turn and roared after them.

  The policewoman rolled down her window and roared, “Get the hell out of my way!”

  But the cops were now going the wrong way up a one-way street. The driver of a Hummer lumbering down the narrow street toward them stood on his brakes. The cops went into a skid, the cruiser coming to shuddering halt just inches from the Hummer’s heavy grill.

  The doors of the cop car flew open. The policewoman screamed at the Hummer driver, “Get that fucking tank out of my way!”

  Her partner hit the pavement at a run, shouting, “Freeze! Police!”

  “Shit,” said October with a gasp.

  They darted down the nearest sid
e street. But at the third house on the block, Jax whispered, “Here,” and pulled her into the shadows of a low hedge bordering the narrow front yard. The smell of wet leaves and damp earth rose up around them. Crouching beside her, he put his hands on her shoulders and said, “No matter what happens, I want you to stay down.”

  “Me? Where are you going?”

  She was breathing so heavily, he could feel the shudders ripping through her. Yanking off his peacoat, he draped it around her shoulders. “The cops are looking for a man in a navy coat running away with a woman. I’m just a guy in a cream sweater going for a walk to see what all the commotion is about.”

  “But . . .”

  He touched her cheek. “Watch for me. I’ll be back with the car.”

  Pushing up, he thrust his hands in his pockets, turned, and walked calmly back the way they had come. He’d almost reached the last house on the block when the beefy policeman, gun in hand, came tearing around the corner and skidded to a halt, his head swiveling as he looked up and down the empty block.

  “Hey, you,” he said to Jax. “I’m looking for a young woman in sweats and a guy in a dark jacket. You seen them?”

  Jax rubbed the back of his neck and screwed up his face as if in thought. “Yeah, actually. I think they ran across the street and then went that way.”

  “Thanks,” shouted the policeman, hitching up his holster as he trotted off in the direction Jax pointed.

  “Glad to help, officer,” Jax called after him.

  Jax cast a quick glance at the mayhem still engulfing the next street. The driver of the Hummer—a small blond woman in a pink hoodie—was having a really, really hard time backing up under the angry glare of the policewoman.

  Smiling faintly, he kept walking, then doubled back around the block to his car.

  By the time he pulled up beside the low hedge, the rain had started up again. He rolled down his window and said, “We need to get you a hijab or something.”

  She slid into the seat beside him, bringing with her the scent of the rain and a sprinkling of crushed, dead leaves. When she reached for the seat belt, he noticed she was shaking. “Are you kidding? After that, I think I want a burqa.”

  Somewhere in the Pyrenees: Saturday 3 February 4:00 a.m. local time

  Noah Bosch awoke with a start of panic.

  He stared wildly about, his heart pounding with terror as he searched the frigid, dimly lit railway carriage for what had awakened him. The world outside the swaying train was a black void, the windows reflecting the interior of the coach back at him.

  The carriage was old and smelled strongly of the toilet at the front of the car. Some half dozen passengers dozed in the high-backed, worn seats, their bodies swaying rhythmically with the motion of the train. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

  Leaning closer to the window, Noah felt the cold emanating from the glass. They were passing through a small village, a collection of dark, silent stone houses that were there and then gone. A shrill whistle echoed back from the engine at the front of the train, and he thought that might have been what penetrated his sleep to jerk him awake.

  He’d been dreaming about a woman named Julie, a girl with straight brown hair and a freckled nose and a laugh that never failed to bring a smile to his heart. Once, she had believed in him, had believed in whatever story he was following, believed he had what it took to be the next Woodward or Bernstein.

  But Woodward and Bernstein had belonged to another era.

  And their paper hadn’t fired them.

  “Carl Bernstein’s wife left him, too,” Julie had told him, pausing in the doorway to look back at him.

  “That’s because he was cheating on her. I’m not cheating on you, Julie,” he’d told her.

  And then she’d put her arms around his neck and kissed his lips and whispered, “No. But I’ve been cheating on you, Noah.”

  He ran the pad of his thumb across his lower lip, now, remembering that kiss. It irked him that he still wanted her, still missed her. She’d left him for a sportscaster. A CNN reporter would have been bad enough. But a jock?

  At the click of a latch, he jerked his head up. He watched, his breath quickening, as the door to the malodorous toilet opened. A squat woman with a massive bosom and iron gray hair emerged and waddled back to her seat. Noah took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing himself to relax.

  He’d bought a ticket from Davos to Zurich, then he’d leaped off at a station too small to invest in video surveillance equipment. He’d doubled back on himself, train hopping from one small village to the next, until catching the overnight train to Madrid. Surely no one could have followed him? But he kept remembering the look in that bullnecked Secret Service agent’s eyes as he stared at Noah across the width of the snowy, crowded street in Davos.

  Noah’s source had warned him they had one of their own in the Vice President’s Secret Service detail. Which meant they now knew about Noah—if they hadn’t already.

  The problem was, Noah didn’t have all the information he needed about them. That’s why he was on his way to Madrid, to try to talk to a biblical scholar named José Antonio Zapatero Sanchez. Zapatero had retired to the small village of Medinaceli, to the northeast of the capital. Noah hoped like hell the Spaniard had the information he needed.

  Because while Noah might not know enough about the dominionists’ plans to stop them, he knew more than enough to get himself killed.

  Chapter 15

  Alexandria, Virginia: Saturday 3 February 12:45 P.M. local time

  Lulled by the warm purr of Jax’s powerful engine, Tobie didn’t realize she was falling asleep until she awoke to find herself staring at a dark stretch of water framed by bare branches. A forest of tall masts rocked gently back and forth against a black sky; the scent of damp earth and pines filled the air. The sign on a nearby unpretentious two-story clapboard building read WASHINGTON SAILING MARINA.

  She sat up with a start. “Where are we?”

  Jax pushed open his door. “Daingerfield Island Park. It’s upriver from Alexandria, near Reagan National Airport. I thought you could use someplace more comfortable to sleep than my car. You don’t get seasick, do you?”

  She scrambled after him, staggering as a cold, sharp wind slammed into her. “We’re taking a boat?”

  “Not taking it. Just hiding on it.” He hauled the gym bag out of his trunk and nodded toward the rows of gleaming wood and fiberglass hulls. “The ketch-rigged Hallberg-Rassy at the end of the second dock.”

  She stared out over the rows of expensive sailboats. The Hallberg-Rassy was a good forty-five to fifty feet long, with a sleek hull and tall, bare masts that rocked back and forth against the dark waters of the river. “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  He laughed and turned toward the docks. “Don’t be. It belongs to a friend.”

  Holding her wind-whipped hair with both hands, she fell into step beside him, their footfalls on the weathered planking echoing hollowly in the dark stillness. “You don’t think he’ll mind that you’re hiding a wanted fugitive on his property?”

  “You’re not technically ‘wanted.’ You’re just a ‘person of interest,’ remember?”

  “Tell that to the cops who chased us,” she said dryly.

  “And no—he’ll understand.”

  She studied Jax’s lean, high-boned profile. The Hallberg-Rassy had to be worth several hundred thousand. “He must be a good friend to let you use his boat.”

  “He is.”

  Suddenly, she understood. “It’s one of your stepfathers, isn’t it?”

  Jax laughed. “The second.” Jax’s mother, Sophie Talbot, was a famous Washington, D.C., socialite and hostess who had managed to rack up eight marriages during the course of her colorful career. Only her first husband—Jax’s father—had been a penniless nobody. His successors had included a secretary of defense, a Supreme Court justice, and several senators. And Jax had managed to remain on surprisingly good terms with most—although not quite all—of them.


  Tobie let her gaze drift over the dark expanse of water stretching from the tree-covered promontory to the lights of the city on the opposite bank. “Talk about hiding in plain sight.”

  “Hopefully, it won’t be for long,” said Jax, although they both knew the truth: that if they couldn’t figure out who was after her, and why, she could spend the rest of her life on the run.

  Or die young.

  Jax stood in the doorway to the sailboat’s forward cabin, one shoulder propped against the frame, his gaze on the woman who slept the deep sleep of exhaustion beneath the down coverlet. He could hear the gentle rhythm of her breathing, see the faint twitches that told him her dreams were not restful.

  He had her safe, now. But how long could he keep her that way? He pushed away from the hatch to go pull his laptop from his duffel bag. Seated on the padded built-in bench beside the galley, his computer on the table before him, he began a systematic search of what was publicly available on Special Agent Mark Kowalski.

  From all appearances, the guy was a model citizen. Coached Little League. Taught Sunday school at his local church. He was also quite the rising star at the Bureau. Jax found several newspaper articles praising his participation in various FBI operations, including one feature with a photo of Kowalski standing beside the head of the Criminal Investigative Division, Duane Davenport.

  Frowning, Jax reached for one of the throwaway cell phones he’d tossed in his gym bag before leaving the house. He’d learned long ago the value of keeping a supply of unlisted, prepaid phones on hand for those occasions when he wanted to be certain Big Brother wasn’t listening to his conversations or tracking his location. Still skimming through a series of articles on the FBI, he put in a call to Matt von Moltke. Matt was the head of Division Thirteen, the dead-end career-wrecker to which the CIA transferred incurable loose cannons like Jax when they refused to mend their ways.

  A groggy Matt answered on the seventh ring. “Hello?”