The Babylonian Codex

by C. S. Graham

  “Hey, Matt. Jax here.”

  There was a moment’s silence during which Jax imagined Matt squinting first at his bedside clock, then at the blank caller ID on his phone. “Jax? What the hell kind of trouble you got yourself into this time?”

  “You didn’t watch the ten-o’clock news?”

  “No.” Matt yawned loudly. “What did I miss?”

  “The FBI is trying to kill October Guinness.”

  “They what?”

  Jax gave him a succinct recap of the night’s events. “We need a list of the artifacts October was brought in to view and copies of the sketches she was doing when the hit took place.”

  “That might not be easy to get. The FBI will have taken over the investigation.”

  “I thought we were all one big happy family these days. Post–9/11 interagency cooperation and all that.”

  Matt huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, right.”

  “We also need everything there is to know about this guy Kowalski.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Matt paused. “Keep her safe, Jax.”

  “I will.”

  Closing the phone, Jax went topside. The rain had eased off, leaving the night cold and clear and damp. He stood with his hands wrapped around the wet rail, his gaze on the dark, gently heaving waters of the river.

  He stood that way for a long time, running through everything October had told him and trying to make sense of it. He knew enough about remote viewing to know that even a viewer as talented as October could be wrong. Sometimes she accessed the wrong site—or the right site at the wrong time. Sometimes she veered away from the intended target to something more interesting nearby. And then there were the times when the information she accessed was correct, but her interpretation of that information was wrong.

  He kept thinking something like that must have happened this time. Or maybe the recent unexpected death of the Vice President had somehow bled into her viewing of the Mesopotamian artifacts, convincing her of a link that wasn’t there. Except . . .

  Except that two—maybe three—people were already dead.

  Would someone really be willing to kill and kill again, simply to keep his possession of a stolen artifact a secret? In Jax’s experience, people with money didn’t go to prison—at least, not unless they somehow pissed off lots of other important people with money. Prisons were for the guy who stole twenty bucks from the corner grocery store or who sold cocaine in the blocks. Not for the defense contractor who defrauded the government of billions or the banker who fleeced his customers or the high-rolling collector who bought 4,000-year-old carvings of questionable provenance.

  So why the killing spree? And why the determined manhunt? What did those two unidentified men standing beside some deep but unknown lake have to hide? Jax suspected it was a hell of a lot more important than an ancient inscribed tablet or gold Sumerian necklace.

  The problem was, all Jax and October knew about the two nameless men at this point was that they were superrich, that they had a connection to some mysterious ancient artifact, and they controlled at least one FBI agent.

  That, and that they obviously possessed the power and connections to pluck a manuscript from the museums of Iraq in the middle of a full-scale military invasion.

  Duane Davenport rolled his black Mercury sedan in close to the curb. He kept the engine running against the cold, his gaze narrowing as he studied the neat redbrick rowhouse across the street. The place was built right on the water in one of the choicest areas of Old Alexandria. Davenport had heard that the CIA agent who owned the place had inherited it from his grandfather, the late esteemed Senator Winston, a staunchly conservative, God-fearing man who’d be rolling in his grave if he knew what his grandson was up to.

  Davenport turned his head and punched down the window as the wiry form of Special Agent Mark Kowalski separated from the knot of men hovering in the shadows near the corner and walked up to the Mercury. A blast of frigid air scented by the nearby river rolled into the car’s artificially heated interior. “What have you got?”

  Kowalski rested his forearms on the door frame and hunched over so he could keep his voice low. “The cabby says he drove a girl fitting Guinness’s description here just after eight. The girl claimed she’d lost her purse, and a guy came out and paid her fare. Our records show the house belongs to one Jax Alexander.”

  Davenport nodded. He already knew this. “So what’s Alexander have to say for himself?”

  “He ain’t here. According to the neighbors, he lives alone.” Kowalski rubbed the back of his hand against his nose. “You heard he’s CIA?”

  “I heard.” Davenport drummed his fingertips against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Guinness worked with the CIA last fall, didn’t she?”

  “They’re refusing to confirm that.”

  “Well they would, wouldn’t they?” He nodded to the silent house across the street. “Take a look. See what you can find, then wire it.”

  “Do we wait for a warrant?”

  “Negative.” A warrant would be easy enough to obtain, but would take time. And time was the one thing Davenport didn’t have. “Every minute that girl’s out there increases the threat to the operation.”

  Kowalski gave a ringing laugh. “Are you kidding? She’s a nutcase. What do you think she’s gonna do? She didn’t have a clue what she was seeing.”

  Davenport eased the Mercury into gear. “Maybe. But I don’t intend to give her the chance to figure it out.”

  Chapter 16

  Madrid, Spain: Saturday 3 February 7:55 A.M. local time

  The sky was just beginning to lighten to a cold, bleak day when the train lurched to a halt in the Madrid station.

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Noah shivered and pulled the straps of his backpack over his shoulders. Outside the station, the city was just coming awake, the streets cold and gray in the feeble winter light. Pushing his way into a café across from the station, he ordered bread and hot chocolate, and sat down to mull over his transportation options.

  He figured he probably had enough credit left on one of his cards to rent a car. But Noah knew from previous experience that car companies had a nasty habit of putting a hold on a big chunk of a guy’s available credit and not releasing it for a week or more. If that happened, then Noah would be stranded in Europe, unable to buy a plane ticket home. Better to take the train out to Zapatero’s village, he decided.

  Of course, that was assuming that José Antonio Zapatero Sanchez was actually in Medinaceli at the moment—and that he’d agree to talk to Noah.

  Hastily paying his check, Noah found a locutorio, or public telephone center, punched in Zapatero’s number at his allotted machine, and waited breathlessly while he listened to the phone ring and ring.

  On the fifth ring, a man picked up and said querulously, “Digame.”

  “Professor Zapatero?”

  “Sí.”

  Noah let out his breath in a relieved sigh. “This is Noah Bosch. I’m a journalist with The Washington Post. Dr. Salah Araji gave me your name and number and suggested I call you.”

  It was all a blatant lie. Not only had the Post terminated Noah’s employment, but Dr. Araji had refused to have anything to do with anyone since the U.S. invasion of Iraq.

  There was a pause. Professor Zapatero said, “Sí?”

  “I’d like to come talk to you today, if I may?”

  “Por qué?” Why?

  Noah hesitated. In his experience, mentioning the Babylonian Codex was a surefire way of ending a conversation. He said vaguely, “I’d like to interview you for an article I’m doing on early Christian manuscripts from Mesopotamia and the Levant. I understand that’s your area of expertise.”

  “Sí.”

  Noah glanced at his watch. How long did it take to get to Medinaceli? “I’m in Madrid now. I could be at your house by, say, one o’clock?”

  There was a long silence. Noah was afraid the Spaniard was going to say no. He heard a woman’s
voice in the background. Then Professor Zapatero said, “Make it three,” and hung up.

  Duane Davenport was drifting off to sleep when he heard his phone vibrate against his nightstand. He glanced at the number and quickly slipped from his bed.

  Sarah didn’t stir.

  He waited until he’d reached the downstairs den before he hit RETURN CALL.

  Laura Brockman answered immediately. “I thought you could use some good news. Bosch just called Professor Zapatero.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Davenport. “He called Zapatero? How much does this little shit know?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Brockman. “By tonight he’ll be dead.”

  Chapter 17

  Somewhere over the Atlantic: Saturday morning

  3 February

  Leo Carlyle racked his barbell and sat up, shaking the sweat from his eyes. The drone of the private jet’s engines was a steady, familiar hum that vibrated through him pleasantly. Pushing to his feet, he grabbed a towel and went to stare out the nearest window at the puffy white clouds spreading out far below him.

  They’d left Davos at nine that morning, bound for D.C. He planned only a brief stop to touch base with a few key players, then it would be on to Idaho.

  Leo owned houses in a dozen different cities around the world, from Zurich to D.C. to Rio. But the sprawling log lodge overlooking Lake Coeur d’Alene remained his favorite. It would be good to get home.

  He downed a bottle of mineral water and then, using his jet’s secure phone, put in a call to his assistant, Casper Nordstrom.

  Nordstrom picked up on the second ring. “Yes, sir?”

  “Lunch is confirmed?” Leo asked, swiping his face with the towel.

  “Yes, sir. At the K Street House.”

  “Good. And the other matter? How is that progressing?”

  “Our friends in the Bureau still haven’t managed to track the source of the leak to the journalist.”

  Leo frowned. “Perhaps they don’t understand the urgency of the situation.”

  There was a pause. “I’ll see that they are reminded.”

  Leo tossed the towel aside. “And my globe-trotting wife? Any idea where she is?”

  “She’s flying in from Thailand this morning.”

  “Thailand? What the hell was she doing there?”

  “Visiting a refuge for young girls rescued from the sex-slave trade.”

  Leo humphed derisively. It was the new fashion—conspicuous benevolence. But Leo’s current wife—a thirty-one-year-old former Miss Colorado named A.J.—sometimes took the fad a little too seriously. “Tell her that if she can fit it into her busy schedule, it would be nice if she could join me in Idaho.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leo glanced at his watch. “We should be on the ground in a few hours. Have the car waiting.”

  “It’s already at the airport, sir.”

  Leo tossed the phone after the towel and went to take a shower.

  Chapter 18

  Washington, D.C.: Saturday 3 February 6:05 A.M. local time

  Tobie awoke to find a pale hint of dawn glowing through an overhead skylight. She lay still, trying to remember where she was, trying to push away the lingering wisps of a haunting dream. But the images persisted, of a ruby-eyed snake and a golden menorah that melted slowly into an ancient cross. With a sudden rush, memory flooded back, and she shivered.

  She could hear Jax moving around nearby. Throwing aside the quilt, she went to stand in the narrow passage that led to the main cabin or saloon. He was just pulling a sweater over his head. From the looks of things, he’d spent the night on the built-in bench beside the galley.

  “When are you meeting Matt?” she asked.

  “Seven.” He fished one of the cell phones from his gym bag and tossed it to her. “Here. Just don’t call anyone you know. By now the FBI will be monitoring the lines of everyone from your next-door neighbor to your favorite kindergarten teacher.”

  She shoved the phone into the big kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt. “So why even bother giving it to me?”

  “I’ve programmed it with the number of the throwaway phone I’m using. If you need to move, call me.” He slipped his Beretta from the holster he wore at the small of his back and set it on the table. “Insurance.”

  She eyed the gun with misgivings. “You do remember I’m a lousy shot.”

  “Like I could forget?” He turned toward the ladder. “When this is all over, remind me to take you to a shooting range.”

  “The Navy already tried to teach me to shoot, remember? It didn’t work.”

  But he just laughed.

  After he’d gone, she hauled out paper and pen and tried to reconstruct the drawings of her viewings. But she found herself too restless to settle. Finally, she pushed up from the bench and prowled the confines of her hideaway.

  The sailboats of Tobie’s experience had all been dinghies or small Colgates. In comparison, the Hallberg-Rassy was huge. A comfortable cabin paneled in gleaming teak with its own en suite bath took up the entire bow. Then came the main cabin with its miniature teak and brass galley tucked in beside the ladder leading up to the cockpit, and a roomy living area complete with a teak table and built-in padded benches. Beyond that, a short hall led past a chart station and the engine room with an adjacent compartment for the backup generator. A small head and a second cabin occupied the stern.

  She thought about going topside for some fresh air, then decided that would be a bad idea. By now her picture would be plastered across every newspaper and TV station in the area. She suspected the hood of Jax’s sweatshirt pulled up over her hair wouldn’t exactly qualify as an effective disguise.

  Turning away from the ladder, she went to settle on the bench again and forced herself to relax.

  Focus.

  Reaching again for the paper, she sketched the climate-controlled room and its carefully preserved racks of ancient manuscripts; the sprawling lodge with its towering stands of fir and pine and the expanse of water spreading out before it; the private jet and the men who’d stood beside it. She made notes, too, of every fleeting impression, every nuance and vague symbol she could recall.

  Most people thought a remote viewing session must be similar to staring through a distant portal or maybe watching a movie in your head. But it wasn’t like that at all. The information came to her in flashes and was typically disjointed—vague impressions; sensations of light and heat and smell—even taste. It’s why she tended to use expressions such as, “It feels like . . .” or “I get the impression of . . .” as she groped to coalesce the bits and pieces of information exploding in her mind into a coherent image. Sometimes she succeeded.

  Sometimes she didn’t.

  When it came to making sense of the strange images of snow and snakes and water that had been coming to her when Kowalski burst through the viewing room’s door, Tobie was hopelessly confused.

  Frustrated, she pushed aside her notebook and reached for Jax’s computer. Opening an Internet browser, she hesitated for a moment. Then she typed in “Davos + Vice President Bill Hamilton” and hit SEARCH.

  The sun was just clearing the tops of the bare branches of the cherry trees rimming the Tidal Basin when Jax met Matt von Moltke on the path beside the Inlet Bridge.

  A giant of a man with wild hair and a flowing, silver-laced beard, Matt had been stuck in Division Thirteen for more than twenty years, ever since he’d kicked up a fuss about the U.S. training and funding of death squads in El Salvador. Ironically, the situation had suited him just fine, since the guys in Division Thirteen were pretty much left to their own devices—until the Company needed them to do something no one else wanted to touch.

  “I had to call in a couple of favors,” he said, passing Jax a bulging manila folder, “but I got the preliminary crime-scene report. Everything from October’s first viewing session is there. But the recordings of the entire second session have been erased and whatever sketches she was doing are gone.”

/>   “Kowalski obviously cleaned everything up before he called the cops.” Jax flipped open the folder and cast a quick glance through the crime-scene report, pausing at a photo of Captain Peter Abrams, his shirtfront ripped and sodden with dark blood. “How’s Abrams?”

  “Alive. Barely.”

  “Has he regained consciousness?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That may be just as well for the moment.”

  Matt nodded. “Colonel McClintock got the Navy to station a couple of guards in Abrams’s room. The FBI is kicking up a fuss—they want their own guys in there. But so far the Navy’s managed to hold firm.”

  “They damned well better, if they want Abrams to have a chance.”

  “Yeah. But how do you tell the Navy they can’t trust the FBI? McClintock’s fit to be tied that he can’t come up here and help deal with things himself.” They turned to walk along the water’s edge, Matt’s leg dragging badly in the cold. A close encounter with a Bouncing Betty on a muddy jungle path in the Mekong Delta had left him with an ungainly gait, but he never let it slow him down. He said, “The FBI knows October showed up at your house last night.”

  “That didn’t take long.”

  “They’re pretty stirred up over there. You know what they’re like when they lose one of their own. They even called the DCI at home to ask for your file.”

  “And?” Jax and Gordon Chandler—the director of Central Intelligence, or DCI—had a long feud going back to the days when Chandler had been the United States ambassador to Colombia and an irate Jax had coldcocked the son of a bitch in the middle of a diplomatic dinner party.

  “Duane Davenport—that’s the head of the CID—wants to see you ASAP.”

  Jax grunted. As head of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division, Davenport might be expected to involve himself in the inquiry into the death of one of his agents. But Jax was remembering that smiling photograph of Davenport with Special Agent Mark Kowalski. “What can you tell me about this guy Kowalski?”

  “Not a lot. He’s been with the Bureau about fifteen years. Started out as a cop in Jersey, same as Davenport. No unusual displays of wealth or other ill-gotten gains. He’s divorced. The wife got the kids and the house. He recently bought a smaller place in Arlington. He seems wholesome enough, if a trifle hyper-religious. He’s a regular at the Bureau’s prayer breakfasts and in the Promise Movement. That sort of thing. I’m gonna run everything we got through the GIS.”