The Genesis Plague

by Michael Byrnes

  From a nearby bookshelf, he retrieved a bible; opened the front cover and turned to the first page.

  ‘If one carefully reads Genesis 1 and Genesis 2, one will discover two separate accounts of God’s creation of humans. In Genesis 1, man and woman are created simultaneously. Listen.’ He traced the lines of the Bible with the stylus then read, ‘‘‘So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.’’’ His eyes shifted up from the page. ‘Just like He created every living creature in duality to facilitate procreation, you see.’

  ‘Simultaneously,’ Hazo said in a low voice. How could it be? he thought.

  ‘That is right. Yet it is the second account told in Genesis 2 that most remember. When a lonely Adam wanders the garden paradise, and God, in afterthought, decides that man needs a spiritual companion.’

  ‘When God takes Adam’s rib to make Eve.’

  The old man smiled. ‘Not literally a rib. A better translation would refer to “his side’’,’ he corrected, before continuing: ‘Eve was Adam’s second partner, his consummated wife, who the Bible tells us was destined by God to be dominated by her husband. Lilith, the first woman created by God, was much the opposite. She had a voracious sexual appetite, always demanding to be, how shall we say . . . on top of Adam. She was anything but subservient.’

  ‘But it doesn’t say those things in the Bible, does it?’

  The monk smiled. ‘That, too, is true. Any references to Lilith’s name were long ago removed from Genesis by the patriarchal Catholic Church, which didn’t like the idea of such a dominant female figure. However, if you wait here a moment, I can show you another picture that will help you understand this. You are like me, a visual learner, am I right?’

  Hazo smiled. ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘This is good, because pictures hold many truths, many secrets. I’ll just be a moment.’

  The monk disappeared behind the stacks, and in under a minute he returned with a modern coffee table book titled Masterpieces of the Vatican Museums. He opened it and laid it flat on the table.

  ‘In 1509, Michelangelo painted Lilith’s picture on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel – the fresco called The Temptation of Adam and Eve.’

  In the index, he found the correct page and flipped to it. Then he turned the book to Hazo so he could better see the photo.

  ‘Michelangelo based this narrative painting on an apocryphal text called The Treaty of the Left Emanation, which told that after God had banished Lilith from Eden, she’d vengefully returned in the form of a serpent to coax her replacement, Eve, into eating the forbidden fruit.’

  Hazo studied the image that combined two scenes: the half-woman, half-serpent, entwined around the tree, reaching out to Adam and Eve, and beside it, the angel expelling the couple from the paradise.

  ‘This is the pivotal event in Christianity that speaks to Original Sin and the downfall of humankind. All attributed, of course, to the sin of a woman.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Hazo said.

  ‘There is one obscure reference to Lilith in the Old Testament as well. When Isaiah speaks of God’s vengeance on the land of Edom, warning them that the lush paradise will be rendered infertile and pestilence will bring desolation.’ Going back to the Bible, the monsignor turned to Isaiah 34. ‘Now listen to this: “The wild beasts of the desert shall also meet with the wild beasts of the island, and the satyr shall cry to his fellow; the screech owl also shall rest there, and find for herself a resting place. There shall the great owl make her nest, and lay, and hatch, and gather under her shadow.” A bit cryptic, yes. Unless one reads the original text from which it was transcribed.’ He then read from the page’s right-hand side: Hebrew text panelled alongside the English translation. ‘The literal words are: “yelpers meet howlers; hairy-ones cry to fellow. Lilith reposes, acquires resting place”.’

  ‘So she is specifically mentioned in the Bible,’ Hazo said.

  ‘Indeed. Lilith is also mentioned throughout Jewish apocrypha, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Talmud, the Kabbalah, the Book of Zohar, and the medieval Alphabet of Ben Sira. All portray her as a demonic seductress who tortured men and made them impotent; a jealous vixen who killed babies out of spite. As such, her earliest depictions – statues, amulets and figurines – morph her voluptuous beauty with beastly features, like wings and talons. But Lilith’s story goes back much, much further than this, you see.’

  The monk explained that when the Babylonians destroyed Jerusalem in 586 BC, King Nebuchadnezzar II exiled the Jewish priests to Babylon. Having lost the Jerusalem temple and its sacred texts, the priests recreated a written account of their heritage and ancestry, borrowing heavily from the Mesopotamian mythology learned from the Babylonians. Many of those stories had been traced to the third millennium BC, to Akkadian cuneiform texts that spoke of the Lilitu – demons of the night; bearers of pestilence who wandered desolate places to wreak havoc on humankind. Centuries of oral tradition preceded even those writings.

  ‘The legend of Lilith may be the most ancient tale ever told,’ the monsignor said. ‘How old, no one really knows. But most would agree that Lilith is the progenitor of all female demons that later emerge in Mesopotamian, Greek and Roman mythology.’

  The monk removed his glasses and his expression turned severe.

  ‘Perhaps now you know too much, my son. Because these photos of yours . . . these are very ancient images of the story of God’s creation of the first woman. The story of paradise lost. And though it may sound crazy, if not impossible, it appears to me that you’ve stumbled upon a most legendary place.’

  ‘Please, tell me,’ Hazo beseeched.

  The monk pointed to the last photo image showing men busily preparing a headless body for burial. ‘Lilith’s tomb.’

  24

  BOSTON

  ‘What the hell was that all about?!’ Brooke fumed, as she tried again to buckle her seatbelt with tremulous fingers. ‘Who was that guy?’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ Flaherty said, checking the rearview again.

  ‘Slow down, will you,’ she insisted in an agitated tone.

  Feeling like his nerves were supercharged with electricity, Flaherty let up on the gas and settled in behind a bus that crept down Huntington Avenue.

  ‘Who do you work for again? CIA?’

  He shook his head. ‘Global Security Corporation. Just like it says on my business card. We’re a US defence contractor, among other things.’

  ‘Other things?’

  Hesitant, he sighed, then told her, ‘GSC provides the staffing services every civilized country needs lots of nowadays: mercenaries, spies, bodyguards, counter-terrorist agents, cyber defence techs. Those kinds of “things”.’ He glanced over at her to gauge her response.

  ‘Not to insult your work, especially since you just saved my life . . . but GSC sounds like a glorified temp agency,’ she cynically replied.

  ‘Temp agency sounds a lot better than what some senators call us. They have really affectionate names like “The Death Broker” or “Assassins Incorporated”.’

  She managed a smile.

  ‘You all right? Doesn’t look like you’re bleeding or—’

  ‘How do I know that guy with the gun wasn’t one of your men?’

  ‘Definitely not one of ours,’ he assured her. ‘Our assassins are a helluva lot better than that rookie. You’d have been dead, probably from a car bomb. Or at least a discreet sniper shot,’ he said after giving the logistics momentary consideration.

  ‘Thanks. That’s comforting.’

  ‘Hey, if you didn’t notice, those bullets were coming in my direction too,’ he reminded her. He pointed to his trashed stereo. ‘Could’ve been my head instead of my CD player.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she relented. ‘You know, you weren’t exactly a marksman back there, either.’

  He couldn’t help but grin. This woman was definitely feisty. ‘For the record, that’s the first time I’ve ever had to fire a gun
at something other than a range target. And in my defence, shooting with my left hand while speeding in reverse on snow wasn’t in my training repertoire.’

  She curled her fingers to her lip and fought back the horrible thought of what the alternative outcome might have been had he not shown up. ‘Thanks, I guess. I don’t know what I’d have done if . . .’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he replied humbly. ‘Just glad the timing worked out.’

  A pause.

  ‘So what exactly is your repertoire?’ The words had bite, but she couldn’t help it.

  ‘I’m an information guy. Intelligence. Glorified desk jockey. I interrogate witnesses and suspects . . . that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re a paid conversationalist.’

  ‘Or a bullshit detector.’ He smiled.

  She tried to suppress a laugh, but failed. The adrenaline buzz was abating and her muscles were starting to go limp again. ‘God, that was scary.’

  ‘Amen, sister. That was wicked crazy back there.’

  With Agent Flaherty’s defences down, she noticed a much more pronounced Boston accent. Running her fingers through her wet hair, she blew out a long breath. ‘So now what? Are you supposed to protect me or something?’

  ‘I’ll have to see what the manual says . . .’

  ‘There’s a manual?’ she scoffed.

  He shook his head and grinned.

  She groaned in frustration.

  ‘Our local office is next to the Federal Building downtown, near Faneuil Hall. We’ll head there, figure out what to do.’

  Brooke crossed her arms tight over her chest and stared out the frosty window.

  ‘Look. Here’s the deal. A colleague asked me to find you. He’s a deep-cover operative in Iraq. He’s the one who found your ID badge. I know that if he suspected you were in danger, he’d have told me.’

  ‘How do I know he didn’t call that guy too?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ he said.

  ‘Well, someone wants me dead. And the timing can’t be a coincidence. It’s got to be someone in the military, right?’ she insisted.

  Flaherty said nothing, because on that point, he’d have to concur. It had him wondering who else besides Jason could possibly have known about Brooke’s involvement in Iraq and could also be capable of coordinating a kill order so quickly. Why now – right now – had she suddenly become a threat?

  ‘I remember reading the small print in my confidentiality agreement. I don’t recall any mention of assassination as a means of recourse—’

  ‘We need to find this Frank guy you were talking about. I need that e-mail address. I can run its profile, the host server . . . find his IP address and trace him.’ Flaherty dipped into his pocket, pulled out his BlackBerry. He keyed in his security code, tapped on the web browser and held it out for her. ‘You said his address was on your computer, right?’

  Staring at the device with narrow, incredulous eyes, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you just give this to me earlier if you needed his email address?’

  ‘Basic psychology. I ask you for information, and your future response, your compliance or lack thereof, indicates your propensity to cooperate.’

  ‘Or maybe you just wanted to give me your card so I’d call you. I have a bullshit detector too.’ She took the BlackBerry and began finger-pecking the URL for Yahoo!.

  He smiled. ‘You always so shy?’ But he saw that she’d suddenly become preoccupied with the BlackBerry.

  ‘Huh. That’s weird.’

  ‘What?’

  She tried logging into her e-mail account again. ‘Says my username and password are invalid. Like my account is gone. That’s impossible.’

  Flaherty sighed. ‘No, actually it’s not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He nodded. ‘NSA. That’s my guess.’ He knew that telling her this wasn’t smart, but he’d done it anyway.

  ‘But they can’t do that! I mean, who can do that?’ she protested. She felt violated.

  ‘Thirty thousand computer scientists and cryptographers under one roof in Fort Meade, dedicated to cracking data and voice communications can do just about anything when they have your number. Remember those geeks in high school, the computer hackers, videogame junkies, Dungeons and Dragons types? Imagine a building – a city – full of ’em.’

  ‘God,’ she groaned. ‘I like videogames too,’ she confessed. ‘But I’m not snooping around people’s private information.’

  ‘You’ve got to have something else from this guy, right? A business card, a paycheque . . .?’

  She shook her head. ‘No card. And the money was wire-transferred to my account.’ Then she thought back to eavesdropping on the archaeologist who’d performed the carbon studies. ‘Wait. There was this archaeologist who was at the cave when I was there. He was outside the cave, making a cell phone call. Something about test results on samples he’d sent out. I overheard him mention an AMS lab where he’d sent samples for testing.’

  ‘AMS lab?’

  ‘Accelerator Mass Spectrometer. The machine used for carbon-dating studies.’

  ‘Remember the name of the place?’

  She tried to recall, but couldn’t. ‘No. Damn.’ Then she remembered something else. ‘But there were other tests results he’d mentioned. Biological cultures or something. He was reading from a report that had an official seal on its cover. Some kind of insignia, I think. But it was weird, because I remember it had a symbol representing a DNA helix, or chromosomes. And it had a long acronym that began with USA . . .’

  Flaherty tightened up, fearing he knew what she meant. ‘Did the insignia have a five-pointed star to the right of the helix and a circular symbol beneath it?’ He tried tracing the layout in the air with his index finger to help her picture it.

  She fished her memory. ‘Not sure.’

  He checked the mirror to ensure no one was shadowing him then pointed with his chin at the BlackBerry and said, ‘Type in this web address.’ He had to repeat the tricky URL three times before she got it right.

  Once Brooke brought up the home page, she immediately recognized the insignia. ‘Yeah, that’s it! That’s the insignia!’ She held the BlackBerry out for him and pointed to it on the mini LCD screen.

  For Flaherty, this was anything but good news. ‘Great,’ he grumbled.

  There was a long acronym beside the insignia: USAMRIID. ‘I remember the two “I’s” in the name too,’ she said. ‘Reminded me of Roman numerals. Says here “United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases”.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Flaherty said. He let out another sigh. This assignment was fast snowballing into something much bigger. ‘Among other things, that’s America’s bio-weapons division.’

  25

  IRAQ

  ‘What do you mean she got away?’ Crawford snapped through the sat-com’s microphone in a loud whisper. He practically bit the filter off the Marlboro that dangled between his lips.

  ‘There was someone else there already. A detective, I think,’ the caller replied.

  ‘So?’ He circled around the MRAP to avoid be overheard by the marines milling around the camp.

  ‘I had her pinned down. Was moving in to finish her. The guy came out of nowhere. Took me down with his car, started shooting. He managed to take her away.’

  The inept assassin’s recap of what had transpired at the museum pushed Crawford’s rage to the boiling point. ‘Isn’t that Jim-fucking-dandy,’ Crawford spat. ‘You listen to me, you incompetent scumbag . . . You find her, you kill her. Or I’ll have your head, you hear me?’

  ‘I’m already tracking them. I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘You better be calling me real soon with good news.’ He terminated the call. He pulled a long drag on the cigarette, then flicked it at a scorpion scurrying through the sand. Deliberating on how to inform Stokes about the mishap, he finally settled on sending a text message – short and sweet. The he shut the phone and slid it into the pocket of his fl
ak jacket.

  Who was this detective that beat them to the archaeologist? Only someone on the inside could have sent him. Maybe Stokes had something up his sleeve. Seemed unlikely, because, even though Stokes wasn’t exactly the lucid soldier he’d known for so many years on the battlefield, he was no idiot. In fact, Stokes seemed hell-bent on covering his tracks, as evidenced by the way he’d commenced countermeasures the moment the cave was infiltrated by the militants. Considering the fact that the woman’s ID badge had been sitting next to Yaeger’s computer left little doubt as to the true culprit.

  Crawford bounded over to the command tent where Sergeant Jason Yaeger and his linebacker-sized tech were helping the marines prepare the recon robot. They were loading gas canisters into the rotary magazine of what resembled an oversized tommy gun mounted on the robot. Crawford stood back a minute, reined in his fury, and considered how to approach Yaeger. Unfortunately, this clever kid was no automaton – wouldn’t be doing this kind of work if he was. Any guy who passed the psych profile to go deep cover wouldn’t be the type to back down or conform to protocol. If Yaeger had an agenda, he certainly wasn’t going to divulge it. Autonomy was poisonous, thought Crawford. Especially on the battlefield.

  ‘Yaeger,’ Crawford finally called out.

  The mercenary looked up. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Need a moment with you, son.’

  Jason handed the last gas canister to Meat, then went over to the colonel.

  ‘Walk with me,’ Crawford said, pacing away from the tent.

  Jason kept step beside him.

  ‘I need to know if you’ve spoken to anyone about what’s happening here.’

  Jason’s response was forthright: ‘You, air command . . .’

  ‘Don’t be coy with me, Sergeant,’ Crawford warned. He needed to be direct, without raising undue suspicion. ‘Someone on the outside. Did you communicate with non-military, civilians perhaps?’

  Jason was a master of reading between the lines. Best to answer him with a question. ‘Why would I do that?’ He could tell Crawford was unsure how to push the issue.