by David Wood
“Make our move? And go where? We can’t escape from North Korea.”
“Actually, we can. I’ve done it before.”
“You?” Carrera gaped at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? What, you James Bond or something?”
“Something.” He turned for the door.
“Hey.” She grabbed his arm. “I’m serious. Why should I believe that you can do this? Who are you?”
Professor pursed his lips. Like most former operators, he did not like to parade his military service in front of others, but it wasn’t like he was trying to pick Carrera up at a bar. “I was in the SEALs,” he said. “US Naval Special Warfare Group. That’s really all I can tell you.”
“Let me guess,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “If you told me anything more, you’d have to kill me.”
“No,” he answered with a chuckle. “But it’s need to know, and all you need to know is that I can get us out.”
“You were really in the SEALs?”
He raised three fingers. “Scouts honor.”
Carrera pursed her lips. “There’s forty-seven of us. I don’t care how Rambo you are, there’s no way we’ll all make it out. But you might be able to make it out on your own. Let the world know we’re here. It’s the best chance any of us have.”
As reluctant as he was to accept half-measures, he could not argue with her logic. Even with his knowledge of escape and evasion tactics, the odds of such a large group successfully running the gauntlet of North Korean security forces were slim to none. If he escaped on his own, there was a very good chance that his mysterious captors would punish those he left behind, but what he had told Carrera was the absolute truth. They were all living on borrowed time.
“I won’t be able to do anything until nightfall. Let’s take a look around. You can give me the nickel tour.”
Her expression remained apprehensive but she nodded and gestured to the door. Even before he was outside, Professor started running through possible escape scenarios, compiling checklists of items he would need to acquire, like water, food, weapons, and things he would need to watch for like hostile observation posts, surveillance cameras, minefields, and most importantly, places where he might be able to take refuge. He took note of the layout of the camp, the spacing of the cabins and the distance to the tree line. The location of the sun….
He stopped abruptly and stared at the sky in disbelief. “Damn it,” he muttered.
“What’s the matter?” Carrera asked.
Her voice snapped him back to the moment. He raised his wrist in an almost reflexive action to check the time, though he already knew that he would find only bare skin where his Omega Seamaster chronograph ought to have been. “They took my watch.”
Carrera shrugged. “Mine, too.”
“What time is it?”
“I’m not really even sure what time zone we’re in, but my best guess is a little after noon.”
“Guess I’ll have to make do,” he said with a rueful smile. “I really liked that watch.”
His dismay was sincere but it had nothing to do with his missing timepiece. He was mad at himself, and not just for almost letting his poker face to slip. He was mad because he had made a rookie mistake by trusting someone he didn’t know.
He surreptitiously glanced up at the sky again, confirming what he already knew. It was indeed midday, but from the angle of the shadows and the subtle change in their position, he was able to orient himself, and while it would have taken him at least half an hour of careful observation to make a precise determination, it was patently obvious that the sun was in the northern sky. The location of the secret prison camp was more likely at forty degrees south latitude, rather than north.
Which meant that woman claiming to be Jeanne Carrera was lying about being a professional aviator, or intentionally deceiving him about their location. Either way, he had already told her far too much.
TWELVE
New York City
Gabrielle Greene swept into Shah’s office with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Two of your jihadists attacked Jade Ihara in Scotland.”
Shah sat bolt upright in alarm. “Gabrielle! It’s not safe to talk here.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “That’s the least of our problems right now.”
“What do you mean? Is Ihara….?” He left the question unfinished. Gabrielle might be unconcerned about electronic surveillance, but watching what he said to avoid self-incrimination had become a deeply ingrained habit for Shah, one he could not easily break.
“Oh, she’s fine. She sent them packing.”
“Oh. Well, then I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
Gabrielle leaned over his desk. “She’s fine, Atash. They didn’t kill her. That’s the problem. It was a ham-fisted amateurish attempt, and they completely blew it.”
Shah stood up and took Gabrielle’s elbow. “Not here,” he repeated, steering her toward the door.
If there was still active surveillance, then she had probably said too much already, but Shah needed a moment to think, and his office, where he labored day in and day out to conduct a strictly legal defense of the Islamic faith and its adherents, was not a place where he felt comfortable talking about orchestrating a murder attempt. Thankfully, Gabrielle waited until they were out of the office and in the elevator to resume the conversation.
“Things are spinning out of control, Atash.”
Shah glanced nervously up at the security camera mounted in the corner, wondering if the FBI had tapped into it. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” he said through clenched teeth. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Put her on the list and let the faithful take care of the rest. Nothing to directly implicate us. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”
“The plan failed. Ihara found something in Scotland. And now she knows that we’re coming after her. We can’t afford any more screw-ups.”
“What did she find? Roche’s book?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter? She needs to be silenced.”
Shah felt overwhelmed by the intensity of Gabrielle’s demand, but he could not disagree with the last point. Thankfully, the elevator doors opened on the lobby, giving him another brief respite in which to process the rush of information. Gabrielle had been absolutely right about one thing: the situation was spiraling into chaos.
She had come to him only the night before with a reliable tip that Jade Ihara, the archaeologist Gerald Roche had visited just before his death, was in the United Kingdom, trying to pick up the pieces of Roche’s investigation. The last report was that she was on her way to Scotland so, at Gabrielle’s urging, he had put the word out on the CDL website. He had also circulated more explicit information anonymously on a number of Internet bulletin boards frequented by disenfranchised Muslims living abroad, mostly young men, who fulminated endlessly over the persecution of the faithful by Zionist puppets and were desperate to strike a blow in the ongoing Holy War.
Evidently, someone had heeded his call, but subsequently failed to deliver, and now Jade Ihara was one step closer to making a discovery that would shatter everything Shah and billions of faithful Muslims across the ages had fought to build.
Gabrielle was right about that, too. Jade Ihara had to be stopped.
He strode purposefully through the lobby, with Gabrielle matching him step for step, and emerged onto a chilly but nevertheless bustling Manhattan sidewalk. Out here, despite being surrounded by hundreds of people, they could speak with greater freedom.
“Where is Ihara now?”
“Still in Scotland,” Gabrielle said, her earlier zeal only somewhat diminished. Shah did not need to ask how she came by her information. In the twenty-first century, tracking someone in real-time was the easiest thing in the world.
Shah glanced at his watch. “It’s late evening there, but if we hurry, we should be able to arrange something.”
Gabriel
le grabbed his elbow. “You need to take charge of this personally, Atash.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?”
“Personally,” she repeated. “We can’t entrust this to a bunch of hopped-up students who will turn and run at the first sign of trouble.”
He blinked at her. “You mean… Me?”
“I’m not saying you need to pull the trigger. In fact, we don’t have to kill anyone.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We take Ihara alive. At least until we know what proof she has. Then we can let someone else…” She paused as if searching for an appropriately benign euphemism. “Finish. But you need to take charge in person to ensure that there are no more screw-ups.”
Her grip on his arm tightened. “This is important, Atash. They’re looking for a leader. A real leader, not just some religious demagogue who will tell them to go blow themselves up. Someone who sees their real potential. Show them that you can be that leader.”
“You want me to drop everything here and fly to Scotland?” It seemed like an impossible request, but Shah knew he would not be able to refuse.
“It has to be done, Atash.”
He stared at her, marveling at the power she had over him. “Will you come with me?”
She smiled and the last of his resistance evaporated. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
THIRTEEN
Scotland
Despite her playful suggestion that they sample some traditional Scottish fare, Jade had no intention of remaining in Kilmaurs. Their attackers were still at large, and aside from Kellogg’s assertion that the men were Arabs, they had no idea who the men were or what they looked like. Even the assumption that they were Middle Eastern was a guess. Arabic was the language of the Quran, but that did not mean all Muslims were Arabs. Over the centuries, Islam had spread far and wide, from Eastern Europe to Africa to Indonesia, and their descendants had brought their faith to enclaves in nearly every corner of the globe. It was not inconceivable that the two men might be locals. The safest course was to keep moving.
Jade called the car rental agency to arrange the recovery of her rental, then she and Kellogg struck out for London in his car. While he drove, she plugged the flash drive into his laptop and began scrolling through the directory. Her eye was immediately drawn to the label on one of the file icons.
“‘The Three Hundred Year Lie.’”
“That’s it,” Kellogg said. “That’s the name of Mr. Roche’s book.”
Jade clicked on the icon and opened a list of document files, several of which were marked with chapter numbers. She clicked on the first and began reading silently.
Her initial impression, after reading the first few chapters, was that Roche had somehow contrived a way to stretch the essence of their conversation at the Paracas museum into a forty thousand word screed. He relied on cherry-picked and often irrelevant data, logical fallacies, ad hominem attacks against the men allegedly responsible for the deception, and constant repetition of his core premise. There was nothing particularly persuasive in his argument, and if not for the fact that someone had killed Roche, evidently to keep the information from being released, she would have dismissed it as foolishness.
She turned to Kellogg. “You know what this book’s about, right?”
“I read a synopsis. It all sounded a bit daft to me.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that, too. So what about this has Muslims so upset?”
“You really don’t know?” Kellogg gave her a sidelong glance then returned his focus to the road ahead. “If the Phantom Time hypothesis is correct, then everything the history books say happened between 700 and 1000 AD is a complete fraud. That would include the life of the Prophet Muhammad and the accepted history of the rise of Islam. If Roche is right, then none of it really happened.”
“So what? I mean, he probably isn’t right, but what difference does it make? A lot of people don’t think Jesus was real. Or Moses. That doesn’t seem to bother the people who do believe.”
He shrugged. “You and I both know that, but Muslims take perceived insults to their faith very seriously. Do you recall what happened with The Satanic Verses?”
“Vaguely. I was a kid.”
“In 1988, Salman Rushdie released a novel which included a fictional account of the revelation to the Prophet Muhammad, and Muslims everywhere were outraged. The Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwa, calling for Rushdie to be killed. Rushdie spent ten years in hiding, and several of his translators were attacked. Some of them were killed. That same year, Martin Scorsese released his movie The Last Temptation of Christ, which included a fictional account of the crucifixion. There was controversy, and outraged Christians picketed theaters showing the film, but that was it. No one died.”
“That was almost thirty years ago,” Jade said.
Kellogg arched an eyebrow. “You think the Islamic world is more tolerant now than they were then?”
“Okay, point taken. But this Phantom Time stuff is…” She smiled as she recalled Professor’s opinion on the topic. “Thin soup. Getting all spun up about it…killing Roche for God’s sake, just legitimizes it.”
“I never said it would make sense. But you did ask.” Kellogg paused a beat. “Anti-Muslim sentiment is also on the rise, thanks to 9/11 and 7/7. There are politicians in your country and mine who wouldn’t hesitate to seize on the possibility that Islam is all a sham, just to score political points.”
Jade pondered this for a moment. Was it possible that Rafi and the two men who had attacked them at the fogou had seen Roche and his book as an existential threat to their way of life? “He’s wrong though, isn’t he? Roche, I mean.”
Kellogg shrugged. “I haven’t read the book yet, but it probably doesn’t matter. People believe what they want to believe. Mr. Roche was always preaching to the converted. This won’t change anything.”
“You just sell books, right?” Jade shook her head. “You shouldn’t publish this.”
Kellogg’s head snapped toward her. “Why on earth not?”
“It’s irresponsible. You would be pouring gasoline on a fire that’s already out of control.”
“People have a right to make an informed decision.”
“Informed decision?” Jade replied. “Seriously? This is a crank theory, and you know it. And people are getting killed because of it.”
“That’s exactly why it must be published. Once it’s out in the open, they’ll have no reason to come after you.”
The argument took the wind out of Jade’s sails. Kellogg was right about that. “Damn Roche,” she muttered. “If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”
Kellogg chuckled mirthlessly. “So it’s settled then. I’ll take the file and set the book up. You can wash your hands of it.”
“I hope it’s as easy as that,” Jade replied. She glanced down at the computer screen again. “Why did he come to me? That’s the part that doesn’t make any sense.”
“I should say many of the things Mr. Roche did made little sense.”
“He thought I could prove something for him,” Jade said, more to herself than Kellogg. She reread the words on the screen, the last few lines of the fourth chapter of Roche’s book.
All of which begs the question: Why? Why go to such extraordinary lengths to alter the calendar and then cover up the change?
Illig proposes that Otto II was motivated by a desire to be the reigning autarch of the Holy Roman Empire at the coming of the millennium, but does this answer suffice? As we will see in the next chapter, the real purpose behind The Three Hundred Year Lie was to prevent humankind from opening the Archimedes Vault.
Jade sat up a little straighter. “Archimedes Vault?”
She scrolled back up to see if she had missed something, but there were no previous mentions of Archimedes or any other vaults. The reference was a complete non sequitur. She clicked on the next file, curious to see where Roche would go with it.
The next ch
apter began with an exhaustive biography of the legendary mathematician and inventor, Archimedes of Syracuse. Some of the information was familiar to Jade, but much of it seemed sensationalized, like the claim that Archimedes had created a solar-powered death ray and an elaborate crane device to destroy the ships of Roman invaders in Syracuse harbor. Jade found herself wishing that Professor was around to fact-check the information, or at the very least, give her an abbreviated version.
“Do you know about this Archimedes Vault?”
Kellogg gave her another sidelong glance. “No. I don’t recall that from the synopsis. Do tell.”
“Here’s what it says. ‘Although some of his inventions were weaponized for use in the defense of his home, Archimedes held back many of his discoveries, fearing that the men of his time were not sufficiently evolved to use such technology wisely. Like the Robert Oppenheimer of his day, Archimedes recognized that, once this knowledge was revealed, there would be no going back. To preserve these discoveries for future generations, Archimedes constructed a secret impenetrable vault, secured with a lock that would only open once every thousand years.’”
“Is that true?” Kellogg asked.
Jade shook her head. “It’s not really my field, but I’ve never heard of anything like that. You would think if something like that really existed, we’d have heard about it.”
“A lock that can’t be opened for a thousand years? Is that even possible? I’m sure it would be easy enough to accomplish today, but two thousand years ago?”
Jade shrugged. “The way Roche tells it, if anyone could pull it off, Archimedes would be that guy.”
She kept reading, curious to see if there was any evidence to support the statement. According to Roche, the plans for a fantastic timelock mechanism had been found on a palimpsest—a parchment skin which had been erased and written over by medieval scholars. Jade knew this was a common practice. Parchment was expensive and rare, and recycling it was a common practice. While it was possible, in some cases, to restore the original document, historians were faced with the dilemma of choosing which document to preserve. Advances in imagery techniques and electron microscopy however, had made it possible to produce digital versions of documents long thought unrecoverable. Several treatises by Archimedes had been recovered in this fashion, including, or so Roche posited, the ingenious plans for the vault and timelock, which had been leaked—briefly—to the Internet. Unfortunately, or so Roche claimed, that particular palimpsest was not regarded as authentic, and all digital copies of it had subsequently disappeared—if they had in fact existed at all. According to the conspiracy theorist, this was evidence of a Changeling plot to suppress the discovery. Even the original erasure played into this narrative.
