by Alex Archer
Burris lounged on the queen-size bed. “Because he was in the area?”
“Yes.” Annja flipped through another few images of a couple of the gun-toting men staring back at the luxury car like they were awaiting orders. Then she went back to the best image she had of the man. He didn’t look familiar.
“Even though he doesn’t at all look like the guy I bought the brick from?”
“You said you couldn’t remember who you bought the brick from.”
Burris waved a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter which one I bought the brick from. None of them looked like that guy. He’s like a villain you’d see in a Bond film. Kinda creepy.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense that he would sell you the brick, then send a gang to shoot up the dig and take it back, does it?”
“My point exactly.”
“So we have to assume this man somehow knows about the brick—knows more about it than I do at the moment, which is irksome—and wants it back enough to kill to get it.”
“Way to sum it up, Captain Obvious.”
Annja ignored him because that was getting easier to do now that she had something compelling to focus on.
Burris sighed. “So what’s the game plan? Holing up in a dive hotel isn’t working for me.”
“I’m going to find out more about this brick.” Annja picked it up from the desk and examined it once more. “I’ve taken pictures of the writing and sent it off to a linguist friend of mine.”
Burris sat up, swinging his feet off the bed and levering himself up. “When did you do that?”
“While you were working on your hair in the bathroom.” She frowned at the brick. “I’m pretty sure it’s Ge’ez script.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an abugida language.”
Burris stared at her. “You think that’s in any way helpful?”
Feeling momentarily sympathetic toward Burris, something she was certain she would regret, Annja explained. “An abugida is a segmental writing system.”
“Still not helping.”
“Think of it as sight writing, not phonetic. Consonants are represented in the language, but vowels are not, except as consonants with additional marks. You have to know what you’re doing to read something like this.”
“And you don’t?”
Annja picked up her bottle of green tea and shifted her full attention to him. “There’s a lot to know when it comes to archaeology. Tens of thousands of years of information.”
“You should know the field you’re working in.”
“I do.”
“But you don’t know Ge’ez script.”
“I can get around in a dozen or so languages really well, and get my point across in a couple dozen more, but reading them is impossible without dedicating yourself to a language. I would rather dig in the dirt.”
“Boring.” Burris flopped back on the bed. “Do you think those guys are still looking for us?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you go look and let me know? That could be your contribution to our fact-finding segment.”
“Because you’ll take my brick and run.”
“It’s my brick to run with.”
Burris blew a strawberry.
Annja turned back to her Surface Pro tablet PC as her mail client dinged to register an email arrival.
Chapter Eight
Excellent. The email was from a linguist professor she’d reached out to, Cybele Coelho. Annja couldn’t wait to read what the esteemed professor had to say about the brick.
Hi, Annja!
So good to hear from you! Are you going to get to come back to Rio anytime soon? Would love to see you again. Especially at Carnivale! I know how you love the holidays.
As to your mysterious brick, your instincts about the language are correct. This is Ge’ez, but it is a different form of it than I have seen before. It must be really old. How exciting for you! Another fascinating discovery. I can’t wait to hear the story of how you came into possession of this.
From what I’ve been able to decipher, this inscription talks about a “small” tower. Does that make any sense to you? Are you looking for a tower? I know you don’t like to fill me in too much because you don’t want to influence my interpretation, but I’m certain this passage refers to a “small” tower that stands in the shadow of another in the foundation of a purified place. Something like that. I still have some work I want to do on this.
I also did comparative sampling of the script. As you know, language has a tendency to change over time. Witness current thinking that the cursive language may no longer be necessary since everyone has a portable computer.
From what I see here, the language is a lot like what was used in the Kingdom of Aksum (Ethiopia). Ge’ez was made Aksum’s official language in the first century, but was probably in use well before then. You knew that already, though.
Maybe you have a friend in Damascus? The Syriac Orthodox Church has quite a collection of documentation on extinct Semitic languages. You might find something there, as well.
In the meantime, you know me. I’ll keep digging! I love mysteries, too.
Love,
Cybele Coelho
Professor of Linguistics
Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro
P.S. I appreciate the DVDs you sent of Grimm. I ♥ Monroe! Thank you again.
“A tower?” Burris leaned back from the tablet PC. “What does that mean?”
Annja’s mind buzzed with possibilities. She rolled her neck. “The language dates to 100 CE at least. Maybe farther than that.”
“When did people first start building towers?”
Annja looked at him.
“What? It’s a legitimate question. I can think of more bridges than I can think of towers. The Leaning Tower of Pisa was built in 1372.”
“Actually, it was called the Tower of Pisa, and it was started in 1173. It didn’t get finished until 1372.”
Burris scowled. “Whatever. You must suck the fun out of Trivial Pursuit. The point is that people have been building towers for a long time, but that was over a thousand years after this brick was supposedly made.”
“True, but when you think back about important towers, how many can you think of?”
Scratching his chin, Burris contemplated the question, then counted off towers on his fingers. “Tower of Pisa. Tower of London...”
“Started in 1066 when the Normans took over England. Too late to be the tower mentioned here.”
“Tower Records.”
Annja grinned. “Sacramento, California, 1960.”
“Yeah, and then there’s the Capitol Records Tower. It was featured in The Adventures of Ford Fairlane. The Diceman. I love that building.”
“Me, too. And Andrew Dice Clay had his moments.”
“Are you kidding me? The Diceman is one of my heroes.” Burris smiled. “We found common ground.” He offered his fist for a bump, then when Annja didn’t respond, he ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, maybe not.”
Annja turned her attention back to the picture of the man on her tablet PC. She wished she knew who he was. Then she hefted the brick once more.
Burris studied her. “You’ve got a theory, don’t you?”
Annja hesitated. “Let’s say this brick was part of a tower that was built over two thousand years ago. Let’s say it was built hundreds of years before that. And let’s say that most people who have read the Old Testament have heard of the tower it’s talking about. What tower comes to mind?”
For a moment, Burris sat there. Then he shook his head. “You’re thinking this came from the Tower of Babel?”
Hearing it out loud, from Burris at that, Annja felt certain that the theory was even more ridiculous than she’d thought. She looked away. “Forget I said anything.”
“Forget? Do you realize how cool that would be?” Burris grinned. “The find of century, and I didn’t even have to dig for it. I just bought it off some guy in the flea
market.”
Annja made a point of ignoring him. She also didn’t mention that artifacts often turned up in stores or shops, family heirlooms that no one remembered the history of anymore. That was the problem with history: it had the ability to disappear in plain sight.
Burris got up and approached the desk. He reached for the brick. Annja slapped his hand away. “Don’t.”
“It’s my Tower of Babel brick.”
“We don’t know that it’s from the Tower of Babel, and it’s not your brick.”
“We’ll see what my attorneys have to say.”
Annja glared at him.
“But I’m not going to call them until you’ve had a chance to find out the rest of the story. How does that sound?”
Annja didn’t reply.
“Maybe we could discuss it over dinner. We missed lunch while we were running for our lives, and I’m starving.”
Chapter Nine
“You’re really going to eat that?” Burris pointed to Annja’s side of the table in the small restaurant around the corner from the hotel where they were staying.
“As much of it as I can. Definitely.” The spicy aroma of chicken and lamb wat made Annja’s mouth water.
The young female server wore a shama, the hooded wraparound dress many Ethiopian women favored. She served the chicken and lamb stews in large enamel bowls, pouring out servings onto the injera, the sourdough bread that was flat and supple as a pancake.
Burris looked at the server. “Don’t you have a plate?”
The young woman looked at Burris timidly.
“Quiet,” Annja said to Burris, and then spoke to the server as best she could in her language, reassuring the girl that the meal was perfect.
“Is that even sanitary?” Burris wrinkled his nose.
Tearing off a piece of injera, Annja rolled the flatbread around some of the chicken stew. “This is wonderful. You don’t know what you’re missing.” She popped the food into her mouth and almost sighed in delight.
“I’ve probably eaten out of more sanitary roach coaches, I can tell you that.”
Annja ignored him and enjoyed her meal as she tracked her emails on her tablet PC.
“And I’ve had more attentive dinner companions.”
“I’m attentive. I’m listening to you whine about everything, searching for more information about the brick and the inscription and looking out for anyone who might be trying to kill us.”
Burris glanced around over his shoulder nervously. “You don’t think that guy and his men are still looking for us, do you?”
“They were willing to kill us to get the brick. I don’t see them as giving up quickly.”
“The police are looking for them.”
“The police are looking for us. We haven’t been found yet.”
“Yeah, about that... I don’t quite understand why we didn’t call them immediately. Why—”
The server returned with a bowl of salad that she started to pour on the injera in front of Burris. He took the bowl out of her hands. “That’s okay. I can serve myself. Can I get a fork?” He mimed a fork with two fingers.
The hostess smiled and nodded, went away and came back with a fork.
“Cool.” Burris took it. “Now maybe I could get some ranch dressing.”
The hostess looked confused and shook her head.
“Ranch dressing. For my salad.” Burris spoke slowly. He turned to Annja. “How do you say ranch dressing in Ethiopian?”
Annja wrapped another serving. “They don’t have ranch dressing.”
“How do you know without asking?”
“You just did. If they had it, she’d get it. Now eat your lettuce.” Annja thanked the young woman and she went away.
“I can’t believe they don’t have ranch dressing. What kind of country is this?”
“A very interesting one that’s been around longer than most other countries in the world. I thought I mentioned that.”
“Big deal.” Burris poked at his salad with his fork.
“Are you always this whiny?”
“I’m not whiny.”
“You’re whiny. You whine on the radio, too.”
“You’ve heard my show.”
“Doug made me listen to it.”
“Now he’s a guy with taste.”
“Doug is also a vampire in a clan.”
“He’s a nut. I did a show about those wannabe Team Edward idiots. Staked ’em right through the heart on the air.”
“I’m sure you were spectacular.”
“I was awesome.”
“And so modest.”
“Modesty doesn’t get you anywhere. You want to get anywhere in this world, you gotta blow your own horn and show a little skin. Did you see the layout I did in Playgirl?”
“No, but I read about it. You were quite the hit with the gay crowd as I recall.”
Burris actually blushed and broke eye contact. “Everybody loves me. I don’t know what your problem is.”
The server returned with two long-necked bottles with yellow liquid in bowl-shaped bottoms. She placed them on the table.
Burris frowned. “What’s this?”
“Tej. It’s a wine made out of mead or honey.”
“Wine.” Burris looked for the server. “Don’t we get glasses?”
“No.” Annja picked up the bottle and drank.
Burris drank as well and smiled. “It’s kinda sweet, but I like it.” He took another long drink.
“You’ll want to be careful with that. The alcohol is stronger than you think.”
“I can hold my liquor.”
“If you get too drunk to walk, I’m not carrying you back to the hotel.”
“I’ll be carrying you back.” Burris took another drink.
* * *
Two hours later, Burris was still singing on the bed. Annja had to admit that he had quite a repertoire. He could belt out AC/DC, Billy Idol and even throw in some Clash and Elton John. Every now and again, he warbled out a Willie Nelson tune that was way off-key.
Annja sat at the desk and sifted through the hits she’d gotten off the alt.histories and alt.archaeology sites. She’d posted the man’s image and asked if anyone could identify him. If the man knew about the brick—especially if it was from the Tower of Babel, and Annja didn’t let herself dwell on that overly long—then he had to be a player in the antiquity field. She’d felt certain someone would know him.
Just before she was about to take a shower and go to bed in the other room, she got a hit from [email protected].
His name is Rafik Bhalla, and he’s someone you definitely want to stay away from. Guy’s a killer.
Chapter Ten
“This is not a request.” Garin Braden held the muzzle of the .500 Smith & Wesson Magnum against the Somali pirate’s head. Garin stood six feet five inches tall and was broad across the shoulders, and looked even bigger squeezed into the black scuba suit. As big as he was, the large-bore revolver still looked massive and deadly in his firm hand. “It’s an order.”
The young pirate stank of sour body odor and khat, the mildly narcotic plant many people in the area chewed. His eyes were wide with terror. Blood dripped from his bottom lip, cut halfway through and swollen from the blow Garin had dealt him earlier. The pirate wore khaki pants, an orange T-shirt and military boots that were too big for him.
Garin held his prisoner in the stern of Tequila Blossom, one of the cargo ships he owned under another name. Tequila Blossom sailed under a Panamanian flag. A lot of ships doing illicit business were registered in Panama even if they’d never been there. The country had very relaxed laws.
Tequila Blossom carried a shipment of Russian weapons Garin had sold to various mercenary groups working in Africa. Munitions were still a big business for people that could move them. Garin could and did.
Although he made more money than he’d ever spend through legitimate businesses, old habits died hard. During the past five-hundred-plus yea
rs that he had lived, times had not always been so good. He remembered the bad times, the years he had spent during the French Revolution and the defeat at Waterloo, and he remembered what Germany had been like under Hitler. Garin had loved Germany, still did, but Hitler had been another matter.
Years ago, at the turn of the nineteenth century, Garin had fought the Barbary pirates, as well. Piracy in Africa was an old business. The Somalis had grown desperate and taken up the trade again. Garin understood the lengths desperation could drive men, but a man also had to be strong enough or clever enough or cruel enough to make that desperation pay. Garin had.
“They won’t listen to me.” The pirate sniffled and shivered. “I do not give the orders.”
“You were giving the orders when I came on board the ship.” Garin gripped the man’s shirtfront, pulling him tighter and screwing the gun barrel into his forehead.
“I was only giving the orders they were giving me.”
Unfortunately, Garin knew that was true. It wasn’t unfortunate for him. It was unfortunate for the pirate because Garin had to make an example of the man so that the others would understand who they were dealing with.
Garin pulled the trigger. The man had sensed what was about to happen and tried to escape, writhing with all of his strength. That strength left him when the 350-grain bullet shattered his head to bloody fragments.
Knowing that the other pirates were watching him, Garin flung the body over the cargo ship’s side. The salt-laced air blew through Garin’s wet hair. He gazed fiercely at the Somali boat two hundred yards away on the ocean. Moonlight-kissed waves rolled toward the distant shore.
Bending, Garin scooped up the dead man’s radio and listened as the sound of running feet approached. He spoke calmly over the earwig he wore.
“Friedrich, are you there?”
“I am.” The man was one of Garin’s private army, DragonTech Security. “I have them in my sights. How close do you want me to let them get?”
