Minutes passed. Lourds was beginning to think she’d fallen asleep.
‘That,’ she said groggily, ‘was better than I’d expected.’
‘I’m only here to please.’
Olympia pushed her head and shoulders up and rolled her hips against his erection. ‘I don’t totally believe you, Professor.’
‘Well, please you, please me.’
After a quick kiss, Olympia rolled onto her back. Lourds gently followed her over, grateful for the spacious bed. He watched as she hooked her panties and slid them off.
‘Come on,’ she urged, opening her legs to receive him.
‘You … you really aren’t playing … nice,’ Olympia protested.
‘As nice as you were earlier.’ Lourds leaned down and nuzzled her neck, licking right below her ear and sending her into a paroxysm of jangled nerves. He knew she loved and hated the sensation equally. Before she could admonish him, though, he adjusted and sheathed himself in her hot flesh. Whatever complaint she might have intended to lodge died as she gasped in pleasure.
Lourds moved against her, amazed at how familiar and how different everything seemed. He had missed her, and knew he would miss her again in the near future. But for now he gave himself to her and took what she had to offer.
It was over far quicker than he thought it should be. For a time, he lay atop her, stroked and held her, basking in their shared delight. Then she nudged him off politely, and he lay beside her.
‘Wow,’ Olympia said quietly as she snuggled into the crook of his arm.
‘Likewise,’ Lourds gasped.
She ran a forefinger over his lips. ‘Why don’t you sleep for a little while and later, when you wake up, we’ll go to dinner.’
‘I won’t let you. You’ll need to eat. You’re going to need your strength.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Lourds grinned.
‘It’s a promise.’
He closed his eyes and let his senses go away, but in the back of his mind, that part of him that never slept, the lizard brain that kept heart and respiration cycling, still worked on the book’s contents.
Washington Dulles International Airport
Washington D. C.
United States of America
17 March, 2010
Vicky DeAngelo was from old money, earned the old-fashioned way. Her great-great-grandfather had been infamous, the head of an organized crime family that got rich during the Prohibition era. Francis DeAngelo had dreamed of being a respectable man, though. While his contemporaries had continued to toil in illegal industries, DeAngelo had gone legit. Not only that, he’d been smart about it, and ruthless. He had battled and blackmailed his way into the ranks of the major capitalists who hung out with the Rockefellers and other captains of industry.
Francis DeAngelo had been inventive about making his money. He had sunk his criminal profits into
The DeAngelo communications empire had also been a major player in President Waggoner’s campaigns, publicly and behind the scenes.
Vicky smoothed Webster’s coat lapel into place.
‘If my great-great-grandfather could see me now, hobnobbing with the vice-president of the United States, I know he’d be pleased,’ she said. ‘Not everyone gets to hang with the Veep.’
‘Trust me, my dear, not everyone would want to.’ Webster took her hands in his and squeezed.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Then they’d be fools and I don’t want to talk about them.’
Webster chuckled. ‘I’m so glad you could join me on this trip.’
Vicky gave him a knowing look. ‘The king of Saudi Arabia has just been assassinated, possibly by religious rivals, the oil trade may hang in the balance because the successor to the throne isn’t a big United States fan, and you think I would pass up a chance for a front row seat to the coming Apocalypse?’
The choice of words surprised Webster. His eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I hoped you wouldn’t.’
Vicky pulled her coat a little more tightly around her.
‘Come on,’ Webster said. ‘Let’s get you out of this weather.’ He held out his arm and she took it, automatically falling into stride with him as he walked toward the jet.
Two more luxury vehicles sped along the tarmac heading for the jet as well. Overhead, an executive Bell helicopter dropped in for a landing nearby.
Vicky shaded her eyes with a hand as she looked at the new arrivals. ‘Stephen Napier and Tristan Hamilton?’
Webster nodded. Stephen Napier was CEO of Prometheus Experimental Energy Research, one of the leading alternative energy developers. Tristan Hamilton was the scion of the legendary oil wildcatter Wesley ‘Dusty’ Hamilton, the latest mogul in one of the biggest oil families in Texas.
‘Bringing in the big guns, aren’t you?’ Vicky asked.
‘The president wants me to make an impression over there,’ Webster said. ‘I aim to do that.’
The helicopter touched down effortlessly. The door opened and a young man with dreadlocks, skin the colour of good coffee with cream, a soul patch and a copper-coloured Armani suit got out. Wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes. He carried a slim valise and walked with innate rhythm. Bright turquoise iPod earbuds nestled in his ears.
‘Who is Mr Cool?’ Vicky asked.
‘My secret weapon,’ Webster answered.
‘Not all my friends want to be known.’
Stephen Napier was a solid block of a man in his late forties with black hair. He worked out religiously and had a chiselled jaw line. The weightlifter’s physique camouflaged the gifted scientific mind. Napier had graduated from college at fifteen and earned dual doctorates in physical science and chemistry by the age of seventeen. He had taken out his first three million-dollar patents between graduating college and earning his PhDs.
Tristan Hamilton wore jeans, cowboy boots, a dark brown leather duster and a chocolate-coloured Stetson complete with a turquoise and silver hat band. In his late twenties, he had practically grown up dividing his time between the family ranch and the family offshore oil wells in the Gulf of Mexico.
Both Napier and Hamilton watched the newcomer with cool gazes. The young man ignored them and walked straight up to Vicky DeAngelo. He took her hand delicately and pressed his lips to the back of it as he peered over the sunglasses.
‘Ms DeAngelo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Thank you, Mr …’
He released her hand and stood straight. Up close, he was taller than he looked, six-three at least.
‘Call me Spider. All my friends do.’ His voice was musical. A hint of Jamaican ran through it, though
‘And what is it you do, Spider?’ Vicky asked.
‘These days, I do whatever it is I wish to do. And I like it like that.’
‘So you like playing mysterious?’
‘I don’t play at being mysterious.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘If Vice-President Webster had wanted you to know who I was, you’d know by now. So I guess you’ll know when he gets ready for you to know.’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe not.’
Napier and Hamilton joined them. The Texan towered above them, standing six feet six barefooted. The boots and the hat pushed him up over seven feet tall. He tipped that hat to Vicky.
‘Good to see you again, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Call me ma’am again and I’ll punch you in the eye,’ she threatened him.
Hamilton gave her a slow smile. ‘Honestly, I don’t think you could reach that high. You’re just a little bit of nothin’.’
Vicky smiled sweetly. ‘How would you like to be the centre of an exposé, cowboy? Maybe we’d get a few of those skeletons in your closet to rattle around.’
The easygoing grin held firm. ‘Vicky it is.’
‘Thought you’d see it my way.’ Vicky turned to Webster. ‘Are we expecting anyone else?’
‘No,’ Webster answered. ‘Not on this flight, at least. There will be others showing up in Saudi. People who
Spider glanced round the gr
oup. ‘I guess this promises to be some shindig.’
That, Webster knew, was an understatement. If everything happened the way he hoped and planned, the meeting in Saudi Arabia was going to be world changing.
The only obstacle in his way was the book in the hands of Professor Thomas Lourds. But that would be taken care of soon.
Beyazit Tower
Istanbul University
Beyazit Square
Istanbul, Turkey
19 March 2010
A cool breeze blew in from the Golden Horn, the inlet of the Bosphorus River. Lourds stood with the breeze in his face and smelt the salt of the sea.
From his vantage point at the top of Beyazit Tower, he could see all the Old City, both banks of the Golden Horn and the mouth of the Sea of Marmara. If he squinted, he could even see Princes’ Islands where he had once taken Olympia Adnan to picnic. Travel there was by horse and cart, and the pace was a lot slower than on the mainland. Many of the cottages and dwellings dated back to Victorian times when the island became a vacation resort for the wealthy. Throughout the history of the islands, royalty had been banished there again and again. European kings and princes had been followed by sultans as Constantinople fell to be reborn as Istanbul. As a seaport and as a tie between the East and the West, the city had never had a peer.
Three more floors were added an 1849 so the watchman could signal the approach of unfriendly ships as well as where fire was located in the city. During the day, baskets of different numbers were lowered to indicate where the fire was. At night, coloured lamps were lit to replace the basket system.
Lourds easily imagined what it had been like during those early years. The watchman stationed there would have found work and hobbies to fritter away the long boring hours between fires and excitement. No matter how the years passed, there were things in human experience that never changed.
‘You’re smiling.’
Lourds turned to face Olympia. ‘Of course I’m smiling. I’m standing at the top of the Beyazit Tower. All the times I’ve visited Istanbul, I’ve never climbed the tower.’
‘You have to have special permission.’
‘I know. I was told. On every occasion I asked.’
Olympia smiled. ‘And if you wanted to climb the tower so badly, why didn’t you ask me?’
Olympia arched her brows. ‘Did you doubt I could make it happen?’
‘Never. Your connections have surprised me.’
‘So were you just smiling? Or is there somebody else?’
Lourds reached for her and pulled her into his embrace. ‘Actually, I was thinking about the picnic on Princes’ Islands.’
Olympia snuggled into him and held his hands. She felt warm against him and smelt of lavender.
‘When we missed the ferry and ended up stranded for the night?’
‘In the rain, as I recall.’
‘Obviously I remember it more romantically than you do.’
‘No, you remember it because it was the one and only time I submitted to sex outdoors.’
‘See?’ Lourds nipped her neck with his teeth. ‘Romantic.’
‘I remember being cold and wet.’
‘We couldn’t be romantic all night. Besides, the rain was refreshing.’
‘Maybe to you, but I stay at the university and do research. I’m fond of my creature comforts. You like a little hardship. That’s why I don’t go chasing after artefacts while being shot at, and you do.’
‘You really don’t know what you’re missing.’
Olympia broke free of his arms and turned to face
Lourds stood frozen for a moment, not knowing what to say.
Olympia laughed at him.
‘You were quite brilliant in class today. The students loved you, but I knew they would.’
‘You’ve got a good group,’ Lourds told her.
‘I know. So how are you doing on your secret project? With all this attention aimed at me, you can’t be doing very well. You use sex as a distraction when you’re stymied.’
Lourds feigned displeasure. ‘I am also quite capable of being distracted by a beautiful woman, I’ll have you know.’
‘I’ll take that in the spirit in which it was intended, as the sincerest form of flattery, but I do know the truth. You’ve hit a wall.’
‘Not true.’
Olympia’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You’ve translated the piece?’
‘I did.’
‘That’s incredible. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because we were both agreeing that you’re very distracting.’
‘You could have come to me earlier and told me the good news.’
Lourds shook his head, feeling the excitement inside him build anew. The last two days had been a
‘There was no good news until I visited this tower,’ he said. ‘The final pieces of the encryption finally tumbled into my head while I was climbing the stairs. Two hundred and eighty-six steps, I believe.’
‘Is it an artificial language?’
‘Actually, that was partly where I was wrong. There’s not one artificial language involved in that writing, there are three. And there’s a complicated substitution system for the three languages that must have depended on some kind of random generator.’
‘A random generator?’
‘Imagine the game Twister. You have played Twister, haven’t you?’
‘Of course. When I was a girl.’
‘Remember the spinner?’
Olympia nodded. ‘It gave the directions on where to put your hands and feet.’
‘Exactly. Left foot, green. Right hand, red. That kind of thing. That’s actually two languages in a sense.’
‘I’m not following. I’m only seeing one language: the directions.’
‘That’s because you’re processing both languages at the same time,’ Lourds said. ‘The spinner actually translates into a physical movement language and a visual acuity language, if you follow me. The spinner is divided into quadrants—’
Lourds smiled. ‘Now you’ve got it.’
‘So what is your mysterious book about?’
‘It deals with the location of something called the Joy Scroll.’
All the animation drained from Olympia’s face.
Concerned, Lourds put his hand on her shoulder to steady her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I am. But this is just so unexpected.’ Olympia seemed flustered. ‘I mean not really unexpected. Of course I hoped for something like this, but I didn’t know if you’d be able to manage a translation. Hundreds of people for the last two thousand years have tried to do what you have just done. And not one of them has been successful.’
‘You knew about this book?’
Olympia struggled to collect her thoughts. ‘I knew about the book, but I’d never seen it before. No one I know has ever seen it before. Several of us had begun to think it was just a legend. Or if it had existed that it had been destroyed.’
Lourds seized her by the shoulders. ‘Olympia. Olympia, look at me.’
She did, but he could tell she still wasn’t completely with him. Suddenly, the uneasiness he’d experienced down in the catacombs swept through him again.
‘What are you talking about? How did you know about this book? What is the Joy Scroll?’
Lourds didn’t know how to answer.
‘Please, Thomas, we’ve been friends – more than friends – for years. In all that time, I’ve never asked you for anything big. I’m asking you now to please trust me.’
‘All right,’ he answered, and hoped he didn’t live – or die – to regret it.
Central Business District
King Abdullah Economic City, Saudi Arabia
19 March 2010
Standing at the window of the luxury office building’s top floor, Elliott Webster looked out over the shimmering green waves of the Red Sea. His thoughts were of the past, of the empires that had risen and fallen along the coast. All of them were dust now, except for a
few buildings and structures here and there.
The new empire King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud had given his life to took shape all around Webster. Construction crews and earthmoving machines pieced together the steel bones of the tall buildings and carved foundations and streets from the baked sand. Noise filled the area which even the soundproofing of the room couldn’t eliminate. The muted throbbing vibrated the window.
‘What are they calling the island?’ Stephen Napier asked. He stood at Webster’s side.
‘Financial Island,’ Webster answered.
‘Catchy,’ Napier said sarcastically.
‘Maybe it sounds better in Arabic,’ Tristan Hamilton drawled. He stood only a short distance away, leaning with one arm on the window.
‘You gotta admit, naming the place that, they’re hanging it right out there for everybody to see. Ain’t trying to hide what it is.’ Spider sat in one of the plush chairs using his laptop.
Vicky DeAngelo stood on the other side of the spacious room, one hip cocked against a credenza. She talked rapidly on her sat-phone, outlining the agenda she wanted her film crews to follow throughout the city. While on the flight over to Saudi Arabia, she had put together plans for a television special.
‘It’s gonna be a pretty city when they finish up,’ Hamilton stated, ‘but it looks a mite under-defended, if you ask me.’
‘The Saudi Royal Navy is out there,’ Webster said.
‘So are American ships,’ Napier said. ‘I’m willing to bet that the American navy is going to keep more troublemakers out of the area than the Saudis.’
Webster nodded. That was one of the selling points he hoped to push to the young king. Instead of persuading him to listen, though, Webster was certain Prince Khalid would take the suggestion as a personal affront. In fact, the vice-president was counting on that fact. Khalid’s youthfulness and inexperience, as well as his burning desire to drive the Shia people from his homeland, should be enough to tip the scales towards war. And if that wasn’t enough, the intel that Dawson had only that morning passed along through informants he had access to within the country would. Webster was waiting for it all to hit the fan.
The Lucifer Code (2010) Page 15
