The Covenant of Genesis

  ‘Shoddy mythological theory like Atlantis, you mean?’

  ‘My other immediate priority,’ said Rothschild coldly, ‘will be to begin a full inquiry into the utter disaster that was your Indonesian expedition. The loss of life is of course a tragedy, but there is also your arbitrary abandonment of the original excavation site, the financial irregularities—’

  ‘What financial irregularities?’ Nina demanded, furious.

  ‘I mean the money you promised to the ship’s captain for what I believe you described as “additional expenses”. Just because part of the budget is labelled as discretionary doesn’t mean it’s your personal slush fund.’

  ‘That’s not what happened at all, and—’

  ‘You’ll be able to present your version of events to the inquiry,’ said Rothschild. ‘This catastrophe reflects extremely badly on both the IHA and the UN. The facts need to be determined, responsibility decided . . .’

  ‘Blame apportioned?’

  A faint smile curled Rothschild’s thin lips. ‘Indeed. If I were you, I would put all my efforts into as complete an account as possible of what happened in Indonesia. And I’d recommend that your . . . friend Mr Chase does the same. Where is Mr Chase, by the way?’

  ‘Still over there,’ said Nina, being purposefully vague to deny Rothschild any more ammunition.

  ‘I see. After the UN organised a private flight for the specific purpose of bringing you both back to New York. I hope you’re not going to add the cost of his scheduled ticket to the discretionary budget as well?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she growled. ‘But if you’ll excuse me, Maureen, I still have work to do.’ She held up the crumpled ball of paper. ‘This says you aren’t officially the IHA’s Director for two more days, which means I’m still in charge - and you’ve wasted enough of my time. Lola, I’ll be in my office. Don’t put any calls through unless they’re urgent. Or Eddie.’ She turned her back on Rothschild and entered her office, slamming the door behind her.

  9

  Nina arrived at the United Nations building having spent the night worrying about Chase. After her confrontation with Rothschild the previous day, she had checked her voicemail to find a message from him. Her relief at hearing his gruff Yorkshire tones was muted by the terseness of the message, which told her little other than that he was on his way back to New York - and that he was ‘knackered’. She could tell he had been through a tense, dangerous time, but not knowing what had happened made her worried and frustrated.

  Since then: nothing.

  The first thing she did on arriving at the IHA was check if he had left any messages. He hadn’t. She stared blankly out across Manhattan from her office window before sharply turning away. She knew she ought to continue working on her report, in preparation for the inquiry, but her concerns about Chase were too distracting. She needed something else to focus her mind.

  Like the pictures on the memory card recovered from her stolen camera.

  She copied the files to her new laptop, putting the card in her jacket pocket before opening all the high-resolution images. One in particular dominated her attention, a close-up of the clay tablet, showing the strange text in great detail. She steepled her fingers against her lips as she tried to make sense of it.

  Nothing. A few characters - a triangle with what might be a tree or a flower above it; three horizontal lines one above the other, the topmost curling back round on itself - appeared more symbolic than others, reminding her of the stylised pictograms forming the basis of the ancient Chinese and Japanese writing systems, but what they actually represented remained a mystery. Others stood out from the elegant, curved characters making up the bulk of the script by their stark and angular nature, a number of V-shapes pointing in different directions, small dots between the lines, followed by blocks of tightly packed little marks . . .

  What did they mean? What was the secret someone was willing to kill to protect?

  She had no idea.

  Keeping the picture open in the background, Nina reluctantly returned to her report, forcing herself to the recall the unpleasant details of the events aboard the Pianosa. But the image kept drawing her attention over the course of the morning. She almost closed it to remove the distraction, but something about it was sounding a bell in the back of her mind. Something familiar.

  What, though? The text resembled no alphabet she knew.

  So, if it wasn’t an alphabet, then—

  Nina jolted upright. The meaning of one particular type of symbol had just leapt out at her as if illuminated in neon. ‘Why the hell didn’t I see it before?’ she cried. ‘Dumbass!’

  The blocks of closely spaced markings weren’t letters. They were numbers. Atlantean numbers. They weren’t quite the same as those she had seen on various Atlantean artefacts, but were close enough to be recognisable as from the same family: considering the apparent age of the tablet, an earlier version.

  She grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled them down, converting them to the more familiar Atlantean equivalents, then rapidly performing the complex mental arithmetic to transform the unique numerical system into base ten. Each set turned out to be quite large, getting more so after each of the V-shapes to which they seemed linked. A record of something, then, a count. But what? It could be anything: numbers of people, distances, even the amount of fish caught by the boat in which it had been found.

  But she had discovered something. The fact that it appeared to use a form of the Atlanteans’ numerical system meant that whoever made the tablet was in some way connected to them, however far separated by geography and time. And if the Atlantean language could be deciphered, so could this.

  Maybe it already had been deciphered. While Nina was necessarily well versed in ancient languages, it wasn’t her specialty - she was an archaeologist, not a linguist. There were experts whose specialised knowledge far eclipsed her own. Her former mentor, Professor Jonathan Philby, had been one such expert, but he was no longer alive.

  He’d had peers, though - well, more like rivals, she remembered. Even at the pinnacles of academia, one-upmanship was still a driving force. The names escaped her, but a few minutes’ trawling through online archives for some of Philby’s papers gave her one: Professor Gabriel Ribbsley of Cambridge. She vaguely recalled Philby once naming him as one of the world’s top palaeolinguists . . . after himself, of course. Judging from Ribbsley’s own extensive list of published papers, that still appeared to be the case.

  She got Lola to obtain his contact details, then sent a brief email of introduction, accompanied by the barest details of her reason for contacting him - considering recent events, it seemed prudent to keep the recovery of her pictures of the clay tablet as quiet as possible. That done, she forced herself to go back to work on the report. Her experience with tenured professors had taught her they would respond to external enquiries in their own time, and the more prestigious the university, the greater that time would be - all the way up to the heat-death of the entire universe.

  So it came as a surprise when Ribbsley phoned less than twenty minutes later.

  ‘This is, uh, quite an honour, Professor,’ she said after introductions had been made.

  ‘Oh, the honour is all mine, Dr Wilde,’ Ribbsley replied. Nina couldn’t quite place his accent; there was an undertone that made her think his upper-class English manner was a hard-won affectation. Southern African, perhaps? ‘After all, it’s not every day one gets a request for assistance from the discoverer of Atlantis, and so many other great treasures. I visited the tomb of Arthur at Glastonbury just a month or so ago, in fact. They needed help with the Latin inscriptions - makes one wonder what on earth they teach these days, if something that simple poses a problem! But the tomb itself was quite impressive, so well done, well done.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nina, picking up a less subtle undertone, this one decidedly patronising. ‘But yes, I hope you’ll be able to help me. If you can spare the time.’

  ‘That depends
what it is. I hope for the sake of your reputation it’s not Latin!’ He chuckled at his own joke.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Nina told him, not feeling obliged to join in. ‘It’s related to some Atlantean text that was recently discovered. I see from your list of papers in the IJA that you’ve done a considerable amount of work on the subject.’

  ‘Well, I’d hardly be able to call myself the world’s top palaeolinguist with a straight face if I hadn’t!’ He laughed selfcongratulatingly again. ‘Mind you, I had a head start over the likes of Frome and Tsen-Hu and that imbecile Lopez. Hector Amoros asked me to do some preliminary work before the discovery of Atlantis was even officially announced. Benefits of having friends in high places.’

  ‘You knew Hector?’

  ‘In passing, poor chap. He was only an amateur, of course, but a moderately capable one.’

  Nina held back a sharp comment that Amoros had actually held a Master’s degree in the subject. ‘This text . . . while we’ve found some Atlantean characters in it, there are others we haven’t been able to identify. I was hoping you might be able to look at it.’

  ‘I’d be delighted. Just email me what you’ve got, and I’ll cast an eye - or maybe even two! - over it as soon as I can.’

  ‘That’d be a huge help, Professor. Thank you.’

  ‘No problem at all, Dr Wilde. As I said, it’s an honour. Not everybody gets to change how we look at human history, after all.’

  Was there a hint of jealousy under his bonhomie? But still, she’d managed to get his help. Someone of Ribbsley’s experience might spot in an instant something that had escaped her.

  She certainly wasn’t going to send him everything she had, though, or even any of the photographs. Instead, she called up the picture of the tablet and carefully copied a single section of text including one of the V-shapes and the Atlantean numerals on to a sheet of paper, which she scanned and emailed to Ribbsley.

  Thinking it would take some time for him to work on the text, she returned to her report. Again, she was surprised to get a call in short order.

  He was less ebullient, more focused. ‘Dr Wilde. This text you sent me, it doesn’t appear to be an accurate transcript. I don’t see any Atlantean characters in it.’

  Nina smiled; it was her turn to congratulate herself. ‘Really, Professor? It only took me a few minutes to find them, and I didn’t even know they were there.’ An exaggeration, but it had at least taken his smugness down a notch. ‘I could send you another scan, mark them for you . . .’

  Ribbsley didn’t sound amused. ‘Or you could just show me. I assume you have a webcam.’

  ‘Er . . . yeah.’ It took a minute to set it up, but Nina was soon able to see him in a window. The overblown self-confidence in his voice was reflected in his face; he was looking down his nose at her, and she doubted it was solely because of the camera’s position. A smirk seemed permanently etched round his mouth; his hair, though greying and thinning, had been carefully styled to conceal both facts. In the background, she could see several framed photographs of him, always white-suited, shaking hands with international dignitaries.

  ‘There you are, Dr Wilde,’ said Ribbsley. ‘Now, if you’d care to point out what I’ve apparently been too blind to see?’

  ‘Of course, Professor.’ Nina held up the drawing. ‘These characters here, the ones arranged in blocks?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re numbers. The forms are slightly different, but they’re definitely related to the Atlantean numerical system.’

  Whatever reaction she’d expected from Ribbsley, it hadn’t been the stunned look he gave her, his confidence shaken - however briefly. ‘Numbers?’ he said, before repeating it more strongly. ‘Numbers! Of course!’ He examined his screen closely.

  ‘You see? The symbols definitely correspond to each successive power of the Atlanteans’ modified base eight system. They’re arranged differently, but the actual symbols are close enough—’

  ‘They are, they’re very close,’ Ribbsley interrupted. ‘Numbers! I should have seen it at once . .’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment before turning back to the camera. ‘Unfortunately, Dr Wilde, apart from the numbers, you know exactly as much as I do about this text. The other characters are completely unfamiliar.’ His gaze intensified. ‘Where did you say it was obtained?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Nina told him pointedly. ‘That’s classified information, I’m afraid.’

  He wasn’t pleased at being denied, but quickly covered it. ‘I understand. But without some hint of a point of origin, there’s really nothing more I can do to help. Would that I had the time to scour through records of every extinct language in my library in search of similarities, but alas . . .’

  ‘Alas, indeed,’ said Nina, wishing she could reach through the screen to slap the smugness off his face. ‘Still, thank you for your help anyway, Professor.’

  ‘Not at all. Again, an honour to speak to you. We really must meet in person sometime - I’m sure we’d have much to discuss. Goodbye.’

  ‘Good—’ Nina said, but Ribbsley had already terminated the link. ‘Bye, jerk,’ she added quietly.

  She glanced at her laptop’s clock. Lunchtime. She’d been so occupied with work that she hadn’t realised she was hungry, but now she couldn’t deny it. Time to go and find something to eat.

  Before she did, though, she called Chase’s cell phone again. Nothing. Still unobtainable.

  Where the hell was he?

  Chase trudged blearily through the airport gate. Unable to get a direct flight back to New York at short notice, he had been forced to cobble together an ad hoc itinerary, from Jakarta to Singapore, then on to Delhi, and - after a long wait for a connecting flight - to his current location, Dubai. He had another lengthy stopover before he could fly on to Paris, but at least from there it would be the last leg of his journey to New York.

  He checked his watch. Midnight in Dubai, four p.m. in New York. He needed to talk to Nina; he had left a brief message on her office voicemail before he left Singapore to assure her that he was all right, but was looking forward to a longer conversation. First things first, though. Make his way to the departure area, check in, then find a way to kill time until the Paris flight boarded . . .

  If he reached it. His tiredness vanished instantly, replaced by wariness, as he realised he was being watched. An Arab man in the uniform of the airport police stood nearby, accompanied by three large white guys in dark suits and mirrored sunglasses . . . and the mirrorshades were all pointing his way. One of the trio held up a sheet of paper as if comparing the picture on it to Chase’s face, then nodded.

  That didn’t look good.

  They approached him, the officer holding up a hand. ‘Mr . . . Chase?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The three men stepped forward, moving to surround him.

  ‘These men would like to talk to you.’

  Chase eyed them, seeing himself reflected sixfold in the lenses. ‘You’re not going to make me miss my flight, are you, lads? It cost me a bloody fortune.’

  ‘You’ll be taking a different flight, Mr Chase,’ said one of the men. His accent was American.

  ‘Yeah? Where to?’

  The man’s mouth was a cold, hard line. ‘Guantánamo Bay.’

  ‘Any word from Eddie?’

  Nina looked up from her work to see Lola in the office doorway, a cup of coffee in her hand. ‘No, not yet,’ she said gloomily. She glanced at the windows to see with surprise that it was dark. ‘Whoa! What happened to the afternoon?’

  The big-haired blonde smiled and came to her desk. ‘You were zoned out again. I wish I could do that - it must be great to be able to concentrate totally on one thing. I guess that explains why I’m the receptionist and you’re the boss!’

  ‘Until tomorrow.’

  Lola handed her the coffee; Nina nodded in thanks. ‘That’s why I’m still here so late - Professor Rothschild sent me a big long list of admin stuff she wants to see tomorrow
, so I’ve been collating it all. Do I still call her “Professor” if she’s not actually teaching, by the way?’

  ‘I have a feeling she’ll insist on it,’ Nina told her, sipping the coffee.

  ‘Yeah, I kinda got that impression. To be honest, I’m . . .’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m not looking forward to her taking over.’

  Nina laughed sarcastically. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Yeah. But I don’t care what she says, you did just as good a job at running the IHA as Admiral Amoros.’

  That went some small way towards improving Nina’s mood. ‘Thanks,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Well, you looked like you needed it. And it’s my job to make sure you get what you need, after all!’ They shared an appreciative moment, then Lola regarded the printouts and documents on Nina’s desk. ‘Do you know how much longer you’ll be working?’

  ‘I’ll be a while. You go home, I’ll lock up. Or is Al still here?’

  ‘No, he went home. I made him go home. He was here all last night fixing the servers - he would have slept in the computer room if I hadn’t stood in the doorway and not let him back in.’

  ‘That sounds like Al all right,’ Nina said. ‘But don’t wait around for me.’

  ‘Okay.’ Lola returned to the door, then looked back. ‘Dr Wilde . . . don’t worry about tomorrow. I’m sure everything’ll be fine. And I’m sure Eddie’ll be fine too.’

  ‘I hope so. Thanks, Lola.’

  ‘No problem.’ She left, heading back to reception.

  Nina took another sip of coffee, then switched on her desk lamp. Lola was right - she really had zoned out, fixated on the task at hand. Probably, she mused ruefully, so that she wouldn’t have to think about the two things currently worrying her: the future of her career once Rothschild took charge of the IHA, and, more important, what had happened to Chase.

  She needed a break. Of course, she thought with amused self-awareness, her idea of a break wasn’t the same as other people’s. Forget going for a walk or having a snack; switching to a different kind of work was just as good as a rest.