The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller (12 page)

Should the search have taken this long? What if he was wasting time?

Something else made him nervous. He glanced at the field box David had left on the table. He stood, grabbed the box, but as he lifted it, the bottom fell open. The gun and cyanide capsules tumbled onto the table, the clanging noise shattering the silence. The sound seemed to echo for hours that felt like a dream. Finally, Josh reached for the gun and two pills. His hands were shaking.

On the wall, a beep snapped him out of the moment. The larger screen read: 5 results.

5 Results!

Josh sat down at the table and worked the wireless keyboard and mouse. Three results from The New York Times, one from The Daily Mail in London, and one from The Boston Globe.

Maybe he was right. From the moment he had seen the names and dates, his first thought was: they’re obituaries. Obituaries and classifieds were classic spy-craft: operatives after World War II routinely used them to send messages across spy networks spread across the globe. It was old school, but if the message had been passed in 1947, it could have been a viable method. If it was true, this terrorist network was over 65 years old. He pushed the implications of that to the back of his mind.

He looked at the coded message David had given him:

________________________

Toba Protocol is real.

4+12+47 = 4/5; Jones

7+22+47 = 3/8; Anderson

10+4+47 = 5/4; Ames

________________________

Then he turned to the results. It was more likely the terrorists had used one paper — one paper that was available in cities around the world. The New York Times was the mostly likely candidate. Even in 1947, you could walk up to a newsstand in Paris, London, Shanghai, Barcelona, or Boston and get the day’s copy of The New York Times, paid obituaries included.

If the obituaries were coded messages, they would have been flagged in some way. Josh saw it immediately: each of the obituaries had the words clock and tower. He leaned back in his chair. Was it possible that Clocktower was that old? The CIA was only formally established in 1947 by the National Security Act of 1947, although it’s precursor organization, The Office of Strategic Services (OSS) was created in during World War II, in June of 1942.

Why would the terrorists mention Clocktower? Maybe they were fighting Clocktower back then — in 1947 — 66 years ago?

He needed to focus on the obituaries. There must be a way to decode them. The ideal encryption system would feature a variable cipher; i.e. there would be no one key that could decrypt a message. Each message would include its own key — something simple.

He opened the first obituary.

____________________

Adam Jones, Pioneering Clockmaker, Dies at 77 Working on his Tower Masterpiece.
The New York Times
- Obituaries, 4/12/1947 Issue

Adam Jones, leading Gibraltar clockmaker, died Saturday in British Honduras. He was found by his valet. His bones will be interred near his late wife’s — a site they selected together. Please send a card or advise family if visiting.

____________________

The message was here somewhere. What was the key? Josh opened the other obituaries and scanned them, hoping for some sort of clue. Each obituary contained a location, and each one was early in the text. Josh ran through several possibilities, re-arranged several words, then sat back and thought. The obituaries were written awkwardly, like certain words were out of order. Or forced, like they had to use those words. The order, the intervals. He saw it. The names were the cipher, the length of the names. It was the second part of the code.

____________________

4+12+47 = 4/5; Jones

____________________

The 4/12/1947 obituary was for Adam Jones. 4/5. The first name was 4 letters. The last name was 5. If he took the fourth word of the obituary, then the fifth, it yielded a sentence.

He opened the obituary:

____________________

Adam Jones, Pioneering Clockmaker, Dies at 77 Working on his Tower Masterpiece.
The New York Times
- Obituaries, 4/12/1947 Issue

Adam Jones, leading
Gibraltar
clockmaker, died Saturday in
British
Honduras. He was
found
by his valet. His
bones
will be interred
near
his late wife’s — a
site
they selected together.
Please
send a card or
advise
family if visiting.

____________________

Together, the message read:

Gibraltar, British found bones near site. Please advise.

Josh studied the message for a moment. He didn’t see that coming. And he had no idea what it meant. He searched the internet and came up with a few results. Apparently the British had found bones in Gibraltar in the 1940s, in a natural sea cave called Gorham’s Cave. But they weren’t human bones. They were Neanderthal bones — and they had radically changed what the world knew about Neanderthals. Our pre-historic cousins were actually much more than archaic cavemen. They built homes. And they built huge fires on stone hearths, cooked vegetables, spoke a language, created cave art, buried their dead with flowers, and made advanced stone tools and pottery. The bones at Gibraltar also changed the Neanderthal time line. Before the Gibraltar find, Neanderthals were thought to have died out around 40,000 years ago. The Neanderthals at Gibraltar had lived roughly 23,000 years ago — far earlier than previously thought. Gibraltar was likely the Neanderthals’ last stand.

What could an ancient Neanderthal fortress have to do with a global terrorist attack? Maybe the other messages would shed some light. Josh opened the second obituary and decoded it.

Antarctica, U-boat not found, advise if further search authorized

Interesting. Josh ran a few searches. 1947 had been a busy year in Antarctica. On December 12th, 1946, the US Navy sent a huge armada including 13 ships with almost 5,000 men to Antarctica. The mission, codenamed Operation Highjump, was to establish the Antarctic research base Little America IV. There had long been conspiracy theories and speculation that the US was looking for secret Nazi bases and technology in Antarctica. Did the message mean they hadn’t found it?

Josh turned the thick glossy page with the message over and examined the photo. A massive chunk of ice floated in a blue sea, and at its center, a black sub stuck out of the ice. The writing on the sub was too small to read, but it had to be the Nazi sub. Based on the likely size of the sub, the iceberg was maybe ten square miles. Big enough to be from Antarctica. Did this mean they had found the sub recently? Had the discovery set events in motion?

Josh turned to the last message, hoping it would provide a clue. Decoded, it read:

Roswell, weather balloon matches Gibraltar technology, we must meet

Together, all three messages were:

Gibraltar, British found bones near site, Please advise

Antarctica, U-boat not found, advise if further search authorized

Roswell, weather balloon matches Gibraltar technology, we must meet

What did it mean? A site in Gibraltar, a U-boat in Antarctica, and the last one — a weather balloon in Roswell that matched technology in Gibraltar?

There was a larger question: why? Why reveal these messages? They were 65 years old. How could it be connected to what’s happening now — to the battle for Clocktower and an imminent terrorist attack?

Josh paced; he had to think.
If I was a mole inside a terrorist organization, trying to call for help, what would I do?
Trying to call for help… the source would have left a way to contact him. Another code? No, maybe he was revealing the method — how to contact him — the obituaries. But that would be inefficient, newspaper obituaries would take at least a day to appear — even online. Online. What would be the modern equivalent? Where would you post?

Josh ran through several ideas. The obituaries had been easy: there were only a few papers to check. The message could be anywhere online. There had to be another clue.

What did the three messages have in common? A location. What was different about them? There were no people in Antarctica, no classifieds, no… what? What was different about Roswell and Gibraltar? Both had newspapers. What could you do in one and not the other? To post something… The source was pointing him to a posting system as ubiquitous today as
The New York Times
was in 1947.

Craigslist. It had to be. Josh checked. No Craigslist in Gibraltar, but yes — there was a Craigslist board for Roswell / Carlsbad, New Mexico. Josh opened it and began reading through the messages. There were thousands of them in dozens of categories: for sale, housing, community, jobs, resumes. There would be hundreds of new postings each day.

How could he find the source’s message — if it was even there? He could use a web aggregation technology to gather the site’s content — a Clocktower server would “crawl” the site, similar to the way Google and Bing indexed web sites, extracting content and making it searchable. Then he could run the cipher program, see if any of the postings translated. It would only take a few hours. He didn’t have a few hours.

He needed a place to start. Obituaries was the logical choice, but Craigslist didn’t have obituaries. What would be the closest category? Maybe… Personals? He scanned the headings:

strictly platonic

women seeking women

women seeking men

men seeking women

men seeking men

misc romance

casual encounters

missed connections

rants and raves

He knew a few of these. ‘casual encounters’ was notorious as a way for prostitutes to find clients and promiscuous people from every walk of life to find each other. He’d read articles. It usually involved a few anonymous emails, followed by an exchange of photos, and then, if both sides continued to email, a meeting, usually at a cheap hotel.

Where to start? Was he on a wild goose chase? He didn’t have time to waste. Maybe a few more minutes, one more group of messages.

‘Missed connections’ was an interesting category. The idea was if you saw someone you were interested in, but didn’t get a chance to “make a connection” — ask them out, you posted here. It was popular with guys who, in the moment, couldn’t find the courage to ask a cute waitress out. Josh had actually posted to it several times. If the person saw the message and replied, then there you were, no pressure. If not… it wasn’t meant to be.

He opened it and read a few entries.

Subject>
Green Dress at CVS

Message:
My god you were stunning! You’re perfect and I was totally speechless. Would love to talk to you. Email me.

Subject>
Hampton Hotel

Message:
We were getting water together at the desk and then got on the elevator together. Didn’t know if you wanted to get together for a little extra exercise. Tell what floor I got off on. I saw your wedding ring. We can be discreet too.

He read a few more. The message would be longer — if it followed the same pattern: a message within a message, decoded by the name length as a cipher. Craigslist was anonymous. The name would be the email address.

On the next page, the first entry was:

Subject>
Saw you in the old Tower Records building talking about the new Clock Opera single

Promising…
Clock
and
Tower
in the subject line. Josh clicked the posting and read it quickly. It was much longer than the others. The email address was [email protected]. Josh scribbled down every fourth word then every fifth word from the posting. The decoded posting produced:

Situation changed. Clock tower will fall. Reply if still alive. Trust no one.

Josh froze.
Reply if still alive.
He had to reply. David had to reply.

Josh picked up the satellite phone and dialed David, but it wouldn’t connect. He had called him earlier. It wasn’t the room or the phone. What could—

He saw it. The video feed from the door outside. It wasn’t changing. He watched closely. The lights on the servers were always on. But it never happened that way — they always blinked occasionally as the hard drives were accessed, as network cards sent and received packets. It wasn’t a video feed, it was a picture — a picture put there by whoever was trying to get into the room.

CHAPTER 21

Main Situation Room
Clocktower Station HQ
Jakarta, Indonesia

The situation room was busy. Operations technicians typed at keyboards, analysts filtered in and out with reports, and Vincent Tarea paced back and forth, watching the wall of screens. “Are we sure Vale is getting a false location map?”

“Yes sir,” one of the techs said.

“Tell the safe houses to move out.”

Tarea watched the safe house video feeds as the soldiers marched to the doors and pulled them open.

The sound of the explosions turned every head in the large situation room to the monitors, which now showed fuzzy black and white static.

One of the techs punched a keyboard. “Switching to outside video. Sir, we have a massive detonation at—”

“I know! Safe houses, hold your positions,” Tarea yelled.