The Genesis Key (15 page)

“Those aren't literal,” she said, already sensing where he was going.

But Eskridge ignored her; he was on a roll. “Lamech's father, Methuselah . . .
nine hundred sixty-nine years
. Methuselah's father, Enoch . . .
three hundred sixty-five years
.”

“Okay, I get the picture. They were old.”

“Yeah, really old. Now let's talk about Noah.” He thumbed forward a few pages. “According to Genesis nine, Noah was
nine hundred and fifty years old
when he died. He had three sons before the flood, all of whom survived the flood with him. Shem, Ham, and Japheth.”

Where's he going with this?
Kathleen wondered.

“According to Genesis ten, those three sons divided the land after the flood and spread out to rule their respective kingdoms.” He scanned the page, apparently looking for a particular verse. “Ah, here it is, Genesis ten, verse thirty-two. ‘These are the families of the sons of Noah, after their generations, in their nations: and by these were the nations divided in the earth after the flood.' ”

Kathleen shrugged and held out her palms. “Sorry, I'm not following.”

“Shem survived the flood and lived a total of six hundred years. But if you look at Genesis chapter eleven, none of his progeny after the flood lived anywhere near that long. Over eight generations, their life spans dropped steadily from about four hundred years to about two hundred years.” He paused. “Now, that's not bad, mind you . . . but nothing compared to Shem . . . and Noah . . . and Lamech . . . and Methuselah.” He peered over the top of his glasses. “You know, all those
pre-flood
guys.”

Ahhhh!
Now Kathleen got it. He was comparing the pre-flood life spans in the Bible with those after the flood. She remembered seeing something about this on the History Channel. She nodded her head emphatically, indicating her understanding.

Eskridge continued. “In fact, by the time you get to the ninth generation after Shem—a fellow named Haran—he up and died before his own father. Genesis eleven, verse twenty-eight.”

“Okay . . .”

“In Genesis twenty-five, the Bible says Abraham lived to be one hundred and seventy-five years old. His son Isaac died at one hundred and eighty. Then there's Jacob, one hundred forty-seven; Joseph, one hundred ten; Levi, one hundred thirty-seven; Kohath, one hundred thirty-three; and Amram—Moses' father—one hundred thirty-seven. Moses, himself, died at
exactly
one hundred and twenty. See a trend?”

“They're going down.”

Eskridge fanned through a series of pages, quickly finding a different section of the Bible. “By the fifteenth century
BC
, when Psalm Ninety was written, we have this account of the prevailing human life span at the time:

The days of our years are
threescore and ten
;

and if by reason of strength they be
fourscore years
,

yet is their strength labor and sorrow;

for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.

“Three score and ten—that's only a seventy-year life span, eighty if you have good strength. Not much different from what we have today, right?”

“Right . . .”

“So, by the fifteenth century
BC
—fourteen hundred years after the Great Flood—it seems the longevity gene had plumb petered out.”

Kathleen's eyes widened. “The longevity gene?”

“Sure. Your mother laid it all out in here.” Eskridge held up the thesis and shook it slightly. “She said the Nephilim myth was created to explain an actual phenomenon that people of that era observed, or at least had heard about from their recent ancestors.”

“The long life spans.”

“Yep. A small group of people—perhaps just a few families—who seemed to live for centuries while the rest of the population lived and died in just a span of decades. At that time, there would have been no logical explanation for such a phenomenon. So, as people often do, they attributed it to the supernatural—the
Nephilim.
The author of Genesis simply incorporated that mythology, borrowing it from common Sumerian folklore.” He arched his eyebrows and peered deeply into Kathleen's eyes. “Remember, folklore is almost always used to explain something real, which is otherwise inexplicable.”

Once again, a vague notion was swirling around in the recesses of Kathleen's mind, just below the surface, just out of reach.

“And by the way,” Eskridge continued, “it's not just the Bible where you find this marked decrease in life span after the Great Flood. Have you ever heard of the Sumerian king list?”

“No.”

“It's an ancient Sumerian text, recorded on clay cuneiform tablets, which lists all of the kings of Sumer in chronological order, practically from the beginning of recorded history.” Eskridge flipped open the thesis, scanned the table of contents, and then turned quickly to a particular page. “The Sumerian king list records about twenty-five anteduluvian kings.”

“Antediluvian?”

“Pre-flood.” He placed his finger on the opened page and read aloud. “Now, here are some examples of kings from the First Dynasty of Kish, along with the length of their reigns. Jushur of Kish—twelve hundred years; Kullassina-bel of Kish—nine hundred and sixty years; Nangishlishma of Kish—six hundred and seventy years; En-Tarah-Ana of Kish—four hundred and twenty years; Tizqar of Kish—three hundred and five years. The last king of that dynasty was Aga of Kish, who reigned six hundred and twenty-five years. Pretty long time, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“After that, the Sumerian king list indicates that Kish was defeated and the kingship taken to E-anna, a rival city in ancient Sumer. Thus began the First Dynasty of Uruk.”

“Uruk was in Iraq, right?” Kathleen remembered that from her conversation with Dr. Sargon the other night.

“That's correct. The first king of Uruk was Mesh-ki-ang-gasher, who ruled for three hundred and twenty-four years . . . until something very interesting happened.”

“What?”

Eskridge turned to the next page in the thesis. “This is a direct translation from the Weld-Blundell Prism. It's a baked-clay four-sided cuneiform prism, the most comprehensive Sumerian king list ever found. It was discovered in 1922 near Babylon in Iraq. Today it's on display at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford.”

“Okay.”

Eskridge read aloud from the thesis, moving his finger along as he did. “ ‘Mesh-ki-ang-gasher of E-ana, son of Utu, went into the Sea and disappeared.' ” He paused. “Sound familiar?”

“The Great Flood?”

“That would be my guess. And now, look carefully at the reigns of kings after that event.” He spun the thesis around and pushed it across the table toward Kathleen.

Kathleen studied the page carefully, tingling slightly at the idea that she was looking at her mother's writing from nearly four decades ago:

Enmerkar, who built Unug: 420 years

Lugalbanda of Unug, the shepherd: 1200 years

Dumuzid of Unug, the fisherman: 100 years. Captured En-Men-Barage-Si of Kish.

Gilgamesh, whose father was a phantom, lord of Kulaba: 126 years

Ur-Nungal of Unug: 30 years

Udul-Kalama of Unug: 15 years

La-Ba'shum of Unug: 9 years

En-Nun-Tarah-Ana of Unug: 8 years

Mesh-He of Unug: 36 years

Melem-Ana of Unug: 6 years

Lugal-Kitun of Unug: 36 years

Then Uruk was defeated and the kingship was taken to Semionm.

“Notice any similarities between that account and the biblical account we read a little while ago?” Eskridge asked.

“The life spans . . .”

“Yeah, they petered out a couple generations after the flood, didn't they?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And who was the last recorded king with an abnormally long life span?”

Kathleen looked down at the thesis. “Gilgamesh.”

“Son of a
phantom
, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sound familiar?”

“The Nephilim?”

Eskridge stood up, leaned over the table toward Kathleen, and then spread Sargon's sheet of paper on the table between them. “Now, let's look at this epitaph again.”

They both studied it for several seconds, and then Eskridge spoke—slowly, deliberately. “Okay. Putting all these symbols together, here's what I think they mean . . .”

Kathleen waited anxiously as Eskridge considered the paper in silence, apparently collecting his final thoughts.

“My best translation is . . . ‘The Last Nephilim.' ”

As those words sunk in, Kathleen's mind exploded with a dozen thoughts at once.

“Or,” Eskridge continued, “using a slightly different vernacular of the time . . . ‘The Last Giant.' ”

“Gilgamesh,” said Kathleen quietly.

“So it would seem.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Rockville, Maryland.

“S
orry I'm late,” Kathleen said as she entered the QLS conference room. “Reagan National was an absolute madhouse this morning.”

Kathleen, Carlos, Julie, and Jeremy—the staff of QLS—took their seats around the conference table just before noon. Office supplies were stacked high at one end of the table, and boxes of glassware and other laboratory supplies were lined up along the walls.

“The reason I wanted to get everyone together,” Kathleen said, “is to discuss a new project that I'd like to get started on right away.” She nodded toward Carlos.

Carlos acknowledged her signal and quickly retrieved from his briefcase the clear Ziploc bag containing the tooth. She had called him from Boston last night and asked him to bring it to the meeting, though she hadn't explained why.

“This,” Kathleen announced, holding up the Ziploc bag for everyone to see, “is an artifact from Iraq. As I understand it, it came from the tomb of a very important figure in Mesopotamian history. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that it may be important to our research.”

“How?” Jeremy Fisher asked skeptically. He was a lanky guy in his late twenties, with black, unkempt hair and two days of stubble on his face. He wore ripped, faded jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt with the words A
IM
S
HOOT
D
ELIVER
on the back, and the logo of the U.S. Paintball Association on the front. Aside from being a first-rate slacker, Jeremy Fisher was also a brilliant molecular biologist. He'd graduated near the top of his undergraduate class at Berkeley and then completed an impressive Ph.D. program at Stanford. He'd been a much sought-after post-doc at NIH when Kathleen discovered him and quickly recruited him away to QLS two years earlier.

“Well,” Kathleen said, answering Jeremy's question, “it's possible this artifact may contain some useful DNA.”

“DNA?” blurted Jeremy. “What is that thing, anyway?” He craned over the table and brought his face to within inches of the Ziploc bag. There was a momentary pause, and then—“Is that a . . .
tooth
?”

“Yes,” Kathleen replied flatly. “It's a tooth. From a mummy.”

There was immediate commotion in the room as Julie, too, stood up to inspect the relic. “Gross!” she whispered as the details of the discolored tooth became apparent.

Julie Haas was the opposite of Jeremy in many ways. Most notably, she was an optimist, who (unlike Jeremy) naturally assumed things would always work out for the best. She was pretty—short blond hair; sparkling blue eyes; round, smooth face; and an easy smile. And she had a breezy personality that made her a pleasure to be around. That was one reason Kathleen had brought her over from NIH two years ago, where she'd been Kathleen's lab assistant since graduating from college three years earlier.

But Julie was more than just pleasant and pretty. She was also a very competent biologist. Perhaps not as brilliant or inspired as Jeremy, but a solid researcher nonetheless. Indeed, Julie and Jeremy seemed to complement each other nicely in the lab. What Julie lacked in raw talent, she more than made up for with determination, perseverance, and plain hard work, qualities that Jeremy did not always exhibit.

The commotion over the artifact eventually died down, and Kathleen gestured for everyone to take his seat. “Like I said,” she continued, “I'd like to conduct some tests—”

“On
that?
” Jeremy interrupted.

“Yes. On this.”

“What kinds of tests?” asked Julie. “I mean, how does this relate to our core research?”

Kathleen hesitated. “Well, to tell you the truth, it's kind of complicated. And I'm not even sure I understand it myself. So let's just take things one step at a time, okay? This may turn out to be nothing at all . . . or it may be huge. I just don't know at this point. So let's start with a few simple tests.”

The room fell silent, and Kathleen noticed Jeremy and Julie exchanging disbelieving glances.
They think I'm crazy
, she thought to herself.
Maybe they're right.

Suddenly, Carlos spoke up in his typical, authoritative voice. “Absolutely, Dr. Sainsbury. Just tell us what tests you want run, and we'll make sure they get done.”

Kathleen smiled appreciatively at him.
Sergeant Guiterez to the rescue!

“Let's first see if we can extract some usable DNA from this thing.” She placed the bag on the table in front of Jeremy and gave him a nod. “I was hoping you could take care of that.”

Jeremy picked up the bag with his thumb and index finger and inspected its contents. He was already shaking his head doubtfully. “I'd be amazed if there's any intact DNA in here,” he said dismissively. “I mean, look at this thing. It's degraded. It's discolored. Who knows what kinds of conditions this thing's been exposed to. Not to mention contamination. I mean, you've probably got viral DNA, insect DNA, bacteria . . . all sorts of garbage in there.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “I mean, you might get a few
fragments
of DNA, but an intact sample? I don't see it happening.”

“Well, please try,” said Kathleen.

“Sure, okay,” Jeremy said, adding under his breath, “just don't expect much.”

Kathleen ignored his last comment and turned to Julie. “Now, assuming Jeremy is successful in extracting some usable DNA, can you be in charge of sequencing it?”

“Okay. Are we looking for anything in particular, or—”

Kathleen cut her off. “For starters, let's just verify it's human.”

There were confused looks all around the table.

“What else would it be, Dr. S?” asked Julie.

“Uh, what I mean is, let's just verify that we have a complete human sequence, okay?”

“Sure,” said Julie, a bit hesitantly.

“Hey, Dr. Sainsbury?” Jeremy interjected. “Like, when do you want all of this done?”

Kathleen turned to Carlos. “When's the next shareholders' meeting?”

“Teleconference next Friday.”

Kathleen winced. The quarterly shareholders' meeting was only ten days away. Those meetings were always an uncomfortable experience for her, and this one—coming at the end of Year Two with funding nearly depleted—promised to be a doozy. “Okay,” she said, “if possible, I want the results by then.”

Julie and Jeremy looked at each other with wide eyes.

“I know that's asking a lot,” Kathleen continued, sensing their uneasiness. “And I know Sunday is Easter. But this is really important. You know, our funding is getting low. At our current burn rate, we're going to be out of cash in a few months, and the investors are getting nervous. It's been two years, and—let's be honest—we've really got nothing to show for it. We need to give them some results or . . .” She paused and looked around the room. “Well, I don't know what will happen.” She pointed at the Ziploc bag on the table. “Let's just give this a try, okay? I have a hunch about it.”

“Don't worry,” said Carlos. “We'll get it done.”

B
ryce Whittaker called a little after 3:00
P.M.
, and Kathleen took the call in her office. “How was Boston?” he asked.

“It was . . . Hey, how'd you know I was in Boston?”

“I called your office this morning. Your colleague, Carlos, told me you were flying in from Boston.”

“Oh.”

“Were you up there for business?”

“Yeah . . . sort of. It was an unexpected trip. By the way, I'm sorry I missed your call last night. My meeting went pretty late.”

“No problem. That's what I figured. So anyway
. . .
you up for dinner tonight?”

Kathleen smiled, relieved that Whittaker apparently wasn't angry about being blown off last night. “Sure.”

“How do you feel about sushi?”

“Love it.”

“Great. I know a wonderful little sushi place in Bethesda, not too far from your apartment.”

“You must be talking about Hake, I
love
that pla—” Kathleen stopped short. “How'd you know where my apartment is?”

“I looked it up.”

“You did?”

“Hey, I'm a reporter, remember? I get paid to be nosey.”

Kathleen said nothing.

“So, can I pick you up around eight?”

“Better make it nine. I've got a lot to catch up on here.”

“Nine it is.”

“And I'll meet you at the restaurant.”

“Okay. I'll see you there.”

L
ate in the afternoon, Jeremy and Julie stood alone in the QLS laboratory, on opposite sides of a long soapstone workbench. Julie had just completed the last batch of data for the day on the fruit flies, and Jeremy was preparing materials and glassware for his new project—the artifact.

“Check it out,” Jeremy said jokingly, holding the Ziploc bag in front of his mouth. “Think I ought to see a dentist?”

Julie grimaced. “Very funny. Will you please put that thing down. It is
so
gross!”

Jeremy complied.

“So, have you figured out what you're going to do with it yet?” Julie asked.

“Yeah, I called a friend of mine who does forensics analysis for the San Francisco PD. He sent me a procedure they use for degraded specimens like this. You know, like when they find human remains buried in some psycho's basement.”

“What's the procedure?”

Jeremy picked up a sheet of paper and skimmed it. “Let's see . . . sterilize in phosphate balanced salt solution, stabilize in polyester resin. Hmmm . . . then I need a drill.”

“What, are you building a birdhouse?”

“No, seriously. According to this, I've gotta drill into the tooth to extract the dental pulp, if there still is any.”

“Can't you just grind up the whole specimen and extract the DNA?”

“Nah. Too many contaminants in the outer surface. We've got to get to the pulp and hope this guy's dental hygiene was pretty good. Otherwise,
bacteria-ville
.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. No telling where that thing's been in the past few thousand years.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you do after you extract the pulp? PCR amplification?”

“Yep. Of course, most likely, I'll just be amplifying garbage.”

Julie smirked.
Faux pessimism—
classic Jeremy. “Hey, do you think you can handle this yourself this weekend? I'd like to drive up to Philly to see my folks for Easter.”

“Yeah, no problem. I'm just gonna UV sterilize all the tools and glassware tonight. I'll go shopping for a dental drill tomorrow.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, I'll need it.”

T
wo hours later, Jeremy was alone in the QLS laboratory. Julie and Kathleen were gone for the day. Carlos was in his office, working on some paperwork for the upcoming shareholders' meeting. A small collection of glassware sat assembled on the workbench, awaiting sterilization. Jeremy surveyed this collection carefully, mentally going through each of the steps of the procedure he intended to follow. As he stood there with his arms crossed, the artifact caught his eye.

The brownish tooth was clearly visible through the plastic Ziploc bag, resting a few feet away on the soapstone workbench. Jeremy walked over, leaned down, and inspected it closely.

Something about it was strangely mesmerizing.

Who had it belonged to? He moved closer and studied the minute details: the way the crown was worn down smooth, the texture of the enamel. Soon, his imagination was off and running, the tooth seemingly taking on a life of its own.