The Genesis Key (6 page)

Chapter Seven

K Street Northwest, Washington, D.C.

L
uce Venfeld carefully studied the file on Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury for a third time, making a few additional notations in the margins of some of the pages. His spacious office was lit by the soft glow of a single desk lamp. It was quiet. Indeed, at this late hour on Saturday night, the only occupied offices in the entire building were those on the eleventh floor belonging to the LHV Group, Venfeld's consulting firm.

Satisfied that he now knew Kathleen Sainsbury better than she knew herself, Venfeld closed the manila folder and placed it neatly atop a foot-high stack of similar folders, each profiling the life and daily habits of a different molecular biologist.

Including Kathleen's, there were nine such files in all.
Although one of them no longer mattered.

Venfeld pulled the file on Dr. Michael Kim from the bottom of the stack and flipped it open. Across the first page of Dr. Kim's curriculum vitae, a large “X” had been scrawled in black marker. The word “
DECEASED
,” in neat block letters, ran diagonally across the page.

An unfortunate incident.

Venfeld tossed Dr. Kim's file to one side and placed his palm on the remaining stack of eight files, each more than an inch thick.
Eight horses left in the race.

Venfeld stood and gazed out the window of his K-Street office at the nighttime sky. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back. The top button of his starched white shirt was undone, his tie loosened slightly. His gaze shifted momentarily to his own reflection in the window. Fifty-four years old. Wealthy. Handsome.

A sly smile crept over his scarred face.

Eight horses in the race; who would win?

That was the beauty of his plan.
It didn't matter.
Whichever horse crossed the finish line first, he stood to earn a fortune. He liked those odds very much.

He turned and strode casually across the plush Turkish rug to the six framed pictures near the door. His gaze fell on the photograph of him and Guillermo Gomez shaking hands at Gomez's sprawling coastal estate in Quintana Roo, Mexico. He vividly recalled the night, five years ago, that he'd crept into Gomez's private villa, intending to kill the man he'd befriended just a few years earlier. It would have been a sanctioned execution, of course. Part of the CIA's secret war on drugs.
Very
secret
. Just “Joseph Browning” doing his job, once again.

But, as Venfeld eavesdropped that night via a collapsible antenna no bigger than a cereal bowl, he overheard something quite extraordinary. A secret meeting among seven wealthy men was taking place in the villa's library.

They called themselves the “Olam Foundation,” and the topic of their meeting that night had nothing to do with cocaine or marijuana, or even money laundering.

This was something entirely different. Something momentous. Something life changing.
World
changing.

And Venfeld wanted in.

Chapter Eight

U Street Northwest, Washington, D.C.

“H
ow much do you know about your parents?” asked Dr. Hakeem Abdul Sargon. He was seated in an ornately carved high-back chair a few feet from where Kathleen sat.

Kathleen sipped Turkish black tea from a clear, slender glass and reclined against the couch's oversized pillows. Two hours ago, she'd never heard of Dr. Sargon (at least not that she could remember), and now she was sipping tea on his couch. She felt a little ridiculous, aside from being apprehensive about the entire situation.

“I know they were archeologists,” she replied.

“Yes, your
father
was an archeologist,” Sargon said with a nod, “and a very good one at that. Your mother, however, was an anthropologist. And also quite an expert on Assyrian mythology.”

At that moment, Kathleen reflected on how little she actually knew about her parents, especially her father. Practically everything she knew about them came from her maternal grandfather, and that information had come only in small, pasteurized bits. Through the years, the whole concept of her parents had taken on a synthetic gloss—like a Disney movie. She knew the basic story but few meaningful details. To Kathleen, her parents had never seemed . . .
real.

“I first met Daniel—your father—in 1972,” Dr. Sargon continued. “At that time, my main responsibility as Director of Antiquities was to oversee the Iraqi National Museum in Baghdad, as well as other regional museums throughout the country. I was also in charge of issuing permits for excavation of historical sites in Iraq. Your father had written to me from Harvard University, where he was a professor. He wanted to excavate the Tell-Fara temple.”

Kathleen interrupted. “Tell-Fara?” She'd heard that name before but never knew what it meant.

Sargon looked at her with sorrowful eyes, obviously surprised by the question. “Yes, dear, Tell-Fara. That's where your parents were killed.”

Kathleen blanched. “You mean where they died in the
accident
?”

Sargon held her gaze for a moment then shook his head slowly from side to side. “There was no accident.”

Kathleen suddenly felt lightheaded. For as long as she could remember, she'd been told her parents died in an “accident” while excavating ruins in Iraq.

“Shall I explain?” asked Dr. Sargon delicately.

Kathleen nodded.

“As I said, your father had written for permission to excavate at Tell-Fara, which I initially denied. At that time, the policy was not to allow foreigners to excavate historical sites in Iraq. I assumed I would never hear from Daniel Talbot or Harvard University again. But . . .” He smiled. “I was wrong.”

Kathleen sat motionless, absorbing this new information with a mixture of fascination and trepidation.

“Your father wrote to me several more times, urging me to allow just a small exploratory excavation of the Tell-Fara site. He was quite persistent.” Sargon chuckled and took a long sip of his tea. “In the summer of 1972, he and your mother, Rebecca, came to visit me in Baghdad. I must say, that was quite a surprise. They had just been married and were on their honeymoon.” He raised an eyebrow and added, “Of course, that was before you were born.”

Kathleen shook her head in amazement. She vaguely recalled her grandfather once telling her that her parents had spent their honeymoon in the Middle East. Now, that random bit of information suddenly had context. For the first time, she was beginning to visualize them as real people.

Sargon continued. “It was no surprise, of course, that they'd come to ask for permission to explore Tell-Fara. This time, however, when I heard their ideas about the site, I must say I became very intrigued. Your mother, in particular, had some very interesting theories about the temple.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” said Sargon, holding up his hand politely, “first, there is some history you need to understand.” He rose to his feet slowly, his aged body clearly causing him great discomfort. “But before we get to that, may I offer you some more tea?”

Kathleen nodded.

Sargon refilled her tea glass, carefully pouring from two separate containers, a custom he had learned in Turkey. “As a young man, I spent five years near Izmir helping excavate the Temple of Artemis in Sardis, once a mighty city in the late Roman Empire. I became virtually addicted to Turkish black tea.”

Kathleen thanked him for the tea and took a small sip, savoring the unusual, spicy flavor.

“Now,” said Sargon in a slightly more animated tone, “let's discuss Mesopotamian history.” He stooped down and carefully pulled a framed antique map from beneath the oval table in the center of the room. Leaning the map against the table, he spoke as if he were addressing his old Assyriology class at Oxford.

“The name
Mesopotamia
is derived from the Greek,” he explained. “It means the land between the rivers. And from this map you can see why—Mesopotamia was situated between the two great rivers of the Middle East, the Tigris and the Euphrates. The land between those rivers was fertile farmland, much sought after in the ancient world. This area of land, which we now call Iraq, has been continuously populated for more than
ten thousand
years. It is, quite literally, the birthplace of modern civilization.

“Starting around thirty-five hundred
BC
, a great culture arose in Mesopotamia called the Sumerian civilization. It was centered in the cities Ur and Uruk.” Dr. Sargon pointed to where those two cities appeared on the map, near modern-day Basra and Warka in southern Iraq. “The name ‘Iraq,' by the way, comes from the word
Uruk
. These were the first modern city-states, where government, art, agriculture, and commerce flourished.”

“As you can imagine,” Sargon continued, “Sumerian civilization was heavily influenced by the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, which provided irrigation for crops and drinking water for people and animals. They also provided a mode of transportation throughout the region. And, of course, they caused periodic floods, which were also an integral part of Sumerian life, much the way they are today along the Nile.”

Sargon looked up from the map and met Kathleen's eyes. “But some floods were worse than others.”

Kathleen sipped her tea and nodded politely.

“In about twenty-nine hundred
BC
, a massive flood inundated the entire Sumerian plain. None of the city-states up and down the Tigris and Euphrates rivers was spared. We know from archeological evidence and from written records—clay cuneiform tablets—that the rivers crested anywhere from ten to twenty meters above their normal levels, which would have put nearly every city in the region completely under water. We have to imagine that tens, perhaps
hundreds
of thousands of people died in that flood.”

“I guess there's no easy escape route when you live in a plain between two rivers,” said Kathleen, pointing to the map.

“That's exactly right. So you might say this was a calamity of
biblical
proportions.”

Kathleen considered that comment for a moment, shifting in her seat. “I assume you're referring to
The
flood? As in the Bible and Noah's ark and all that?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Kathleen pressed her lips together but said nothing.

“Most scholars agree that the flood of the Old Testament and the historical flood that took place at the beginning of the third millennium
BC
in Mesopotamia are one and the same event. After all, what
is
the Old Testament but a history of Mesopotamia and Egypt that begins around the time of that great flood?”

Kathleen nodded obligingly but was unable to suppress her doubtful expression.

“I'm sorry, you look puzzled,” said Dr. Sargon.

“Sorry . . . it's just that I don't really subscribe to the Bible at all, Old Testament, New Testament, or otherwise. I'm a
scientist
. I seek truth through observation and experimentation, not through divine scripture.” She waved her hand at the map. “But, please, continue.”

An awkward silence ensued. “Interesting,” muttered Sargon after several seconds.

“What is?”

“It's just that . . . Well, your parents, they were
also
committed to seeking the truth. And they, too, believed in the power of observation—archeological evidence, anthropological evidence, pottery fragments, carbon dating, sediment samples. You see, they, too, were scientists.
Like you.
”

Kathleen squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. She didn't like where this was going at all.

“But your parents also studied the Bible,” Sargon continued. “They studied the Quran. They studied the Torah. They knew and understood those texts well. Because, you see, there is
truth
in those books that goes beyond carbon dating and sediment samples.”

Kathleen felt uneasy and desperately wanted to change the topic. The fact was, she hadn't believed in God or the Bible since she was a teenager. It had marked a major turning point in her life, and one she firmly believed had been for the better. Biology was her religion now.

“So where's Tell-Fara?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Tell-Fara is here, near Babylon.” Sargon pointed to the map with his index finger. “In ancient Mesopotamia, before the flood, Tell-Fara was known as Shuruppak, a Sumerian city that was then on the Euphrates River. Many believe it was the birthplace of Noah.”

Kathleen ignored the last comment. “What happened to my parents there?”

Sargon drew a deep breath, obviously bracing himself for an unpleasant task. Then, with great delicacy and respect for the memory of the Talbots, he explained the events that he observed at Tell-Fara on a September morning thirty years earlier, just a day after his own family had been ruthlessly murdered on the outskirts of Baghdad.

Chapter Nine

September 4, 1979. Baghdad, Iraq.

D
r. Hakeem Abdul Sargon stepped on the brakes of his black Mercedes.
Why such traffic at midday?
he wondered. He honked impatiently at the rusty Peugeot mini in front of him, but to no avail. Traffic on Bagdad's main artery had slowed to a glacial pace.

Sargon had woken up this morning with a bad feeling about today. The ominous sensation had intensified when he arrived at work. There was a buzz amongst those in his office that a coup d'état was imminent. Not that a coup would have come as a great surprise to anyone. Politically speaking, President Al-Bakr had been growing progressively weaker in the past six months, his political power seeming to slip away with his health. In Iraq, physical weakness invited challenge, and there was no mystery as to who would soon step up to challenge Al-Bakr's authority. Saddam Hussein, Al-Bakr's young cousin from Tikrit, had been amassing power as quickly as Al-Bakr had been losing it. Though just a cabinet official by title, Hussein had, in recent months, been acting more like president-elect. The unspoken transfer of power between the two was palpable in the governmental corridors of Baghdad.

Change was afoot, Sargon was sure of that. It was only a question of when . . . and how bad things would get.

This morning, he'd decided things were going get
very
bad. There was talk of imprisonment, or worse, for anyone who dared challenge Hussein's accession to power. And that made Sargon particularly uneasy. Years ago, he'd had a run-in with Hussein. Not a big deal at the time, but in hindsight perhaps enough to earn him a spot on Hussein's infamous “enemies list.”

The run-in was silly, a mere trifle in the larger scheme of things. As Director of Antiquities, Dr. Sargon had begun an aggressive repatriation program, searching the world over for Iraqi relics that had been spirited away by adventurers and so-called archeologists over the past century. Using the oil revenues that had swelled the governmental coffers thanks to Al-Bakr's nationalization of the oil industry, Sargon had arranged to buy back precious Iraqi artifacts from foreign collectors and museums and repatriate them to the Iraqi National Museum. Occasionally, museums—and more rarely private collectors—were kind enough to return the antiquities without charge. On most occasions, however, the Iraqi government had to pay dearly for the privilege of owning its own historical artifacts. Sargon knew this well, because he was the one who wrote the checks.

The trouble began when Hussein—then just a lowly bureaucrat in the defense ministry—decided he wanted to “repatriate” a precious fifteenth-century mosaic from a private collection in London for his own personal summer residence in Tikrit. It was a beautiful mosaic; there was no doubt about that. It depicted a heroic Persian cavalry officer in full battle regalia. Surely, it would have enhanced the décor of Hussein's summer home. But, as Sargon explained to a fuming Hussein, the National Museum simply could not use government funds to purchase artwork for a private residence. Thus began an unspoken feud between the two that had simmered on low boil for more than five years. The situation intensified when, two years later, Sargon purchased that very mosaic for the National Museum and displayed it prominently in the museum's front gallery.

Things got even worse when Hussein got wind that Sargon had authorized foreign archeologists to excavate a temple in southern Iraq. “
Treasonous!
” Hussein had famously declared in a meeting of interior defense officials.

Sargon was sure he was on Hussein's dreaded “enemies list.” Moreover, he was sure Hussein would soon be treating the Iraqi National Museum as his own private art gallery, taking anything that struck his fancy. Undoubtedly, that beautiful fifteenth-century mosaic would be among the first pieces appropriated.

The buzz around Sargon's office this morning made him think that today might be the day. When he tried to call home at 10:00
A.M.
and found the phone line dead, that confirmed it beyond all doubt. Cutting off government communications was the first step of any successful coup.

For months, Dr. Sargon had been planning for this exact moment. But now that it was actually here, he suddenly feared his plans were inadequate. He'd planned to drive his family south to Az Zubayr and then into Kuwait. His political credentials would facilitate their safe passage. If not, he had plenty of cash to make it happen. For months, he'd been exchanging modest amounts of Iraqi dinars for British pounds, using his official position as curator of the National Museum so as not to raise any suspicions. He now had nearly £20,000 in British currency in his personal possession—enough to exit Iraq safely, if not comfortably. Hard currency went a long way in this part of the world.

On the other hand, it could also get you killed.

Sargon honked his horn again, which had no effect other than to prompt an obscene gesture from the driver in front of him.
Curse this traffic!

If he could have called his wife from the office, she would have been packed and ready to go by now.
What if she wasn't even home? What if she'd taken Farhana to the market?
Unthinkable, Sargon concluded. His wife would never go out without checking with him first, and she'd said nothing about going to the market this morning.

His street was now just a block away. Losing patience, he punched the accelerator and veered the Mercedes halfway onto the sidewalk. Vendors and pedestrians yelled at him as he zoomed past the backed-up mess on the Qadisiya Expressway, the main highway that bisected downtown Baghdad. He didn't care. His official tags made him practically invisible to the local police.

He banked right onto Rasheed Street. Now liberated from the traffic-clogged main artery of the city, he pushed the Mercedes hard, reaching fifty miles per hour as he roared down the wide, palm-tree-lined avenue toward his house.

At 110 Rasheed Street, he pulled the car over and jumped out. He rushed through the front door of his luxury apartment and bounded up the stairs to the living quarters on the second floor. “Nisreen!” he called, barely suppressing his panic.

“What is it?” his wife responded from the kitchen. Her fearful tone mirrored Sargon's own anxiety.

“Where's Farhana?”

“Upstairs, sleeping. What's the matter?”

Sargon grabbed his wife firmly by the shoulders and said sternly, “We have to go.”

“Allah have mercy!
” Nisreen whispered. She knew exactly what her husband meant and what they had to do. She ran immediately upstairs to pack her bags.

Thirty minutes later, Sargon, Nisreen, and a sleepy six-year-old Farhana were belted into the Mercedes, Sargon in the front, the girls in the back. The trunk of the car sagged noticeably beneath the weight of clothes, cash, and valuables they intended to take with them. Sargon was careful to drive the speed limit in the city, not wanting to draw any extra attention to the vehicle. When they cleared the Baghdad city limits without incident, however, he breathed an audible sigh of relief and eased the Mercedes up to a more comfortable cruising speed.

With Baghdad safely behind them, Sargon relaxed and tried to engage his nervous wife in conversation. “Is Farhana still sleeping back there?” he asked without taking his eyes off the road.

“Yes, sound asleep.”

“Nisreen,” said Sargon reassuringly, “everything will be fine. I
promise
.” He swiveled his head around and flashed a quick, confident smile.

And that's when he noticed the military van advancing rapidly from behind.

Sargon's heart skipped a beat as he straightened in the driver's seat. He clutched the wheel tightly. “Don't look at them,” he warned as he gently slowed the Mercedes to allow the van to pass.

But the van did not pass. Instead, it pulled alongside and slowed to the same speed as the Mercedes. The two vehicles were now driving side by side along the deserted, two-lane highway that led south out of Baghdad. Sargon squeezed the steering wheel tightly with both hands and held his breath. He risked a quick glance at the van and saw a soldier glaring back at him from the driver's side window. He also saw a black object moving inside the van, which he recognized immediately as a weapon.

Dr. Sargon gunned the accelerator, and the Mercedes responded obediently with a roar. Farhana woke up and began to whimper. The Mercedes was now several car lengths ahead of the van and pulling away quickly.

Suddenly, a burst of automatic gunfire erupted from behind them. The Mercedes's back window shattered instantly in a deafening explosion of glass and bullets. Farhana and Nisreen shrieked in horror as shards of glass flew everywhere. Sargon felt tiny bits of glass slam into the back of his head like birdshot. He pushed the accelerator harder, but it was already on the floor. The Mercedes was screaming down the highway at nearly one hundred miles per hour.

More gunfire was now coming from behind them in short, emphatic bursts. Suddenly, there was a loud
pop
, and the steering wheel jerked sharply to the left, nearly escaping Sargon's grasp. He struggled with all his strength to keep the car pointing south, but it was no use. The left rear tire had been blown out, and the car was now skidding into an uncontrollable spin. Nisreen let out a long, sustained shriek as the Mercedes spun around several times and finally came to rest on the soft, sandy shoulder of the desolate highway, facing north toward Baghdad, toward the home they loved but were desperately trying to escape.

“Get down!” Sargon bellowed as the military van skidded to a halt beside them on the road. He pulled his Tariq 9 mm pistol from under his seat.

Seconds later, the driver's side windows exploded in a barrage of bullets from the soldier's automatic weapon.

Sargon felt a stinging pain in his left shoulder and slumped far down into his seat. The onslaught lasted for only a few seconds, though it seemed like forever to Sargon. Then it ceased abruptly.

Sargon was wounded but conscious. He sat motionless and watched, using his peripheral vision, as a soldier approached the Mercedes cautiously. The man wore an Iraqi infantry uniform and had a military-issued AK–47 drawn to his shoulder.
He was coming to finish them off!

Sargon gripped his pistol tightly and, with his thumb, gently clicked the safety off.

As the soldier neared the driver's side window, Sargon lifted the Tariq and fired twice in rapid succession. The soldier lurched backward and fired a short burst of bullets over the top of the Mercedes as he fell to the ground. Sargon wasn't sure if the soldier was dead but had no time to find out. For, at that exact moment, the driver of the van was getting out of the vehicle. Sargon aimed and fired twice in the man's direction. The first shot missed, but the second landed squarely between the man's eyes, bringing him down instantly. The soldier fell out of the van's open door, his feet catching on the seat belt as he did, so that he ended up dangling awkwardly, upside down over the road.

Frantically, Sargon looked in the backseat, where Farhana and Nisreen were huddled on the floor. Beneath a blanket of broken glass and tattered upholstery, he saw movement. Then he heard Farhana crying softly and Nisreen hushing her.
Thank Allah
, they were alive! He was just about to speak to them when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

Time seemed to stand still as Sargon turned to see the first soldier staggering to his feet beside the driver's side window, his torso bloody from the two gunshot wounds Sargon had inflicted. The wounded soldier hoisted his automatic weapon to his hip and, for a split second, locked eyes with Sargon. Reflexively, Sargon lifted the door handle and pushed the door open as hard as he could with his wounded shoulder. He yelped as an excruciating pain surged through his upper body.

The car door connected squarely with the gunman's weapon just as the AK–47 erupted in a burst of fire and bullets. The lethal barrage, meant for Sargon, instead slammed into the vehicle's rear door and quarter panel. Simultaneously, Sargon lifted his pistol and fired through the open door. His first shot caught the soldier in the right shoulder, the second in the neck. The soldier fell to the ground and dropped his weapon.

Fueled with rage, Sargon exited the vehicle and stood over the soldier's prone body, his pistol aimed directly at the man's head. But the soldier was already dead.

There was now only silence, and the acrid smell of gunpowder and burned rubber.

Sargon stepped over the soldier's bloody body and stuck his head through the Mercedes's shattered rear window. One glance confirmed his deepest horror—Nisreen and Farhana lay in a bloody, lifeless heap, their bodies riddled with bullet holes.

He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

He couldn't breathe. His knees buckled.

For several seconds, he braced himself awkwardly on the car, desperately gasping for air, until, finally, he lost consciousness and collapsed.