The Lucifer Code (22 page)

‘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 marathon of nearly exhausting sleeplessness. Despite the fact that Olympia had come back to the hotel with him every night, sex had only drugged him into unconscious for a few hours at a stretch.

‘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—’

‘For the hands and feet,’ Olympia interrupted, ‘and the colours for the vision. Two languages.’

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?’

She took his hand and looked up at him. ‘Do you trust me?’

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.

One of the most impressive areas of the new city lay out in the harbour only a short distance from the coast. Several buildings jutted up from the outer perimeter of the island. Sunlight splintered on the steel frameworks where men walked along narrow beams and continued building for the sky. The centre of the island held more buildings as well as a grid pattern of streets and elevated highways. To the right, the designers had used the natural harbour to echo the island’s shape. The large, sickle-shaped marina held a flotilla of ships, yachts and boats. Most of those vessels were pleasure craft but some of them were barges that carried materials and equipment to the construction crews.

‘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. Webster appreciated her business acumen and drive. It was those qualities that had made him seek her out. She had also made tentative agreements with Saudi Arabian advertisers to underwrite the cost of the special’s production.

‘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.

In the meantime, he would look like a hero, the man trying to put a lid on the seething cauldron that was the Middle East. When everything was said and done, Webster knew he would be seen as a saviour, even when his initial efforts were unsuccessful. That thought caused him to smile.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Hamilton asked. ‘You look like the cat that ate the canary.’

‘Building confidence,’ Webster replied. ‘Stockpiling positive energy.’

‘That’s good, because me, I’m feeling like the canary about now.’

‘It’s going to work out,’ Webster said. ‘Believe me, once the dust settles on this thing, we’re all going to be in a lot better places.’

At that moment, Hamal, Prince Khalid’s representative, entered the room. He had met them at the airport and been with them ever since. He was a burly man in his early forties with swarthy skin and a fierce forked beard. His scarred calloused hands testified to harsh years and a hard life. As a counterpoint, his white
thawb
and
ghutra
were immaculate.

A lot of people might overlook and underestimate the man, Webster realized. He wasn’t among them.

‘Mr Vice-President Webster,’ Hamal said politely, his black eyes roving over the group. ‘Prince Khalid will see you and your guests now. If you will follow me.’

‘Of course,’ Webster said, and did.

The opulent offices showcased wealth, privilege and power. They were furnished with expensive furniture, rugs and computer images of the proposed look of KAEC—what the locals called King Abdullah Economic City—when it was finished hung on the walls.

‘Ostentatious much?’ Vicky whispered.

‘Presentation is everything,’ Webster whispered back.

‘Not when it’s overkill.’

Six guards armed with machine pistols stood in front of a heavy security door that bore the coat of arms of Saudi Arabia—a palm tree over crossed swords. One of the guards stepped towards them and motioned the other guard forward. In short order, Webster was frisked and checked with a wand metal detector.

One of the men held out a straw basket.

‘Please put your phones and PDAs into the basket. They will be returned to you once you are out of his excellency’s office.’

Webster led the way by putting his Blackberry into the basket. The others followed suit. Then the door was opened.

Prince Khalid, dressed in a flowing
thawb
and
ghutra
, stood facing a wall of polarized glass that held the bright afternoon sun at bay. Six feet tall and slim, he didn’t look imposing in any way, but his manner compensated for this. Rigid defiance moulded his stance. He held his hands behind his back as he looked down on the city like a predatory raptor. He wore two large pistols holstered at his waist and a curved sword was sheathed down his back. Wearing weapons in public was something his father would never have allowed, but the prince looked like a warrior born.

Webster noted the young prince’s reflection in the polarized glass. Khalid had his father’s long hooked nose and sharp hawk’s eyes that gave his handsome features a dangerous edge. His beard was short and patchy, not quite filled in, giving him the appearance of a young man trying to appear much more mature than his tender years allowed. If he hadn’t been who he was, Webster might have been inclined to feel sorry for the young prince suddenly plunged in over his head.

Khalid flicked his gaze to Webster, held his eyes full measure for a moment, then looked across at the others. His lips pursed in disdain, as if they had failed to come up to his standards.

‘Prince Khalid,’ Hamal said, ‘I present to you the Vice-President of the United States, Elliott Webster.’

Knowing that the next move needed to be the young prince’s, Webster stood his ground. ‘Good afternoon, Prince Khalid. On behalf of the United States, President Waggoner and myself, I’d like to express our condolences at the recent losses you’ve suffered. Your father was a good man and a great friend to my country. He’ll be missed by us all.’

‘Thank you, Mr Webster. You are most kind.’ Khalid’s voice was almost a monotone, and Webster could hear the sharp edge of anger underlying his words. ‘However, you’re not here entirely to offer your support in my time of grief, are you?’

‘No,’ Webster said. ‘That’s the price a head of state must pay. Your personal life is for ever entangled with your leadership.’

‘So my advisors tell me.’ Khalid knotted his left fist and placed it against the window. ‘I did not wish to see you today, but they told me I must.’

‘Perhaps it might be better if we came back at a later time,’ Webster suggested.

Khalid turned to face them and fury tightened his face. ‘That wouldn’t do, would it? As soon as it was found out, and it would be found out because you have brought Ms DeAngelo with you, that I refused to meet you, my choice would be seen as weakness. Isn’t that true?’

‘Your Excellency, I mean no disrespect, but these are trying times for us all. The world has grown more tightly knit over the past few decades. Your father’s death—’

‘It was
murder
,’ Khalid’s snapped. ‘Call it what it was or don’t speak of it at all.’

Stung, Webster had to remind himself that this was the attitude he needed from the young prince. Still, it was hard to take. He nodded. ‘Your father’s murder is going to impact the world.’

‘Strange, isn’t it? That no one thought to tell him that his life impacted the world.’

‘I enjoyed a good friendship with your father.’

‘He talked of you a lot,’ Khalid agreed. ‘If not for your diplomacy in this area, your country might not have had the oil agreements they currently enjoy.’

‘What’s been good for my country has also been good for your country.’

‘I’m afraid that’s where we’re going to have to disagree.’ Khalid paused. ‘With all due respect intended, of course.’ He waved to the city on the other side of the polarized glass. ‘It has taken time for my people to realize that our future lies here, not with the United States or the Western world.’

‘What do you mean?’ Vicky asked. ‘Many of your people love the United States and the Western world.’

‘That is because your country and others have seduced my people for generations,’ Khalid said. ‘Outsiders have shown them a way of life that can never be theirs. We live under Allah and the teachings of his prophet, Muhammed, not the god of excess and extravagance as you people live.’

‘Your father never felt—’

Khalid’s voice rose in anger. ‘My father and many of his advisers were just as seduced as those fools who follow your ways. He harboured vipers in his breast, and in the end they murdered him.’

‘I don’t remember anyone saying they knew who murdered your father,’ Webster said.

‘It was the Shia. I have no doubt of this. They have grown more emboldened since your country invaded Iraq and put those godless people into power.’ Khalid’s dark eyes blazed. ‘You were warned about what you did, yet your government chose to do it anyway.’

‘Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I didn’t come here to argue over the war in that country. That war doesn’t have anything to do with this.’

‘If you think that, you’re a fool. That war is part of the war that has gone on between the Sunni and the Shia since those unworthies chose to name prophets of their own and reject the will of Allah and his prophet, Muhammed.’