Charles Brokaw
The Oracle Code
This book is dedicated to Robert Gottlieb at Trident Media Group, who has been a driving force for this project from the very beginning. I can’t thank you enough for your support, creativity, and help.
ACKNOWLEGEMENTS
Thanks to Robert Gottlieb at Trident Media Group, LLC and all the terrific agents who work with him at Trident. Of Trident, I would particularly like to thank John Silbersack for his keen editorial eye, Mark Gottlieb for his coordination of the project, and the eBook Team for their help in creating this eBook original publication. Thank you to Tekno Books as well.
1
Fumbling with the small flashlight he’d brought from his tent, Thomas Lourds lurched through the darkness. He felt woozy, and he knew it was the wine he’d had with dinner. His battered, leather backpack felt heavy and made him veer to the side when he didn’t pay attention. He hadn’t known the French archeologists had brought such a large selection of vintages, but he’d happily drunk several with them.
Especially since Dominique had insisted so prettily. But the capacity the woman had for drink was incredible. She was pretty incredible in other areas as well.
Lourds pushed that out of his mind as he clicked the flashlight on. There’d be plenty of time to enjoy her company over the next few days.
The flashlight didn’t work. With the pale quarter moon shining weakly over his shoulder, Lourds squinted at it to make certain he’d pushed the switch the whole way. He had, but the beam still wasn’t on. He tripped on a crack in the parched earth, stumbled, and almost fell. His head spun dizzily.
He wanted to be back in his sleeping bag. Dominique was still there, after all. But his mind had seized on an answer he hadn’t expected to arrive at. Well, perhaps answer wasn’t quite what it was. But there remained the possibility… That was what had brought him up out of his bed still slightly inebriated.
A noise sounded to his right and he froze. He gazed over the tents pitched in the area. There were several different groups working the dig in Herat, all of them for different reasons.
Dominique and her workmates were doing a special on the trade routes that had cut through the Middle East and South and Central Asia. For centuries, civilizations had marched caravans through the area to trade for silk and spices. Traders came from the Mediterranean Sea and passed through on their way to India or China. Herat had been a gateway to Iran long ago, and the modern city it had gradually become still was.
The British team was at Herat to research the Hephthalites, the tribal lords whose origins were still a mystery. Dr. Maureen Bristol had been charmed by Lourds and had let him look at the few writing samples they’d found. Deciphering those narratives had been a fascinating bit of business, especially since the writing had been in the Eastern Iranian languages, an antecedent of modern-day Pashto.
And the American archeologists — from the University of Southern California and much different than the calm, Harvard environs where Lourds taught linguistics — were searching for remnants of the Hotaki Dynasty. The Pashtun tribesmen had taken over from the Safavid Dynasty in the early 1700s.
All in all, there was quite a mix of interests in Herat, and Lourds had been enjoying himself immensely as he roamed between the various camps.
The sound was not repeated.
Lourds scanned the countryside beyond the tents, taking in the low, rolling mountains and sparse forests, and relaxed a little. Although the Afghanistan National Police and the Afghanistan National Army patrolled the territory, along with the International Security Assistance Force, the area was large and those people couldn’t be everywhere.
But there were Taliban in these mountains. All of the people on the archeology sites had been warned before accepting visas for their work. Most of the dig personnel treated the Taliban like the bogeyman — it was something to talk about, but they didn’t really fear it.
Satisfied that he’d imagined the sound, Lourds opened the flashlight and peered inside. Both batteries were there, and they were inserted in the proper order. He put the flashlight back together, then gave the thing a solid whack into his palm.
The pale yellow beam sprang to life.
He looked back at his tent to get his bearings, then took off again. The chilly wind swept through the foothills, making him wish he’d brought a jacket — again. The dig site was reasonably temperate during the day, but the nights could get downright cold. He didn’t want to risk going back to the tent and waking Dominique.
Inside his tent, Major Dmitry Dolgov lay on his sleeping bag and cursed his luck at drawing this assignment. He had twenty-three years in with the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, counting his time with the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs. Something like this, watching a college professor at a primitive campsite, should have been tasked to a younger agent.
Of course, such an assignment was also the lot of an experienced agent who had mistakenly arrested the mistress of a Russian general. That unfortunate incident had been uncomfortable for the general’s mistress — and the general — at the time, but it was decidedly more uncomfortable for Dmitry now. He wondered how long he would have to suffer.
Lying on the sleeping bag, tired and miserable but somehow unable to sleep, Dmitry realized the futility of cursing and sighed instead. Outside, the wind growled noisily, plucking at his tent like an ill-tempered puppy. He considered another drink from his bottle, but his personal supplies were running low, and it would be three days before he could get another from the black marketers.
“Major Dolgov, are you awake?”
Dmitry sighed. “Yes, Lieutenant Chizkov, I am awake. If I were not, I would be now.” He’d already slid his hand over to the GSh-18 pistol under the sleeping bag. He had not rested since coming to this country until he had the weapon in his possession. He’d heard horror stories of what the Soviets suffered at the hands of the mujahideen in their own Afghanistan War in the 1980s. Now the Americans were paying the price for those monsters they had trained.
“What do you need?”
“It is the American, sir. I believe he is up to something.”
The American was Professor Thomas Lourds, the drinking comrade of Boris Glukov, the man Dmitry had been sent to Afghanistan to shepherd. Dmitry had been interested in Lourds. The professor was an internationally known figure, the author of The Bedroom Pursuits, and the supposed finder of Atlantis.
The man had sold many books about his adventures, and he’d done television specials about his discovery.
Dmitry had seen the television show while visiting his daughter. It had been on Ostankino Channel One late at night. Dmity hadn’t intended to stay up late and watch the program. His daughter and wife had been enthralled by Lourds.
Dmitry’s wife kept a copy of The Bedroom Pursuits in the bedroom. He had read parts of the book. He hadn’t had to read much to know that it wasn’t anything he would wish to read, and he was almost scandalized that his wife was reading it. But since it had come into her possession, she had tried things with him that she never had before.
So he let her keep the book.
“What is he up to?”
“He has gone to see Boris Glukov.”
“So? They are friends.”
Lieutenant Josef Chizkov cleared his throat and sounded embarrassed. “Well, I thought it was unusual, and we are posted out here to watch for unusual things.”