Andy McDermott
The Revelation Code
For Sebastian
and all the adventures that await
About the Author
Andy McDermott is the bestselling author of the Nina Wilde & Eddie Chase adventure thrillers, which have been sold in over 30 countries and 20 languages. His debut novel, THE HUNT FOR ATLANTIS, was his first of several New York Times bestsellers. THE REVELATION CODE is the eleventh book in the series, and he has also written the explosive spy thriller THE PERSONA PROTOCOL.
A former journalist and movie critic, Andy is now a full-time novelist. Born in Halifax, he lives in Bournemouth with his partner and son.
Prologue
The half-moon cast a feeble light over the desolate sand-swept plain. The region had been marshland not long ago, but war had changed that. Not directly; the islands spattering the expanse between the great rivers of the Tigris and the Euphrates had not been destroyed by shells and explosives. Instead spite had drained it, the dictator Saddam Hussein taking his revenge upon the Ma’dan people for daring to rise against him following the Gulf War. Dams and spillways had reduced the wetlands to a dustbowl, forcing the inhabitants to leave in order to survive.
That destruction was, ironically, making the mission of the trio of CIA operatives crossing the bleak landscape considerably easier. The no-fly zone established over southern Iraq gave the United States and its allies total freedom to operate, and the agents had parachuted to the Euphrates’ northern bank earlier that night, their ultimate objective the toppling of the Iraqi leader. Had the marshes not been drained, they would have been forced to make a circuitous journey by boat, dragging it over reed-covered embankments whenever the water became too shallow to traverse. Instead, they had been able to drive the battered Toyota 4x4 waiting at their insertion point almost in a straight line across the lowlands.
‘Not far now,’ said the team’s leader, Michael Rosemont, as he checked a hand-held GPS unit. ‘Two miles.’
The driver, Gabe Arnold, peered ahead through his night-vision goggles. He was driving without headlights to keep them hidden from potential observers. ‘I can see the lake.’
‘Any sign of Kerim and his people?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Might have known these Arabs would be late,’ said the third man, from behind them. Ezekiel Cross was using a small flashlight to check a map, focusing it on an almost perfectly circular patch of pale blue marked Umm al Binni. ‘Nobody in this part of the world can even do anything as basic as keep time. Savages.’
Rosemont let out a weary huff, but let the remark pass. ‘How close is the nearest Iraqi unit, Easy?’ he asked instead.
‘Based on today’s intel, about nine klicks to the north-east. Near the Tigris.’ Cross’s pale grey eyes flicked towards his superior. ‘And I’d prefer not to be called that.’
‘Okay, Cross,’ Rosemont replied with a small shake of his head. Arnold suppressed a grin. ‘Any other units nearby?’
‘There’s another fifteen klicks north of here. Forces have been building up there over the past week.’
‘They know Uncle Sam’s gonna come for ’em sooner or later,’ said Arnold.
Cross made an impatient sound. ‘We should have flattened the entire country the day after 9/11.’
‘Iraq didn’t attack us,’ Rosemont pointed out.
‘They’re supporting al-Qaeda. And they’re building weapons of mass destruction. To me, that justifies any action necessary to stop them.’
‘Well, that’s what we’re waiting on the UN to confirm, ain’t it?’ Arnold said. ‘Got to give ’em a chance to give up their WMDs before we put the hammer down.’
‘The United Nations!’ Cross spat. ‘We should kick them out of our country. As if New York isn’t enough of a pit of degeneracy already, we let a gang of foreign socialists and atheists squat there telling us what to do!’
‘Uh-huh.’ Rosemont had only known the Virginian for a few days, but that had been long enough to learn to tune out the agent’s frequent rants about anything he considered an ungodly affront to his values — which, it seemed, was everything in the modern world. He turned his attention back to the driver. ‘Still no sign of Kerim?’
‘Nothing — no, wait,’ replied Arnold, suddenly alert. ‘I see a light.’
Cross immediately flicked off the flashlight, dropping the off-roader’s interior into darkness. Rosemont narrowed his eyes and stared ahead. ‘Where?’
‘Twelve o’clock.’
‘Is it them?’ said Cross, wary.
The CIA leader picked out a tiny point of orange against the darkness. ‘It’s them. Right where they’re supposed to be.’
‘On schedule, too,’ added Arnold. ‘Guess they can keep time after all, huh?’ Cross glowered at him.
The lake came into clearer view as the Toyota crested a low rise, a black disc against the moonlit wash covering the plain. Arnold surveyed it through his goggles. ‘Man, that’s weird. It looks like a crater or something.’
‘That’s the theory,’ Rosemont told him. ‘They think a meteorite made it a few thousand years ago; that’s what the background data on the region said, anyhow. The lake used to be a lot bigger, but nobody knew that was at the bottom until Saddam drained the marshes.’ His tone turned businesslike. ‘Okay, this is it. I’ll do the talking, get the intel off Kerim. You two ready the weapons for transfer.’ He turned to regard the cases stacked in the Toyota’s cargo bed.
‘And after?’ Cross asked.
‘Depends on what Kerim tells me. If he’s got new information about the Iraqi defences, then we call it in and maybe go see for ourselves if HQ needs us to. If he doesn’t, we give the Marsh Arab rebels their weapons and prep them for our invasion.’
‘Assuming the UN doesn’t try to stop us,’ said Cross scathingly.
‘Hey, hey,’ Arnold cut in. ‘There’s something by the lake. Looks like a building, some ruins.’
Rosemont peered ahead, but there was not enough light to reveal any detail on the shore. ‘There wasn’t anything marked on the maps.’
‘It’s in the water. Musta been exposed when the lake dried up.’
‘Are Kerim and his people by it?’
‘No, they’re maybe two hundred metres away.’
‘It’s not our problem, then.’ Rosemont raised the M4 carbine on his lap and clicked off the safety. Cross did the same with his own weapon. They were meeting friendlies, but those at the sharp end of intelligence work in the CIA’s Special Activities Division preferred to be ready for any eventuality.
Arnold brought the Toyota in. The point of orange light was revealed as a small campfire, figures standing around the dancing flames. All were armed, the fire’s glow also reflecting dully off assorted Kalashnikov rifles. To Rosemont’s relief, none were pointed at the approaching vehicle.
Yet.
The 4x4 halted. The men around the fire stood watching, waiting for its occupants to make the first move. ‘All right,’ said Rosemont. ‘I’ll go meet them.’
The CIA commander opened the door and stepped out. The action brought a response, some of the Ma’dan raising their guns. He took a deep breath. ‘Kerim! Is Kerim here?’
Mutterings in Arabic, then a man stepped forward. ‘I am Kerim. You are Michael?’
‘Yes.’
Kerim waved him closer. The Ma’dan leader was in his early thirties, but a hard life in the marshes had added a decade of wear to his face. ‘Michael, hello,’ he said, before embracing the American and kissing him on both cheeks.
‘Call me Mike,’ Rosemont said with a smile.