Brooklyn Knight (4 page)

“I’ve quite a hearty constitution these days,” Knight responded, a hopeful smile crossing his face. “I think I might possibly stand the strain.”

“Be certain now—”

“Ashur, would you please just tell me what’s so exciting you couldn’t simply send me an e-mail and not cost us a thousand dollars apiece?”

“Memak’tori, old friend. It is
it!
It is the site—
the
site. It is, unquestionably—and I say this after months of telling myself I could not possibly be correct—it is the unmistakable, undeniable birthplace of true civilization.”

Knight listened, his entire mind kicking over into its completely professional mode. His assistant forgotten, his location dismissed, cell phone charges suddenly insignificant—all his attention focused intently on the voice speaking within his ear. He recognized the tone behind Ungari’s words, had heard it uncounted times in the past when the speaker was absolutely convinced they were utterly and absolutely correct.

“Your carbon dating—verified? Double-checked?”

“Triple. And done by myself. No one else would I trust—who could I trust? My idiot assistant, Hamid? The man is a simpleton. If it were not for the Syrians, forcing that spider of a man upon me—”

“Ah, Ashur,” interrupted Knight, more interested in his colleague’s findings than the shortcomings of his staff, “you were telling me about the dig?”

“Oh my goodness—yes. I am saying it to you now, Piers, my old dog, such playgrounds as Sumer, Mesopotamia, veritable children, no older than the Romans. This site, this truly magnificent site, this may not only be the birthplace of the ever-mysterious Arcadians; my wonderful Memak’tori may actually
predate
them!”

Professor Piers Knight blinked.

His ears were sharp ones, his hearing a match for that of any other and better than most. And yet, for the briefest of instants he did something he almost never did—he doubted himself. Nothing,
it was most firmly believed, could predate the Arcadians. Indeed, there were as many schools of thought that would stake their reputations on the idea that no such place as Arcadia had ever existed as would do so—probably more. To claim to find something older, to have the proof—

Proof?

“Ashur,” Knight managed the single word, speech practically failing him, caution reining in the ability, forcing him to double-check anything he might say, “are you certain of this? Are you really
sure
!?”

The professor listened while his colleague half a world away indulged himself in a knowing chuckle. It was not the laughter of the self-righteous, although it did border slightly on the smug. Moreover, it was a joyous thing, a bit of uncontrollable, childlike giddiness Ungari simply could not contain. Gaining control over himself once more, however, the Egyptian doctor of archaeology cleared his throat, and then, in a slightly embarrassed tone, whispered into his phone;

“We are most certain, my old friend. Memak’tori grades out at an absolute minimum of ninety-two hundred years. Unmistakable. If some readings prove true, possibly even as much as ninety-five hundred.”

Knight was stunned. It was amazing, unbelievable. If true, it doubled the time man had been a creature capable of creating more than the simplest structures, of grasping any purpose beyond gathering enough to eat for the day. And, if he was responsible for maneuvering his own Brooklyn Museum to the head of the line to receive any outside exhibits, then it was a coup beyond measure.

“You will not even begin to comprehend it all until you behold it for yourself. There is no way to describe it so that you truly see it, my friend, even someone like yourself. The city, my most wonderful Memak’tori, it has proved to be laid out on an amazingly massive
scale. I tell you, it rivals Ankor, not only shrouded in an equal amount of mystery, but in a rivalry that extends also to size, the mathematical precision of its centrally planned layout, and its buildings, my goodness, oh, Piers, my God… .”

Ungari paused, the sudden jumbling of his words causing him to sound almost out of control. Knight did not judge him too harshly. If his colleague was correct, the man had every right to be flustered.

“The reason,” the doctor began again, “I originally thought the site would prove to be only a small find, was that what we had uncovered back then were only the uppermost sections of the tallest buildings. How can I …” Ungari paused for a moment, then continued, saying, “You just told me that you are at the top of your Empire State Building, yes?” After the professor agreed, Ungari continued once more, telling him;

“Imagine your New York City covered by the sands of time. Some future archaeologist discovers the summit of the Empire State Building. He has found a building, and of course he is confident he will find a neighbor to it somewhere close by. But think, Piers—how long would it be, how far would he have to dig, before he realized what he had truly found?”

“You mean …”

“I mean, those first structures we discovered five years ago, they were merely the tower tops of what proved to be three-and four-story buildings. Prehistorics, building to such heights. Can you believe it? And these people, these wonderful, wondrous people, they had the cornerstone; they developed the keystone. These people, they were builders—they understood arches, bracing, municipal planning. And more… .”

“More?”

“Oh, far more.” His voice falling into a whisper centered firmly within the conspiratorial range, the doctor said, “You know as well
as I that obviously no city structure of such dimensions could exist without a written language.”

“Obviously… .”

“They had one. There was no mention earlier because there were no traces in those upper stories we first uncovered. It has only been in the past, oh, no more than, say fifteen months that we finally began to uncover fragments of text. But so little of it was in a form that could stand up to the elements. We had traces, bits and pieces—”

Knight understood the frustration of such events extremely well. The professor could sympathize with his former colleague all too easily. He also had endured the tantalizing hope offered by scraps of information one prayed would come together into something conclusive but which in the end rarely actually did so. As he listened to Ungari’s voice, however, Knight began to realize the doctor was headed toward the extraordinary, where hope turned to realization. Thus he asked;

“I’m thinking, Ashur, you’re telling me that this is not one of those times when nothing comes from years of research and prayers, eh?”

“That is indeed what I am not telling you,” agreed the doctor, laughter in his voice. “Not in the least. We have reached the foundation of the city, the main streets, and there is writing everywhere. Engraved in stone. Permanent, perfectly preserved. Ready to be translated.”

And as Ungari finished his sentence, the excitement in his voice triggered a realization within the professor’s brain. This was the reason for the frantic call. This was the purpose so important, so immediate, it could not be delayed. Believing he understood what he was being told, Knight asked;

“This language you’ve found, this isn’t a new thing, is it? You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?”

“Yes I have,” answered the doctor. He gave Knight a moment to soak in the idea, then added his kicker. “And, so have you, Piers, old dog.”

“I have?”

“You remember the Language of Dreams, do you not?”

And in that moment, Professor Piers Knight suddenly understood his colleague’s excitement, and why mere considerations like propriety or expense had been rendered inconsequential. For if Dr. Ashur Ungari was correct, all of history was about to be rewritten from the ground up. Both men realized the fact, and for a single moment they shared the utter ecstasy of both unbridled joy and pride.

It was the last they would ever know.

“How did you get this number?”

The question was not simply put. There was no anger in the voice of the one posing it. Sitting at a console in a somberly lit room, a windowless affair filled with rows of high-powered computers, the speaker waited patiently for his answer.

“Is that really important?”

“It is most assuredly important,” came the answer. Without pause, the voice continued, adding, “I believe that you actually cannot imagine how important.”

The two voices dueled across the airwaves. The first was not even a true voice. What the second was hearing was a highly sophisticated, electronic distortion of the speaker’s voice. For all the caller knew, the voice on the other end of the phone was of a woman, a man, a toddler with an exceptional vocabulary, or even an amazingly talented dog. Indeed, the intonations coming out of the second party’s
receiver were so heavily masked, he would not even be able to tell if more than one person was answering him.

“You will not believe my answer,” responded the caller, prompting the voice to inform him;

“I will also not speak with you further unless you tell me something. So, my advice to you is that you might as well try. Go ahead—give me something to believe.”

“Very well… .”

The caller paused, the back of his brain revealing to him just how absurd his position was about to become. What he was attempting was not only illegal, but it was also the type of crime one only witnessed in movies focusing on international criminals. He, a part of their mind noted, was in no way a mastermind of such a magnitude.

Then again
, a separate whisper came to the caller from the back of his mind,
is that not exactly what we are about to attempt—to become a mastermind? To engineer the fate of the world according to our own whims?

“I have a particular need,” the caller began, speaking slowly. “I must obtain a certain something … at any cost. By any means. But I will admit to you that this is not the kind of situation in which I normally find myself.”

“Yes—”

“I, on my own … I did not know how to do such a thing, to … go about this… .”

“Just tell them,” the voice came to the caller once more. Strong. Determined, its confidence working him subtly, becoming his own. Relaxing slightly, pulling a deep breath in through his nostrils, the caller said;

“So … I decided to sleep on the problem.”

“Ahhhh,” the electronic voice responded. “I believe I begin to
see. Now let us return to my original question. If you please, tell me, how did you get this number?”

Tell them—

“It came to me in a dream.”

“Very well,” the distorted voice replied, seemingly mollified. “Now, tell me, what is it you need, when do you need it, and do you possibly believe you can afford our services?”

“This is just wonderful, Professor,” said Bridget, proclaiming her approval over not only the morsel she had just consumed but their entire meal as well.

Of course, she definitely had good reason to do so, one that had little to do with their restaurant’s atmosphere or waitstaff.

Not that they were not also things worthy of appreciation. The mood created by the soft music, muted lighting, and attentive personnel would be enough to attract and please many a New Yorker.

But not Piers Knight.

No, the professor only frequented one type of eatery—the kind known for good food.

Decor, music, the clothes worn by the workers—even the prices—such things meant nothing to him.

All that did matter to Knight, from the finest restaurant to the lowest hash house, was the quality of the meal he could expect to find behind its doors.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

Tucked away on 78th between Second and Third Avenues, Iron Sushi was one of those “unknown” spots—the kind Knight adored, one where the owners always managed to find a table for him somewhere no matter when he might arrive. That night, arriving at the height of the evening rush, he and his new assistant had, with great apology, been relegated to the back corner near the lavatory. Still, the restaurant’s single restroom was hidden behind a curtain and the excellence of their meal was more than compensatory.

The pair had started with the standard vegetarian spring roll appetizer, remarkably light and crisp treats of which Knight had grown quite fond and which he now insisted on introducing to everyone he took to the establishment. Bridget’s use of mere soy sauce on hers caused the professor to frown, but her pure delight over the Rock Shrimp Tempura Bites, batter-fried baby shrimp served in a sweet orange sauce, sprinkled with but the merest dash of fiery pepper, more than made up for her culinary faux paus.

“I have to admit,” the young woman continued, “we don’t have anything like this back in Wolfbend.”

From there on, the young woman’s palate had been nothing but overwhelmed. She appreciated the miso soup, and the edamame, green pods one popped into their mouth, then dragged through their teeth to extract the beans within, delighted her to no end. She also bravely tried her first calamari, both the crisply fried rings as well as the Ika Maru Yaki, a broiled squid marinated to give it a particular smokey taste. The first she merely enjoyed; the second made her eyes roll in delight.

Knight teased his new intern over the fact that she found his favorite Japanese restaurant to be better only than those that might be found in her hometown, but he knew the truth. He had watched her make her way through the near-overwhelming amount of various
dishes he had ordered, and had even allowed her stealing of the entire portion of snow crab salad, one of his personal favorites.

But it was the arrival of a single plate containing but two lone morsels that truly overwhelmed her. These were called Plum Kisses, large delicately-prepared whole scallops, surrounded by rolls of grilled salmon. The pair of delights sat in a seductive pool of plum sauce, were glazed with an equally intriguing orange sauce and then generously sprinkled with caviar.

They were a treat beyond compare, so delicious, and of such a that-makes-the-meal-complete quality that when Bridget was shown a dessert menu she thought surely the waiter had taken leave of his senses.