Threshold (43 page)

You have yet to fully realize what is at stake.

He turned to Alexander. “What do you know?”

Alexander looked indifferent.

“Tell me or you’re out.”

Alexander chuckled, but acquiesced. “You need to think bigger, King. Imagine the world laid out before you. You can mold it. It can be anything you want—a chessboard, a simulation, an escape. Given time and intelligence, it can be anything you want it to be.”

King felt his back tense up. For the first time he was hearing exactly how Alexander viewed the world.

“Now imagine you’re an impatient man not accustomed to the concept of eternity. A thousand years to remake the world is nine hundred ninety-nine years too many.”

“You’re saying he wants to remake the world?” Knight asked, sounding doubtful. “The whole world?”

Alexander met him with a hard stare. “Were I a less patient man, I would do the same.”

The room fell silent as everyone in it reconsidered their alliances.

“But how?” Davidson asked, not understanding what Alexander implied. “Replace political figures with copies? Maybe just change the personalities of key people? How could he change the world?”

“You’re still thinking small,” Alexander said. “Up until twenty years ago it wouldn’t have been possible. There is no fixed rule with the mother tongue. It is the unique sounds of the language that affects the changes to reality. Not the speaker.”

“He’s right,” Davidson said. “A recording of the language would work just as well.”

“Or a broadcast,” King said, the full picture slamming home. With modern technology and the ancient tongue the world really could be remade, and in far less time than seven days. “He’s going to remake the world.”

The beep that came from the computer was quiet, but grabbed everyone’s attention like it was an atom bomb. Davidson spun toward the computer screen. Alexander stood over his shoulder, looking at the results.

“Amazing,” Davidson whispered.

“What is it?” King asked.

“There are traces of human DNA in the clay,” Alexander replied.

“Have you compared it to Ridley’s profile?” Knight asked.

“Hold on,” Davidson said, fingers working the keys. “If it’s a match, it shouldn’t take lo—”

The results appeared on the screen, showing two sets of DNA markers. They were identical. “They’re the same,” Davidson said, stunned. “I was right. This clay wasn’t just an animated form resembling Richard Ridley, it
was
Richard Ridley.”

He turned to Alexander, and then to King. “He was alive.”

The silence that filled the room was broken by the ring of King’s cell phone. The ID read Lewis Aleman. King answered the phone. “What have you got, Lew?”

“Last piece of the puzzle I hope,” Aleman replied, his response delayed by a second. “I’ve been running the chemical composition of the clay recovered from El Mirador through our system. And, well, I found a match.” He quickly followed with, “But it doesn’t make sense.”

“Just tell me where it’s from,” King said.

“Camp Alpha.”

The name’s familiarity struck King instantly. It was the title of the U.S. military base established in the ruins of Babylon that had been rebuilt by Saddam Hussein. A large number of servicemen were stationed there, including a regiment of marines. Babylon made sense, being the origin of the Tower of Babel story, but it was also the last place anyone would think to look. “You’re sure?”

“Yup. It’s straight from the Euphrates River, and I can peg it to Camp Alpha because of the unique contaminants it contains, courtesy of the U.S. of A.”

Queen saw the bewildered look on King’s face. “What did he find?”

“The clay is from Camp Alpha.”

“Babylon,” Davidson said.

Knight shook his head. “But how is he—”

“The tower,” Alexander said. “He’s found the Tower of Babel. He’s not at Camp Alpha. He’s
under
it.”

A sudden boom of metal coupled with the implosion of the warehouse’s metal roof made them forget all about the discovery. Large sheets of steel broke free and fell at them like giant playing cards. Honed by years of action, the instincts of the people in the room saved their lives. All but one of them managed to leap away as the giant blades fell from above.

A slender sheet of metal fluttered high above Davidson for a moment, held aloft by its surface area. But Davidson, whose reaction was to flinch away and raise his hands, remained in the same position as the metal sheet tilted to one side and slid down like a guillotine. It sliced off his hand at the forearm. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sheet then struck between his shoulder and neck, shaving off a side of ribs and penetrating down to his gut. The weight of the giant metal playing card pulled him over. King saw the man, nearly cleaved in half. Davidson was dead.

“This way!” Alexander shouted, leading the team out the back as a very large, unseen attacker pounded through the roof and made short work of the lab beneath.

They exited through the back door into an alleyway where a very out of place black Mercedes waited for them. A moment later, the back wall of the warehouse fell in. King looked back to see a golem, constructed from a mishmash of metal from the warehouse, a car, and chunks of pavement, rise up, ready to strike the building once more. “In!” he shouted, opening the Mercedes’s back door. The team piled in and Alexander had them screeching down the alley in moments. The golem, as big as it was, would never catch them.

Alexander stopped the car at the end of the alley and looked back. The golem was trying to force its way through the tangled ruins of the warehouse. He took a phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. He looked back again. A moment later the golem disappeared in a ball of fire that consumed the entire warehouse, destroying everything inside—the samples, lab equipment, and Davidson.

As they drove away, King took a moment to mourn the death of Davidson, who had lost his life for something that wasn’t his problem. Then he focused on the nagging question that entered his mind the moment the attack had begun: How did he find us?

The answer came quickly. He turned to Alexander. “Check your pockets. Your phone. Everything. One of us is being tracked.”

Alexander pulled the car over. Despite the strange scene of two men patting themselves down by the side of the road, no one paid them any attention. All eyes were on the rising column of smoke.

King had searched most of his body when he realized that the only article of clothing he had yet to change since his search for Fiona had begun was his cargo pants. He’d checked the pockets first, but neglected the cargo pockets lower on his leg. He could feel the aberration as he reached for it. He took hold of the small object and pulled it from his pocket. It was the size and shape of a Tylenol capsule.

Alexander saw him holding it. “Destroy it.”

King took it in both hands and snapped it in half. The fragile electronics within fell to the road.

They entered the car again without a word shared. King sat with his arms crossed. He now knew how Ridley managed to stay one step ahead of him and Alexander while the others were able to catch him with his guard down. He knew why they’d been attacked so quickly at the university and in the warehouse. But there was one question nagging at him: Who had put the tracking device in his pocket, and when?

SIXTY-FIVE

Babylon, Iraq

AS THE HUMMER
door closed with a metallic clunk, King shook a storm of sand from his hair. Upon exiting the aircraft they had been greeted by a wall of airborn sand. It coated their clothing, filled their hair, and crunched between their teeth. Had the Republican Guard been as numerous and relentless, an invasion of Iraq would never have been possible. Luckily for the team, which now consisted of King, Queen, Knight, Bishop, and Alexander, the sand was only an annoyance.

The heat was the real enemy. Though dry, the temperature was unbearable in the afternoon sun. Moisture was wicked away from the body as soon as it was sweat. The team carried water bottles with them, drinking constantly to keep dehydration at bay. They felt their journey was nearing an end, which meant a confrontation loomed on the horizon, and each one of them would need their strength.

The trip to Iraq had been quick and comfortable aboard Alexander’s Gulfstream jet. Getting clearance to land had been easy, thanks to Deep Blue, and the Hummer waiting for them was fully gassed and holding their requested supplies. Energy bars and water were consumed en route. Desert camouflage uniforms were provided so they could move about Babylon without raising too much attention. And a cache of weapons, including five XM25 assault rifles. The XM25s weren’t scheduled for active-duty usage until 2012, but they’d been tested successfully in Iraq and Afghanistan since 2009. They were the future in handheld warfare, able to shoot both standard rounds and 25mm rounds that could explode after a specific distance determined by the weapon’s laser site. Hiding in a ditch or behind a wall offered no protection when up against the XM25’s smart rounds, which King hoped would also provide the punch necessary for fending off any stone golems.

Two hours after touching down, King pulled onto the road leading toward Camp Alpha’s checkpoint gate. He’d waited long enough to broach this topic, but it could no longer be avoided. If Alexander tagged along with the team, he needed a call sign so anonymity could be retained. “You’re call sign will be Pawn for the duration of this mission,” King said to Alexander, who immediately burst out laughing.

“It’s the call sign every temporary team member gets,” Bishop said.

“It’s the irony I find amusing,” Alexander said. “I’m not opposed to the title. Pawn it is.”

They passed a local bazaar full of brightly colored trinkets perfect for U.S. soldiers wanting to send home exotic gifts. The man behind the table gave them a smile and salute as they passed. Palm trees lined the road on both sides, obscuring the view of ancient ruins off to the right.

Ignoring the sites, King pulled up to the Camp Alpha checkpoint. He flashed the ID that had been provided for him.

Corporal Tyler, a young, crew-cut soldier with a southern drawl and matching cowboy swagger, approached from the gatehouse. He looked at the ID then at the passengers in the car, noting the odd mix of Korean, Arab, Caucasian, and Greek passengers. “Mind if I check this out?” he asked, taking King’s ID

“Go right ahead,” King said.

Tyler walked back into the gatehouse and closed the door behind him. His skinny partner, Corporal Stevens, waited for him inside. He took the ID and looked at it.

“USGS, my ass,” Stevens said. “We’re supposed to believe
those
guys are geologists?”

Tyler worked a laptop, typing in King’s phony information. “You don’t buy it?”

“No way, man. Look at them.”

Both soldiers looked out the brown-tinged windows and saw King and Queen watching them from the Hummer. Tyler’s stomach tensed with intimidation.

“Geez,” Tyler whispered.

“You see, they’re way too badass,” Stevens said. “Twenty bucks says they’re Rangers or Delta.”

The results of Tyler’s search appeared on screen. “Well, according to the database, they’re from the USGS. They check out and have clearance.”

“You gonna ask them?” Stevens said. “Twenty bucks, man.”

After activating the gate, Tyler grunted, took the ID, and headed back out to the Hummer. “You’re all set, sir.” As he handed the ID back to King, Tyler noticed Queen’s window was now rolled down.

“You have twenty bucks?” she asked, holding out her hand.

Tyler looked dumbfounded, but still being intimidated, reached into his pants pocket and took out a twenty-dollar bill. Queen snagged it and handed the money to King. “He bet me you wouldn’t have the guts to ask if we were Delta. And since I have no money on me and you lost me that bet, you’re paying.”

Tyler was stunned and it showed on his face.

“We can read lips,” Queen said as King began to pull through the open gate. She flashed a smile. “Everyone at the USGS can. Now go pay your friend.”