The Oracle Code

6



32 Miles Southwest of Herat

Herat Province

Afghanistan

June 18, 2012

Anger filled Layla’s body as she surveyed the scene of the executions. That was how she thought of what she saw before her. Even though the men lying on the ground had had weapons in their possession, they hadn’t stood a chance against the man before her.

“Do not move!” Captain Jamshid Fitrat stepped into the cave himself.

In his early forties, the Afghanistan National Policeman was a professional fighting man blooded in many battles. He was short and squat, powerfully built, and always watchful. He never asked questions until he had first spent time figuring out a situation for himself.

Layla liked the captain for his professionalism, attention to detail, and because he had gone to college in the West. He had ultimately disappointed his wealthy parents because he’d chosen to become a soldier instead of the medical doctor they’d wanted him to be. He had served in the army before college and had returned to it a few years later.

During his time in the West, Fitrat had also learned to treat women as equals. Layla had met the captain’s wife and children on occasion. The woman and the two boys seemed very affectionate. Very Western.

Later, after she’d gotten to know him and learned that she would be appointed liaison and director over the dig site, Layla had asked that he be assigned to the security post.

Fitrat himself had never said whether he preferred the assignment one way or the other. He was totally professional.

The captain kept his pistol pointed at the man standing before them. “Put your hands behind your head. Do it now.”

“Of course.” The man spoke with a Russian accent. “I will do everything you say.”

Fitrat kicked the pistol away. “Down on your knees.”

Without a word, the man knelt. He remained calm and kept his eyes forward.

Layla couldn’t believe the man could be so matter-of-fact. He wasn’t even trying to defend himself.

“Don’t hurt him. That’s Major Dolgov.” Chizkov tried to get into the cave.

Two of the men Fitrat had brought with him grabbed the young man by the arms, lifted him bodily, and hoisted him across the outside passageway.

One of the Afghan soldiers pointed at Chizkov. “Do not move.”

“All right. But don’t hurt him. Obviously those men came in here to hurt Professor Glukov and Professor Lourds.”

“Are you alone?” Fitrat stepped around in front of the man, his pistol always pointing at the man’s head.

Dolgov, if that was his name, glanced idly around at the dead bodies scattered across the cave floor. One of the men had ended up falling back onto a cluster of stalagmites and now looked like an Indian fakir on a bed of oversized nails.

“I am now.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to the aid of two professors from the camp. These men were going to kill them.”

Fitrat examined one of the packs on the floor. When he opened it and shined a flashlight beam inside, Layla saw the pile of fist-sized dark bags inside. “This is opium. Black tar.”

Dolgov inspected the revealed contents of the bag. “Yes, I believe it is.”

Opium ran through Afghanistan. In the beginning, it had been grown by the Sumerians, the Assyrians, the Babylonians, and the Egyptians. The drug had been used at a lethal dose to kill people. Possibly Socrates himself had drunk hemlock laced with opium. But the drug had also been used as medicine, as a pain reliever and to adjust people with emotional problems.

The Islamic people had picked up the crop, improved upon the strain, and sold it to the Chinese for medicinal purposes. Of course, that wasn’t the entire use. Criminal enterprises had flocked to it, including British, French, and American trading companies.

Even today, opium remained a stable currency in Afghanistan when the economy constantly teetered on the brink of poverty. The American Central Intelligence Agency had used opium as a monetary bargaining chip during their involvement in the country in the 1980s. Now the Taliban used it, but there were warlords who remained solvent selling it to evolving markets as well.

Any pity Layla might have felt for the dead men evaporated immediately.

Fitrat released the pack, and it tumbled onto its side, spilling the dark bags across the rough floor. “You said you were here to aid the two professors.”

“Yes.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. When I was in the passageway outside, I heard the American, Lourds, speaking. I entered when guns were fired. Glukov and Lourds were nowhere to be seen.”

Fitrat gestured his men into the room. Two of the soldiers remained outside to secure the passageway. The rest took up the search for the missing professors.

At a nod from Fitrat, Layla entered the cave as well. She stepped carefully, trying to avoid stepping in any of the slowly spreading pools of blood.

***



Galvanized by the crash and thunder of the gunshots in the cave behind them, Boris Glukov traveled quickly through the passageway. Lourds found himself suddenly hard-pressed to keep up with his friend.

The rough stone bit into Lourds’s palms and knees as he scrabbled along. Somehow, Boris had managed to hang on to his flashlight, and it was the only illumination they had in the tunnel, and even then it bounced around so much as Boris scrambled that it was like a dance floor light show.

“Are they coming after us?” Boris sounded partially out of breath.

“I don’t know. Don’t slow down.”

“We’re coming to a dead end.”

“What?” Lourds tried to estimate how far they’d come.

“A dead end. Here.” Boris flattened as much as he could in the passageway and shined the flashlight beam steadily at the wall ahead of them.

Lourds groaned.

Boris crawled forward a few more feet until he was pressed up against the wall. He trailed the light across the carved message. “This is the same language as that on the wall, yes?”

“Yes.” Lourds reached around his friend and brushed dust from the symbols. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the men with guns and all the shooting, but at the moment, that didn’t matter.

They’d found the hidden secret.

“It is, Boris.” Lourds clapped the other man on the back. “You have indeed discovered a prize. Now we just need to see what it is you’ve found.” He squinted at the writing. “I need to be closer.”

Boris tried to back up and discovered that he couldn’t. “I fear I am too large for such gymnastics.”

“I don’t really like our chances of crawling back out.”

“Neither do I. We survived once. I do not care to press our luck.”

“Agreed.” Carefully, Lourds slithered up beside the Russian. He brushed at the dust again, uncovering more of the symbols, then blew on them and nearly choked in the dry backdraft. He took Boris’s flashlight and shined it on the wall.

Boris’s labored breathing was practically in his ear. The cramped position was uncomfortable for both of them.

The symbols translated easily.

“‘For the treasure you seek, you only have to look to Heaven.’”

Boris looked at the ceiling of the passageway. “There is nothing there.”

“You have to think of Islamic customs. Heaven isn’t up. It lies to the east.” Lourds flicked the light around the walls and discovered a small indentation on the wall beside Boris. “Can you reach that?”

“I don’t know. Let me try.” Boris rolled and twisted. His finger hovered over the indentation less than an inch beyond his reach.

Suddenly light flared at the other end of the passageway.

For a moment, Lourds thought the light might be a muzzle flash. Rigid, he waited for a bullet to tear through his body and to hear the sound of the shot roll over him. Instead, he heard a woman’s voice speaking in Russian.

“Professor Glukov? Professor Lourds? Are you all right?” The questions were repeated in English.

Lourds thought he recognized the voice. “Professor Teneen? Layla?”

“Yes. Are you all right?”

“Yes. There are men with guns–”

“They have been dealt with, Professor Lourds. The two of you need to come out here at once.”

For a moment, Lourds felt like a schoolboy about to get scolded for improper behavior. “Boris and I think we have found something.”

“If you have, there will be time to come back in the morning and have a better look at it. At the moment, I’ve got quite the mess to clean up here, and to find out what is going on with some of our fellow dig personnel.”

“Thomas, I can almost reach it.” Boris sounded strained. “Perhaps if you could give my arm a shove.”

“Professor Lourds.”

“We’re on our way.” Lourds turned to Boris and placed his hand on the man’s elbow. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want to break or tear anything.”

“And I don’t want to wait till morning—or possibly later—to find out where this trail has led us. Push.”

Lourds pushed. Boris’s middle finger made contact with the indentation.

“Push again.”

Lourds did as he was requested.

This time something clicked. At first, he thought the sound might have been made by cartilage tearing in Boris’s arm.

Then a spear point came out of the ceiling and smashed into the stone below, sliding between the two men and missing them by less than an inch.

“My god.” Boris stared at the weapon in wide-eyed wonder. “If we’d been in the middle of the passageway instead of plastered on the sides, that thing would have skewered us.”

“But it didn’t.”

“That was meant to kill whomever was here.”

Before Lourds could reply, a series of clicks sounded. Without any warning at all, the section of the passageway they lay on yawned open, and they slid forward.

Frantically, Lourds tried to grab any purchase he could find, even closing his hand on the spear for a moment. But it snapped even as he reached for Boris, and he slid off into the abyss with the other man.

One of them—Lourds wasn’t sure which—screamed.