King looked back as he hiked up the sand toward the ruins and the small hill beyond. “Odds are it won’t be human.”
* * *
THE DIM LIGHT in the barracks-turned-storage shed was hardly enough to see by, so Bishop had propped open the door allowing the sun to light the room. Unfortunately, it also allowed gritty sand to swirl inside with every gust of hot wind. They did their best to ignore the air quality and focus on combing through boxes of archaeological data.
And there was enough to keep them occupied for days. Knight spent his time going over maps. Though he couldn’t read a word of Arabic, he could clearly see that there were no ancient ziggurats drawn on any maps. Bishop combed through the notebooks, skimming each entry for keywords. Thus far he’d found nothing.
Bishop and Knight were so intent on their work that neither noticed the men who entered the barracks until they closed the door. Knight turned as their light was cut in half. With his hand now on his rifle, Knight focused on the door where an Iraqi man dressed in brown pants and a white button-down shirt stood. General Fowler stood behind him.
“We tracked down one of the men involved in the pre-2003 excavations. He might be able to help make sense of all this,” Fowler said, motioning to the stacks of boxes. “Let me know when you’re finished with him and we’ll send an escort. Now if you’ll excuse me, my attention is needed elsewhere.”
Fowler left quickly, leaving a nervous-looking Iraqi standing in the middle of the room.
“What’s your name?” Knight asked.
“Rahim, sir. My English not so good.”
Without standing or turning around to greet the newcomer, Bishop said, in perfect Arabic, “You were a part of the Babylonian excavations, Rahim?”
Rahim replied in Arabic. “I was an assistant to one of the archaeologists. I was here for three years.”
“Do you know of the Tower of Babel?” Bishop asked.
“We searched for it for years,” the man said, growing excited.
“And?”
“It’s not here.”
Bishop stopped paging through the journal in his hands. He closed it, stood, and turned around. Rahim stumbled back away from Bishop, his eyes fearful. The military hardness of Bishop combined with his muscles and shaved head no doubt brought back memories of times when men like Bishop were to be feared.
“You’re Iraqi?” Rahim asked.
“I was born in Iran,” Bishop said.
This only deepened Rahim’s fear.
Bishop showed a relaxed smile. “But I was raised in America. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Rahim’s fear eased a little, but he didn’t take his eyes off Bishop for very long.
The conversation was interrupted by King’s voice in their ears. Rahim looked at them like they were insane as Bishop and Knight stopped everything and listened. Then Bishop turned to him. “You said the tower isn’t here?”
Rahim nodded. “We scoured the whole site with ground-penetrating radar. We found many exciting sites, but no ziggurats large enough to fit the profile of the Tower of Babel. But some of the team believed the tower lay elsewhere, outside of Babylon.”
“What is beneath the mound on the opposite side of the river?” Bishop asked.
The man’s head snapped up, his face excited. “We never got a chance to dig, but the archaeologists suspected it was the Hanging Gardens.”
“The Hanging Gardens,” Bishop said to Knight in English.
Knight relayed the information. “King, a man from the original dig is here. He’s saying that the Tower of Babel isn’t here, and that the site you’re checking out might be—”
A burst of static cut him off.
“King. King? Do you copy?” Knight looked at Bishop. The only reason King wouldn’t reply was if he couldn’t.
“Rahim, we need you to show us where this mound is,” Bishop said.
* * *
A HALF MILE away on the opposite side of the Euphrates River, atop a mound of sand, the only trace of King’s presence was a divot in the earth. With each passing moment, the wind filled the hole with fresh sand. Less than a minute after King was sucked into the earth, no trace of him remained—except for his XM25 assault rifle.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Severodvinsk, Russia
THE CITY OF Severodvinsk was not what Rook expected, not this far north. In some ways it reminded him of Portsmouth, New Hampshire—built on the coast, home to a submarine yard, featuring an old fishing culture still eking out a living—but Portsmouth’s population was closer to thirty thousand. Severodvinsk supported a population of nearly two hundred thousand.
Not that he minded the crowded streets. It made hiding in the open that much easier. Being a major naval hub, the city was full of military men, some in uniform, more in plainclothes. Despite wanting a stiff drink, Rook avoided the pubs and stuck to coffee shops, all the while searching for the one man who might be able to help him: Maksim Dashkov.
After leaving Galya’s cabin, he had hiked five miles before making it to a main route. Heading north, he caught a ride with a truck driver with a shipment destined for the sub yard. He’d been dropped off in the center of town an hour ago.
The coffee shop bell jangled as Rook entered. He smiled at the heavyset woman behind the counter and ordered a coffee. Black. He paid with money taken from Galya’s cabin and headed for a table. Halfway to the table, as though an afterthought, he asked, “Do you have a phone directory I could borrow?”
The woman nodded, bent down behind the counter, and reemerged with a directory.
Rook reached for it with a smile. “Thanks.”
But when he tried to take it from the woman, she held on tight. “One hundred fifty.”
One hundred fifty rubles was just a little over five dollars U.S., but it was still a lot for using the phone book. When Rook gave her a questioning look, she added, “Times are hard. People drink more vodka than coffee.”
Rook paid her and smiled. “I should have got cream and sugar.”
“Those are extra, too,” the woman said as he sat down with the phone directory. Thirty seconds later he had a phone number and address for Maksim Dashkov.
Rook stood to leave, but saw three men in uniform standing outside the shop. It was doubtful he’d be recognized, but on the off chance he was, he was in no condition to fight his way past two hundred thousand Russians.
He gave the woman at the counter his most winning smile and said, “How much for a phone call?”
The woman picked up the phone and placed it on the counter. “Five more.”
Rook gave her the last of his money, picked up the phone, and dialed. It was answered on the third ring by a man with a rough voice.
“Maksim Dashkov?” Rook said.
Suspicion filled the man’s voice. “Yes, who is this?”
“A friend of Galya’s.”
“Galya,” the man said in a whisper. “I haven’t heard from her in two years. How is she?”
Rook wasn’t sure how the man would respond, but he deserved the truth. “She’s dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“I can’t tell you that now,” Rook said, looking out the window at the three sailors. “But her dying wish was for you to help me.”
