The Prophecy

e-mailing you

‘How unfortunate! Did you get the bugger who did it?’

‘Kind of,’ Payne admitted. ‘He was hit by a bus while I was in pursuit.’

‘Did you say a bus? That must have been messy.’

‘You have no idea.’

Ulster took another gulp of wine. ‘And attempt number two?’

‘It happened this morning. A gunman ap proached me from behind and asked for the letter. When I declined, he opened fire.’

‘Did a bus get him as well?’

‘No bus. Just me.’

Ulster cackled with delight. ‘You are such a brute. I love it!’

‘What’s the status of the e-mail?’ Jones asked.

‘It’s coming through now.’ Ulster stared at his screen as his computer downloaded the file. ‘While I’m waiting, please provide me with pertinent information.’

Jones answered. ‘It is written in a mixture of languages that I can’t translate. According to the woman, one of the languages was Middle French.’

‘If I may enquire, how old is this letter?’

‘Yet you believe this document — whatever it is — is important?’

Payne nodded. ‘The gunmen who attacked us seemed to think so.’

Ulster clicked on the e-mail and smiled at the image that filled his computer screen. ‘Interesting, very interesting. I see Latin, and Greek, and Middle French, too. Not to mention a few other dialects that are no longer spoken.’

‘Then you can help us?’ Jones wondered.

‘Of course I can help you. I love academic puzzles, and this one is a doozy. May I call you later with my results?’

‘Later is fine.’

‘Wonderful!’ Ulster said as he glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes past 6 p.m. in Switzerland. ‘I’ll tackle it before dinner, then get back in touch.’

21

The Pentagon

Arlington, Virginia

‘Research,’ he said as he answered his phone.

‘Is this Raskin?’ the voice growled on the other end of the line.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where the hell is my data?’

‘Don’t mess with me, son! Not today!’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Raskin stuttered, as he frantically glanced through the files on his desk. ‘I don’t recognize your voice, sir. Who am I speaking with?’

‘Sandecker!’ the voice barked. ‘Admiral James Sandecker!’

Raskin gulped. He was familiar with the name but couldn’t quite place it. And in a building like the Pentagon — where admirals and generals wielded all the power — that was dangerous. He knew if he pissed off the wrong officer, his life would become a living hell. Frantically, he typed Sandecker’s name into one of his military search engines but came up empty.

‘Sir,’ he apologized, ‘I’m having trouble finding your files. If you tell me who called in your request, I can check his name as well.’

‘Gunn. Rudi Gunn. My second in command at NUMA.’

‘Rudi Gunn,’ Raskin repeated. That name sounded familiar, too, but once again, he got zero hits in his network search. Obviously there was something wrong with his system. ‘Sir, what type of research am I looking for? Perhaps I can—’

now, before it’s too late. Dirk Pitt is in serious trouble!’

‘Dirk Pitt?’ he mumbled into the phone. Suddenly, Raskin realized why all those names sounded familiar. They were fictional characters in the novels of Clive Cussler. ‘You asshole! Don’t ever do that to me again! I thought the entire Atlantic fleet was waiting on me.’

‘Asshole? Who are you calling an asshole?’

‘Both of you,’ Raskin blurted. Very few people had his direct line, and the only guys he knew who had the guts to mess with him were Payne and Jones. ‘Seriously, you idiots should hear my heartbeat right now. It sounds like a machine gun.’

Jones laughed, finally willing to speak in his normal voice. ‘How would you know what a machine gun sounds like? You never leave your desk.’

‘Dude, video games are very realistic nowadays. Especially on this setup. It’s practically the same thing as being a MANIAC. Except, you know, the whole asshole thing.’

‘Come on,’ Payne said into the speakerphone, ‘you have to admit it was funny. Besides, considering all the pranks you’ve pulled on us, you got off rather easy.’

‘So,’ Raskin said, ‘was there a reason you called, or can I hang up on you now?’

Jones answered. ‘No, there’s an actual reason. Someone tried to kill us last night.’

Raskin scoffed at the news. ‘Someone tries to kill you every week.’

‘Good point, but they tried again this morning.’

‘Fine,’ he yawned. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘A couple of things,’ Payne said. ‘I got some prints from last night’s shooter, but IAFIS came up empty. We were hoping you could check some of your military databases.’

‘You think he was a soldier?’

‘Maybe.’

‘One of ours?’

Payne shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t talk to the guy. He was too busy shooting at me.’

‘Yeah, but you’re doing it online. That’s slightly different.’

‘Not really,’ Raskin said as he opened the necessary program on his system. ‘Our games are pretty damn intense. The loser has to pay for beer.’

‘Oh,’ Jones mocked, ‘that sounds just like Iraq.’

Raskin grinned, glad he was getting under their skin. It was the least he could do after the whole Sandecker episode. ‘Are you sending me the prints or what?’

‘I already did. Check your e-mail.’

Raskin clicked on the message, then went to work. Within a few seconds, he had opened up the digital scans of the prints and started running them through multiple databases, spread across several of his computer screens. Faces and fingerprints flashed all around him, yet his eyes stayed glued to the monitor in front of him. ‘This might take a while. What else did you need?’

‘Can you access data on active criminal cases?’ Payne wondered.

‘Of course, I can.’