Night-Ops flashlight from his pocket and cast its bright light into the alcove behind the fireplace. In the center was a weathered captain’s chest.
Grabbing it by one of its handles, Harvath slid the chest out of the alcove and into the room. Wiping the lid clean of dust and soot he noticed an engraving-
The chest wasn’t locked and as Nichols, Ozbek, and Moss gathered behind him, Harvath carefully raised its lid. Inside was an object about the size and shape of a hat box with a peak in the middle. It was wrapped in what looked like waxed canvas or sail cloth.
Harvath reached inside and picked it up. It felt solid and very heavy. Concerned that the aged lid of the captain’s chest might not be able to support its weight, Harvath took the object over to the parlor’s desk and unwrapped it.
It was absolutely extraordinary. Sitting atop a twelve-inch-high, perfectly round metallic drum was a four- inch-tall figurine. It was crafted in the form of a bearded scribe who was sitting cross-legged, complete with turban, robes, and a quill in his outstretched right hand. The scribe had been painted with an enamel of some sort and appeared incredibly lifelike.
Engraved in a circle around him were what appeared to be the hours of the day. Everyone was speechless.
Moss was the first to say something. “Al-Jazari?”
Nichols nodded.
“Is it a clock?” asked Ozbek.
“I think so,” said Harvath as he inspected the device.
He examined it from every angle, but couldn’t find a way to access its inner workings.
He then attempted to manipulate the scribe and discovered that it was hinged and could be tilted back about forty-five degrees, but for what purpose, no one understood.
When next he tried to gently twist the figure and nothing happened, he tried pushing it down like a child safety cap on a bottle of pills. Suddenly there was a
Harvath had Nichols hold the flashlight as he removed the top and looked inside.
The elegance of the workmanship was astounding. Harvath couldn’t believe he was looking at something that was not only designed, but fabricated and assembled over eight hundred years ago.
“How does it work?” asked Moss.
“It was probably powered by water,” replied Nichols, “at least when it came to telling time.”
“But something tells me this device does a lot more than just tell time,” said Harvath as he looked at the underside of the lid and found a small pocket.
Sliding the tips of his fingers inside, he coaxed out a delicate gear that was identical to the one in the mechanical schematic. Panning the light over it, he located the Basmala.
Without needing to be asked, Nichols retrieved the mechanical diagram and set it on the desk next to the device.
Harvath took a deep breath and reminded himself to go slowly. He needed to take great pains not to damage anything while remembering each move he made in case any of them were incorrect and he had to back up and do something over again.
He wished that Tracy could have been there. Despite what had happened to her in Iraq, as a Naval EOD tech she was exceptional at handling this exact kind of situation. Harvath’s hands were not made for this type of work.
Even so, he wouldn’t have wanted anyone else in the room doing what he was doing right now.
Nichols held the light steady as Harvath tried to reposition the gears as Jefferson had indicated in his diagram. He had no idea what kind of metal or alloy that they had been crafted from, but they were incredibly clean and free of rust even after hundreds of years.
It took him twenty minutes, but as he positioned the Basmala gear, he finally fully exhaled for what felt like the first time. His sense of relief, though, was short lived.
As he snapped the gear in place, something within the device sprung loose. The entire inner mechanism, which rested on a series of small legs inside the housing, dropped a quarter of an inch. One of the razor sharp gears nicked the tip of Harvath’s left thumb.
Cursing, Harvath snatched his hand back. It was already starting to bleed.
“Are you okay?” asked Nichols.
“I’m fine,” said Harvath as he untucked his shirt and used the bottom of it to apply pressure to stop the bleeding.
Ozbek walked over to the toolbox and tossed Harvath a tube of Krazy Glue. “Here,” he said, “use this.”
Harvath employed his teeth to help unscrew the cap and then applied some of the compound to his wound and pinched it shut.
Turning his attention back to the device, he noticed that when the mechanism had dropped, a hidden door on the side of the housing had opened. Protruding from it was a small handle. It reminded Harvath of the crank for a child’s jack-in-the-box.
“I think I know how we’re supposed to power this,” he said.
CHAPTER 84
As Harvath turned the tiny handle, they all watched the scribe circle and glide across the top of the drum. It was amazingly graceful and fluid, but no one had any idea what its purpose was.
“How many letters are there in the Arabic alphabet?” asked Nichols as he withdrew a piece of paper from his folder.
“Twenty-eight as far as basic letters are concerned,” replied Ozbek. “Why?”
“This could be some sort of code. Maybe Scot’s winding the handle too fast. Let’s slow it down and watch what the scribe does in relation to the hour markers.”
“But there are only twenty-four of those.”
“Can’t hurt to try,” replied the professor.
Harvath thought he was right and began turning the handle more slowly.
Each time Nichols thought the scribe was pointing to a specific number, he wrote it down. The more Harvath watched, though, the more he had the feeling this wasn’t about numbers.
Tucking his shirt back in, he noticed the blood on it and that gave him an idea. Turning to Nichols, he said, “Give me that piece of paper for a second.”
As he did, Harvath grabbed his Poplar Forest information packet and spread its contents on the desk.
Crouching down so that he could have the device at eye level, Harvath stacked several of the brochures until they came to just beneath the level of the scribe’s quill. He then tilted the scribe back, slid Nichols’ piece of paper atop the brochure and then put his thumb in his mouth and pulled the dried Krazy Glue off his skin with his teeth.
After wetting the scribe’s quill with his blood, Harvath tilted him back down. With the nib against the paper, he started turning the handle again. As he did, Arabic writing began to materialize on the page.
“My God,” said Nichols.
“You mean Allah, don’t you?” joked Ozbek as he slapped Harvath on the back. “Well done.”
Harvath smiled. Looking at Jonathan Moss, he asked, “Do you have any bottles of writing ink anywhere?”
Moss was so amazed it took him a moment to register Harvath’s request. “Yes we do,” he finally said. “I’ll go get some.”
As he left, Harvath wrapped the bottom of his shirt around his bleeding thumb again.
“You know,” remarked Ozbek, “Saddam Hussein had a whole Koran written in his own blood. I thought SEALs were supposed to be tough guys.”
