The Genesis Plague (2010)

‘I’m busy. What is it, Vanessa?’ he replied agitatedly.

‘Mr Roselli is here,’ she reported in a subdued tone. ‘He’s insisting on seeing you. He doesn’t look so good … acting strange too. Should I call security?’

‘No. It’s fine.’ Perfect, actually. ‘Give me a minute, then send him in.’

‘As you wish.’

Stokes focused again on the draft, removed profile number ‘4’ labelled ‘ROSELLI-FRANK’. Verifying the content one last time, he clicked a command that encrypted the message and pushed it out into the ether. He leaned back and stretched, considered how exactly to handle the surprise visitor. When he peered at the open door centred in the rear wall of the office, an idea came to him. A brilliant idea.

Fifteen seconds later, the double door opened and Vanessa held it as Roselli lumbered into the room, hands stuffed in the pockets of his rumpled seersucker slacks.

‘I was going to run to the Post Office,’ Vanessa said. ‘Need me to stay?’

‘No, no. You go ahead,’ Stokes said. He stood and rounded the desk. She was right: the five-foot-eight portly project manager looked even more ruddy than usual. ‘Frank,’ he greeted him with presidential style. ‘What a surprise.’

‘What’s the emergency?’ Stokes asked, calmly reclining in his office chair.

Roselli was huddled on the edge of the leather visitor’s seat, elbows propped on knees. Sweat peppered his brow below an island of sun-bleached dirty blond hair that looked like a badly replaced divot. His round cheeks and bulbous nose were pink with sunburn, three deep worry lines cut parallel tracks across his forehead, and his dull hazel eyes, set too close together, were too small for his head.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said. ‘The alarm in the cave? For God’s sake. They’ll find -‘

Stokes raised a hand to stop him. ‘I’ve heard,’ he replied levelly.

‘And you’re still here?’ He spread his hands. ‘Have you gone mad? What if they -‘

‘Calm down. Don’t you see? This is better than we could ever have hoped for.’

‘What? Are you insane?’

‘Now, now, Frank …’ he warned. But Roselli was inconsolable.

‘I told you this might happen!’ he overrode indignantly. Pointing a pudgy index finger at Stokes, he said, ‘We should’ve permanently sealed the opening.’ He shook his head with dismay. ‘Christ, we knew that hatch might draw attention.’

‘And how do you suppose what’s in the cave could be released without a doorway?’

Rolling his eyes, Roselli didn’t have an answer.

‘Let me remind you that it was a missile, Frank. A missile that accidentally veered off course. Sorry, but we didn’t plan for that.’ Stokes got up again. ‘Let’s not have someone overhearing this conversation,’ he said conspiratorially. He waved for Roselli to follow, led the way to the open door in the rear of the office.

Huffing, Roselli got up and went over to him, hesitated at the entry threshold to assess the keypad on the doorframe. His head tilted to calibrate the thickness of the door - five, maybe six, inches. Then he peeked inside. ‘What is this place?’

‘My private gallery. We can talk more freely in here.’ Stokes offered a composed smile, placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder and urged him inside.

The spacious, windowless gallery housed an impressive collection of ancient artifacts in sturdy display cases - mostly Middle Eastern, as far as Roselli could tell. No surprise since Stokes was obsessed with anything remotely linked to Mesopotamia or Persia, both past and present. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls; dozens of compact clay tablets were neatly laid out behind thick glass doors. He could also make out jewellery, pottery and Bronze Age tools and weapons stored there too.

But the room’s centre featured the relics Roselli knew intimately.

Mounted atop a wide granite plinth was an enormous limestone slab; maybe six feet high, four feet wide, he guessed. On the monolith’s face were intricate relief etchings of two winged beasts, spirits facing one another in profile, as if courting for a dance - each half human, half lion. The stone seal they’d removed from the cave entrance and replaced with a heavy-duty metal door.

In the display cases beside the seal, Roselli spotted some of the cursed artifacts they’d recovered from deep within the labyrinth: an assortment of clay tablets stamped with ancient wedge-shaped symbols and pictograms; a beautiful necklace of glossy shells; a clay jar painted in symbols and whose bizarre contents remained locked within rock-hard resin. But the most prominent display case was covered with a veil. The thought of what might be inside it made him shudder. ‘You must be insane … keeping all these things here.’

‘Do you really think anyone would know where these treasures came from? I’m a mere collector, Frank. Stop being paranoid,’ Stokes suggested delicately.

‘Paranoid? Do you know what will happen if anyone finds what we left behind in that cave?’ Then he turned pale when he thought of the most serious consequences. ‘My God … what if those American contractors go inside … what if they all die?’

With hands behind his back, Stokes paced over to the stone slab and admired it for a long moment. ‘When God expelled Adam and Eve from Eden, the cherubim were posted outside the entrance so that the humans could never return to paradise. The sacred guardians …’

‘Now is not the time for Bible-thumping,’ Roselli fumed. ‘We need to focus on the cave. What are we going to do?’

Stokes shrugged and contemplated the situation for five seconds before responding. ‘The cave being discovered like this … well, it can only be considered divinely inspired, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I understand you’re upset,’ Stokes said.

‘Damn right I’m upset.’

‘Let me get us drinks. Then we’ll talk about this, figure things out. Scotch?’ Another of Roselli’s Achilles heels.

In Pavlovian fashion, Roselli licked his lips. Then he sighed and ran his fingers through the divot. ‘That’d be good.’

‘Neat?’

Looking wounded, Roselli nodded.

‘All right.’ Stokes patted him on the back. ‘It’ll be okay. I promise. Be back in a minute.’

Stokes pivoted on his good foot and made his way outside.

Roselli turned back to the centre of the room and stared at the veiled display case. The loose ends of the silky cover billowed against air pumping in from overhead vents. Or maybe something beneath it was stirring. Curiosity got the best of him and he stepped cautiously towards it. Cringing, he reached out and began to lift the cover. But the sudden sound of the door closing made him jump in fright. His eyes snapped to the door.

‘Stokes?’

The door’s locking mechanism turned over with a clunk.

‘Stokes!’

On the other side of the door, Stokes punched a code into the keypad mounted on the doorframe and activated the hermetic seal. Roselli’s screams barely permeated the dense walls. But soon, all would be silent.

6

Roselli’s fists throbbed as he pounded on the door again, leaving splotches of perspiration on the cold metal. Helpless anger blinded him to the futility of escaping the vault.

He’d tried unsuccessfully to access the sealed shelving units containing the bronze tools, thinking he might somehow be able to use an axe or chisel to pry open the door lock. With every fixture in the room bolted to the floor, and no loose implement to use as a striker, however, he’d resorted to using his fists on the glass. That effort, too, proved a waste of time and energy. Even if he’d been able to get to the tools, he knew that the primitive bronze would be too flimsy to have any effect on the formidable security door.

So he’d been reduced to what amounted to a child’s tantrum.

The ceiling vents steadily hummed. Instead of the climate control system scrubbing away contaminants,