The Genesis Key Read online

  The Genesis Key

  James Barney

  Dedication

  TO KELLEY

  with love

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part II

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Part III

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  September 5, 1979. Tell-Fara, Iraq.

  Daniel Talbot wished he had his sunglasses. Squinting and blocking the sun with his hands, he could barely make out the two figures that were fast approaching across the desert from the east. They were men, Daniel was sure of that, for they weren’t wearing the traditional flowing dresses and veils that women in that region of Iraq typically wore. And from their quick gait, Daniel could tell they were young and fit. These were not the decrepit beggars who sometimes wandered through the excavation site looking for handouts. These were young, strong men, approaching fast and with a purpose.

  Are they carrying shovels? Daniel strained to make out the long object each man carried on his shoulder. A few weeks ago, a group of teenagers from a local village had shown up at the site with crude shovels and improvised picks, ostensibly looking for work. After a terse negotiation, Daniel had paid them each five dinars to go away. The last thing he needed was a group of kids hacking up his archeological site.

  Perhaps word had gotten out that the American was paying people to stay away from the site. Daniel grimaced at that thought and wondered how many more villagers he would have to pay off to keep his site unmolested.

  The shamal—a steady wind from the southwest—buffeted Daniel’s back, whipping his loose khaki shirt and pants back and forth with a soft snapping sound. Swirls of sand rose off the desert floor in front of him and floated away quickly on the warm, dry wind. For a moment, the two men disappeared entirely behind an opaque cloud of orange dust. When they reemerged, they were about one hundred yards away and approaching quickly. Daniel could now make out more details. Both men wore pants, not robes. One wore a headscarf. And . . .

  “Oh shit,” he muttered. He could now see the men were dressed in desert camouflage fatigues and that each had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Not good, he thought. Instinctively, he turned toward his vehicle, parked just over the hill a few hundred yards away.

  “Erfaa yadaik!” one of the men shouted, now about fifty yards from Daniel and jogging toward him.

  Daniel froze, put his hands in the air, and turned around slowly. He stared in disbelief as the two men approached, each aiming a Kalashnikov AK–47 assault rifle at Daniel’s chest. They stopped a few feet away.

  Both men were taller than Daniel, who was just shy of six feet. And, unlike most Iraqis he’d encountered in this region, these men were thick and muscular. One wore a black ski mask over his face, the other a black-and-white Pakastani-style scarf that covered his mouth and head.

  Daniel decided to speak first. “I have permission to be here,” he said in broken Arabic. “Government permission.” He slowly lowered his right hand to retrieve the official paperwork from his shirt pocket.

  “Erfaa yadaik!” the man in ski mask shrieked, thrusting his gun forward menacingly.

  Daniel put his hands back in the air, higher this time.

  The two gunmen conversed in low, muffled voices. Daniel hoped they were discussing how to verify his paperwork. If they would just take the bundle of documents from his shirt pocket, they would see he had permission from President Al-Bakr himself, and from the Director-General of Antiquities in Baghdad. He was sure the situation would be quickly resolved.

  The gunmen were not interested in checking Daniel Talbot’s paperwork, however. The man in the scarf pointed to a rocky path a few yards away, which sloped uphill and disappeared into a thicket of date palms. Nodding to his subordinate, he ordered in Arabic, loud enough for Daniel to hear: “Check the vehicle.”

  Daniel lurched forward but was immediately halted by the muzzle of the lead gunman’s rifle, now just an inch from his forehead. He fought the primal urge to tackle the man and pound his face with his fists. At forty-two years old, Daniel was in excellent physical condition and could hold his own in a street fight. But, as he stared down the barrel of the AK–47, he knew any such attempt would be suicidal. He stepped back, checked his rage, and slowly put his hands behind his head.

  After a confirmatory nod from the lead gunman, the man in the ski mask trotted off toward the rocky path, which led over a small berm to a dirt road about two hundred yards away.

  Daniel’s heart sank as he listened to the man’s shuffling feet disappearing down the rocky path.

  On the other side of the hill, Daniel’s Toyota Land Cruiser sat idling. Inside the vehicle, his wife, Becky, was studying archeological maps and preparing her equipment for the day.

  It was 7:45 A.M.

  Daniel shook his head in disbelief. Today was supposed to be the day. The day he and Becky had been looking forward to for nearly five years. The day they’d both quit their jobs for two years ago and dragged their young daughter halfway around the world for.

  Now, something had gone horribly wrong.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the AK–47, now held loosely against the lead gunman’s hip. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the ski-masked man disappearing into the date palms on his way toward the Land Cruiser . . . toward Becky. For a moment, he considered yelling for Becky to drive away, but he dismissed the idea quickly. The vehicle was too far away, and Becky almost certainly had the A/C on full blast. Besides, even if she did hear him, she would
never just drive away without debate. She never did anything without debate. It was one of the reasons he loved her.

  He opted for a different approach. Making eye contact with his captor, he asked in the most polite Arabic he could muster, “My friend, what is the problem?” If he could just find out what the problem was, he was sure he could work things out with these men, whoever they were.

  The gunman said nothing. His eyes flitted back and forth between Daniel and the rocky path.

  “Is there a fine to pay?” Daniel asked politely. “I have American dollars.”

  No response.

  Then Daniel heard the sounds he’d been dreading. Becky’s voice in the distance, a man’s voice, then Becky’s again. A car door slammed loudly, and Daniel’s heart nearly stopped. Moments later, he heard his wife screaming in a bewildered, terrified tone, “Daniel! Daniel!” It grew louder as she made her way, at gunpoint, up the rocky path.

  Daniel yelled to her. “It’s okay Becky, I’m up here! Just do what he says!”

  But things were definitely not okay.

  Desperately, Daniel tried again to engage the lead gunman in conversation. “We have friends,” he sputtered in Arabic, “very important friends in the government.”

  The gunman stared impassively.

  “Do you know Mohamad al-Bitar, Chief Cultural Minister? He is a very good friend of ours.”

  No response.

  “Also Hakeem Abdul Sargon. He is the Director-General of Antiquities. We had dinner with him last week. He will explain everything, if you will please let me call him.”

  “No, he cannot help you,” the gunman replied in Arabic. His voice was calm and oddly polite given the situation. He seemed educated.

  Daniel was relieved to finally have a dialogue with the gunman, but he didn’t understand his reply. “Yes . . . Director Sargon knows us. Whatever the problem is here, I’m sure he can fix it. Please, just let me contact him. We can drive my truck to al Hilla and use a pay phone—”

  “No,” the gunman said abruptly, “Sargon is dead.”

  Daniel had little time to digest that shocking news, for, at that very moment, Becky emerged from the rocky path, the ski-masked gunman trailing directly behind her. She ran to Daniel and hugged him tightly, shaking uncontrollably.

  “Karay hona-alag!” the junior gunman barked, poking his weapon into Daniel’s ribs. Daniel obeyed the command and gently pushed Becky away.

  “What do they want?” Becky whispered in a quivering voice.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  The Talbots stood at gunpoint against the north wall of the Tell-Fara temple, the ancient and enigmatic structure that had consumed their lives for nearly five years. The temple was situated nine miles north of Babylon and eighteen miles southeast of Karbala, in an uninhabited area that had been known as Shuruppak in ancient Sumer. Twenty feet to their right was “the pit,” a large opening in the ground, which had started two years earlier as a modest ten-by-ten-foot test square. It now measured twenty by sixty feet at the surface and descended seventy feet into the earth along the north wall of the temple. The pit was reinforced with steel scaffolding, and the three exposed earth walls were covered with gunite (sprayed-on concrete) to prevent them from collapsing. The fourth wall was formed by the glazed bricks of the exterior north face of the temple, which extended downward at a slight angle, such that the pit became progressively narrower as one descended into it. At the bottom, near the base of the temple, it was just six feet wide.

  The gunmen conferred with each other in low voices, keeping their eyes and guns aimed at their hostages at all times.

  Finally, the lead gunman pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and began reading aloud, holding his rifle upward with one hand. “All perfect praise be to Allah,” he announced bombastically, “the lord of the worlds. I testify that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and that Muhammad is his slave and messenger.”

  “Oh shit,” Daniel muttered.

  “This is the ruling of Ayatullah Ahangari, long may he live, concerning the desecration of holy Muslim sites by infidels.”

  “It’s a fatwa,” Daniel whispered to Becky.

  “In the name of Allah the compassionate, the merciful, the prophet of mercy, Mohammad, son of Abdullah, may God bless him and his family, who was sent with a divine message that toppled the symbols of infidelity and polytheisms in order to elevate man’s status in line with angels and virtuous people. Whereas infidels desire to put out the light of Allah with their ignorance and their impure acts . . .”

  “Becky, listen to me,” Daniel whispered. “At the count of three, run toward the pit.”

  “What?”

  “Becky, they’re going to kill us! Run toward the pit, and don’t stop no matter what.”

  Becky nodded.

  “Whereas the infidels have joined forces with the corrupt and despicable government and its corrupt and disgraced leaders . . .” continued the gunman in an absurdly official tone.

  “One.”

  “Whereas the infidels have broken the sacred earth at Tell-Fara and defiled the sacred and holy monuments there . . .”

  “Two.”

  “ . . . it is God’s will that those who have perpetrated such crimes be punished by death and . . .”

  “Three!”

  Everything happened at once. In unison, Daniel and Becky darted toward the pit, Daniel grabbing her hand as they ran.

  The gunman in the ski mask screamed, “Therna!” and fired his weapon.

  The lead gunman dropped the fatwa, shouldered his weapon, and fired at the Talbots just as they leapt, feetfirst, into the pit.

  Two seconds later, Daniel hit the first wooden platform—ten feet below the top of the pit—landing awkwardly on his side. His left elbow shattered, sending a jolt of excruciating pain down the left side of his body. Everything was dark and spinning. But he could feel the weight of Becky’s body next to his, and she was . . . sliding. She was falling off the platform, he realized. He reached out with his right hand and caught her arm just as she slid off.

  Becky was now dangling from the uppermost platform, sixty feet above the bottom of the pit. Daniel had her arm, but he was losing his grip. And his other arm was numb with pain and totally useless. He looked down at his wife, who appeared unconscious.

  “Becky!” he screamed. But she neither moved nor responded. With every measure of strength remaining in his body, Daniel attempted to hoist her up with his right arm. He rolled over onto his left side as he did, causing his elbow to explode anew with pain. He had almost succeeded in pulling Becky’s limp torso across his chest when he heard a loud crack.

  In an instant, the wooden scaffolding gave way, sending Daniel and Becky falling another ten feet to the next wooden platform. Daniel hit the platform hard with his back and felt Becky’s arm slip out of his hand.

  He knew, instantly, that she was gone. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. His diaphragm had been paralyzed by the force of the fall. For a few seconds, he wasn’t sure if he could move at all. His body seemed to have shut down.

  Then came the gunshots. The first bullet ricocheted off the brick wall above him. The second splintered the edge of the platform he was lying on. Instinctively, he rolled away from the shot, toward the gunite wall. Another bullet whizzed past the platform and ricocheted somewhere below him. The gunmen couldn’t see him in the shadows, he realized. They didn’t know where to shoot.

  Thinking only of Becky, Daniel rolled over and forced himself, with incredible pain, into a crouching position. In agony, he lowered himself over the edge of the platform and onto the rickety steel-pipe ladder that led to the third platform. He nearly fell as he negotiated the first rung, for there was very little strength remaining in his right arm, and his left arm dangled uselessly at his side. Through sheer willpower, he held onto the ladder and descended, rung by rung, into the pit.

  The gunmen continued firing sporadic shots into the pit. Then Daniel heard their muffled voices
above him. Were they coming down after him? Terrified and desperate to reach Becky, he quickened his pace.

  At the bottom of the pit, he found Becky’s lifeless body on the ground. He knelt beside her and began to sob. For a moment, he forgot about the gunmen, the temple, the searing pain in his arm—everything around him except how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. And now she was gone.

  As he wept, the shamal whipped across the opening of the excavation pit, creating a low, ethereal moan. He heard a soft thud on the ground next to him.

  In the darkness, he could just barely make out the shape of the Iranian F–1 Fugasnaya hand grenade that had landed just inches from his leg. Frantically, he scampered backward toward the temple wall, though he knew the effort was futile. Seconds later, the grenade exploded.

  When Daniel Talbot regained consciousness, his first realization was that he had no sensation below his waist. Badly burned and suffering from grave internal injuries, he lay pinned beneath a pile of rubble. He was confused and in total darkness. Am I dead? he wondered.

  Then he saw a light. A single beam coming from somewhere behind him. It dimly illuminated his surroundings so that, for the first time, he could see where he was. And, for a fleeting moment—despite his grievous condition and the incredible pain he was in, despite the bastards with guns up above, and despite Becky’s death—Daniel Talbot smiled.

  He was inside the Tell-Fara temple.

  Daniel had theorized for over a decade that there were chambers inside the Tell-Fara temple. His academic colleagues, however, had harshly criticized that theory as absurd. It was widely known, they pointed out, that ziggurats are solid; they have no internal chambers. Ziggurats were not erected as tombs to house the mortal remains of beloved leaders. Instead, they were built as artificial mountains, erected of solid earth to bring an ancient people closer to their gods.

  Daniel knew all of that. But his theory was that Tell-Fara was not a ziggurat at all. And the presence of an internal chamber—which he now saw for the first time with his own eyes—proved that beyond a doubt. Moreover, he and Becky knew what the Tell-Fara temple really was.

  Daniel’s smile quickly faded as he realized that no one would ever know of his discovery. No one would ever know the truth about Tell-Fara.