The Fifth Codex (3 page)

The hobo woman raises her right eyebrow.  No doubt pleased to hear these frustrated thoughts escape my mind, that blank stare then turns into a sly smirk.

“Your fellow scientists are waiting,” she says in a syrupy sweet voice.  “Please follow me.”

As would a lost puppy, I tail behind the breakfast grinch.  Somehow, I can tell we are walking north, in the direction of the blue bubble.  The video to the tablet clutched in my left hand still on, I peer into it.

“I am busy, cannot make breakfast,” I mumble in misery and then turn the tablet off.  Positive the bagel is as cold as the plate, I do not even bother to check.

Why this and not a croissant with jam for heaven’s sake?  It is not as if she does not know I am French!

Recalling I am about to see Admiral Vanderbilt; with each step, my annoyance lessens and the excitement for my journey’s purpose grows.  During my lifetime of adventure, I have undertaken dozens of separate journeys much more dangerous.  Four codices already in my possession, this wasteland we call Antarctica promises the chance to reach for the fifth and most important one.  How to describe my desperate desire to grasp it – hunger without end, thirst to die for….

Oh, what shallow words are these!

Our surroundings remind me of the eerie tidiness I have already seen more than enough of.  Even for a borderline OCD sufferer like me – yes, it took quite a long run of therapy before I could admit this, thank you – everything is far too clean, as if dust and dirt do not exist in Antarctica.  About to pass by a much too modern disposal bin more befitting a futuristic movie than the bottom of the world, I stealthily dump both the bagel and plate into it.  Finally, we arrive at a door that appears as secure as the one that keeps safe my library in London.  It is also bigger than any other door I have yet to see.

“So
you
are the ‘other’ with access to the CIC,” I say enviously.  The hobo opens the access door, turns toward me, and actually smiles.  As she stuffs the access card into my hand ––

Did she just wink at me as well?

“No,
Madame
Rothschild … you are.  I depart within the hour and wish you a very fruitful expedition.  You can dispose of the other access card I gave you yesterday when you wish.  Just
maybe
,” her steady tone morphs into cheerful sarcasm, “it can keep your hot bagel and non-disposable plate company in the rubbish tin.”

With these words and my shocked look having only her wide backside to offer a reply to – a reply no amount of wit can dream up – she is gone.

As if just beyond the open door is a portal to another world, I peer through it.  With a few steps into the portal, this world then comes into view.  I practically tiptoe through the corridor and now stare wide-eyed at the many computers and gadgets that peek back at me.  Five pairs of human eyes stare back as well.

“There she is!” Admiral Vanderbilt bellows merrily as he leaps to his feet and bounds toward me to give me a squeezing hug.  I squeeze him back just as hard.  Only after he winces do I let him out of my giddy grip.

“Great to see you, Grandpa Van –,” I say quietly before speaking louder to correct my mistake, “I mean, thank you, Admiral Vanderbilt …
sir
!”

The other four men look at me as if they have not seen a woman in years –
they have not been stuck in Antarctica that long!

I suppose I am just a little prettier than the witty hobo breakfast grinch they no doubt have met as well.  Let known I am a woman of France, perhaps they expect a Parisian stick figure?  Sorry to disappoint if so, but I refuse to likewise spend my birthdays gorging on Big Macs whilst every other day of the year gagging on granola and apples.  Yes, I am a bit taller than most women are – okay, men as well – but I refuse to apologize for being a lifelong athlete and keeping my physical self as such.  Usually, however, decent, well-fitting clothes – always black – and my oddly round, friendly face disarm those men who have trouble keeping their eyes above my neckline.  Happily, at least for now, these strained stares have nothing to do with my appearance.

“Um … y’all know each other?” Dr. Chance Saddlebirch drawls.

He is the most youthful of the gathered five.  Even if I had not noticed his handsome felt hat, oversized silver belt buckle, and white button down shirt, from his accent, I know from where this cowboy hails.  Going for the John Wayne look I suppose, the renowned American linguist is close to halfway there.  Well-pressed jeans and boots owning too fine a shine in need of roughening up, however, fail to complete the look properly.  As well, his eyes brown, not blue, a few too many kilos around the middle, and needing a bit more height – maybe he is farther away than I first thought.

“Oh, how glorious – another Yankee!  And yes, we know each other quite well.”

“Gentleman,
this
is Alexys
Élisabeth
Rothschild … Vanderbilt,” the good Admiral announces.  “A little over a year ago, she married my eldest grandson, Philip!”  A pondering pause after these words does not last long.

“
Rothschild
?” growls a Russian as crusty as he is pale.  The very brilliant, very prejudiced Slav others had warned me of in my travels – but who I have yet to meet until now – takes a few steps toward me.  “Rothschild you say? 
The
House of Rothschild?”  Obviously, my marriage prowess does not impress our Russian peer.  Eyes the same color and coldness as steel do their best to burrow into me as if two biting drills he had molded himself.

“For the most part,
yes
,” I fire back through gritted teeth.  A good six inches shorter than me, Dr. Victor Korzhak is not a physically overpowering man.  His hard appearance, however, topped off with shoulder length grey-white hair tied in a ponytail make up for his lack of height.  This long hair failing to cover the deep scars on his forehead makes him look even scarier.

“Robber barons, war profiteers, sinners, and thieves the lot of you!  I was not aware this was some sort of club one could buy into!  This is a time and place for only the most brilliant minds, not another family scheme to plunder treasure,
Rothschild
.”

As Korzhak waves his hands and points his sausages as fingers in my direction, I notice instantly the missing little finger from his left hand.  But considering his harsh words, I feel no pity for him.

“No, Victor, no – you are wrong,” a British scientist named Dr. Alistair Ravensdale chimes in as he leaps to his feet.  “Pocket your prejudices, my friend!  Do it now!  She has more to offer this expedition on her own than do all of us combined.”

Dr. Korzhak lets out an angered sigh and plops down into a chair.

“Alistar is right, Victor,” Dr. Alfred Leitz adds.  “Our very welcome
Frau
Rothschild – she is the key to our entire purpose here.”

This dear old friend gives me a quick, welcoming hug and then walks back to his chair.  Dr. Leitz does not sit in it, but instead stands behind the raised back.  His handsome, near-mesmerizing baby blue eyes do their best to ensure others notice only them and not his round tummy and hairless, shiny head.

“Without a doubt,” Alfred continues, “despite her young age, she is one of the truly great hyperpolyglots alive today!  Born into a house of privilege, yes, this is true, but she has accomplished more over the last two decades than most do in a lifetime.  Aside from Dr. Saddlebirch,” he points to the smug cowboy, “she possesses a talent for languages the rest of us can only dream of!”

“It does not matter,” Korzhak protests gruffly.  “I still don’t see why ––”

“We are on the cusp of a great discovery, Victor!” the Admiral interrupts in a rude, but necessary manner.  “
That
is why she is here.  As Alfred has pointed out, Alexys
Élisabeth
is the key to opening a vault of discovery that just may redefine
everything
we currently believe of the world we live in.  What we search for could even provide clues as to what our future on this planet will be.”

As the Admiral begins to pace, those aside from me still standing now sit in their seats.  “English, French, German, Mandarin, Arabic, cuneiform – am I missing anything, Granddaughter?”

“Um … Egyptian and Mayan hieroglyphs, Linear A and Linear B … that should just about wrap it up,” I add cheerily while nodding my head.  I see no need to disclose my proficiency with Latin, Sanskrit, and Italian as well.

With barely a nod, Admiral Vanderbilt peers at the bitter Russian geologist.  “Your drill having already widened the core column, are the lights, cameras, and crane ready?  And for whoever goes down into it, do I have your guarantee this person will be safe?”

“
Da
,” Korzhak says softly after the deepest of breaths.  He speaks with a thick accent, yet is still easy to understand.  “The crane – it will be ready tomorrow.  No matter who goes into the hole, this person will be safe.  You will see.”

“Chance, have you anything to add?” Admiral Vanderbilt asks tersely.  His angry eyes meet the lounging cowboy’s vacant ones.

Maya script and hieroglyphs not just this man’s field – he
is
the field.  A boy who outwitted men, Chance Saddlebirch decoded the Maya language first!  I have my own talents, my own special equipment, but have never done
anything
like that.  Dr. Saddlebirch’s work taught me all I know about Mayan texts.  A life stuffed full of accomplishments beyond brilliant, his response is anything but.

“Nada,” he replies blankly.  “Something of interest in particular, can’t think of anything right now.”

The last drawled word barely out of Chance’s mouth, Victor Korzhak stands up and bolts for the door.  He stops once at the corridor leading to it and spins around.  “Tomorrow morning, the crane will be ready.  It will be safe.”  Out of sight through the corridor and out the door, Korzhak is gone.

A silent pause hangs over the large room for many awkward seconds as we take turns gawking at each other.

“Half my mind suggests that could have gone better while the other half tells me it all went rather well,” I blurt out forcefully as if no longer holding my breath.  “I am not sure yet which half to side with.”

Dr. Ravensdale stands, sighs a few times, and begins to pace a bit.  Victor Korzhak is a well-known geologist in the circles of his field, but many around the world know of Alistar Ravensdale.  He is really a geophysicist, not a geologist, but most have not a clue as to the difference.  To put into simple words the science of what makes our Earth such an amazing planet is easily his greatest gift.  So great, in fact, it ensures he appears on nearly every European television show needing someone to help explain the physics of our planet.  Although just a handful of years younger than the Admiral, Dr. Ravensdale is a dashingly handsome man with a witty charm to match.  A full head of flowing reddish-brown hair barely grey brings out the green in his friendly eyes.  To answer our questions his primary duty; his second duty – nearly as important as the first – is to keep his old friend, Dr. Korzhak, focused.

“Victor,” Dr. Ravensdale begins, “he has led a hard life.  Today, he appears as the crude, yet brilliant geologist we dearly need on this expedition, but there are more than two sides to consider, Dr. Rothschild.  His wife died a while ago, his only child, a son, never speaks to him … a war that should have killed him continues to carve scars into his heart.” 

“Knowing what war can do to a man,” the Admiral adds, “I try to be patient with Dr. Korzhak.  As we all have just seen, it is not so easy sometimes.”

Alistar Ravensdale nods his head in agreement.  “Please, no matter his mood, have patience with him.  Show mercy for a man whose soul is much more tortured than it deserves.”

Perhaps Dr. Ravensdale will someday tell us the story of this war and Victor Korzhak’s place in it, but not today.

After a thoughtful sigh, I nod and force out a small smile.  “It is much easier to harbor pity for someone who leaves a sweet taste in your mouth rather than a bitter one, Dr. Ravensdale.  Nevertheless, I will try.”

“We have little choice,” the Admiral says bluntly.  “His massive drill – wait until you get out there, Granddaughter – it’s like
nothing
you have ever seen before.  Inside the drilled hole, Korzhak lays down these crisscrossing fiber wires against the outer walls to help keep them frozen.  He invented both the drill and this wired, icy mesh.  You can say what you want about the rubbish spilling out of his mouth, but the man’s talents with a drill are priceless.”

Another bout of silence takes hold of the CIC once more.  The cowboy, how he shoots glances at me, but then looks away as I try to meet them, convinces me that he shares Dr. Korzhak’s mistrust.

“Alistar, will you join me for lunch?” Alfred Leitz asks.  “Dr. Saddlebirch, please join us as well.  I think Dr. Rothschild and the good Admiral could use a little time alone.” 

The trio, who cannot be anywhere near as hungry as I am, then make their way for me.  In turn, Dr. Ravensdale shakes my hand kindly with both of his, Dr. Leitz hugs me warmly once more, and Dr. Saddlebirch simply stands before me and stares.  After a few seconds, he curtly tips his hat, mumbles “Ma’am,” and follows the other two out.  Surprised by this, I continue to stare in the direction they departed for many seconds.

“Saddlebirch does not trust you,” Admiral Vanderbilt says finally.  “From where he hails, they mold men with better manners than that.  And you can be sure I will make him well aware I noticed.”