Threshold (45 page)

The conversation was interrupted by King’s voice in their ears. Rahim looked at them like they were insane as Bishop and Knight stopped everything and listened. Then Bishop turned to him. “You said the tower isn’t here?”

Rahim nodded. “We scoured the whole site with ground-penetrating radar. We found many exciting sites, but no ziggurats large enough to fit the profile of the Tower of Babel. But some of the team believed the tower lay elsewhere, outside of Babylon.”

“What is beneath the mound on the opposite side of the river?” Bishop asked.

The man’s head snapped up, his face excited. “We never got a chance to dig, but the archaeologists suspected it was the Hanging Gardens.”

“The Hanging Gardens,” Bishop said to Knight in English.

Knight relayed the information. “King, a man from the original dig is here. He’s saying that the Tower of Babel isn’t here, and that the site you’re checking out might be—”

A burst of static cut him off.

“King. King? Do you copy?” Knight looked at Bishop. The only reason King wouldn’t reply was if he couldn’t.

“Rahim, we need you to show us where this mound is,” Bishop said.

*   *   *

A HALF MILE
away on the opposite side of the Euphrates River, atop a mound of sand, the only trace of King’s presence was a divot in the earth. With each passing moment, the wind filled the hole with fresh sand. Less than a minute after King was sucked into the earth, no trace of him remained—except for his XM25 assault rifle.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Severodvinsk, Russia

THE CITY OF
Severodvinsk was not what Rook expected, not this far north. In some ways it reminded him of Portsmouth, New Hampshire—built on the coast, home to a submarine yard, featuring an old fishing culture still eking out a living—but Portsmouth’s population was closer to thirty thousand. Severodvinsk supported a population of nearly two hundred thousand.

Not that he minded the crowded streets. It made hiding in the open that much easier. Being a major naval hub, the city was full of military men, some in uniform, more in plainclothes. Despite wanting a stiff drink, Rook avoided the pubs and stuck to coffee shops, all the while searching for the one man who might be able to help him: Maksim Dashkov.

After leaving Galya’s cabin, he had hiked five miles before making it to a main route. Heading north, he caught a ride with a truck driver with a shipment destined for the sub yard. He’d been dropped off in the center of town an hour ago.

The coffee shop bell jangled as Rook entered. He smiled at the heavyset woman behind the counter and ordered a coffee. Black. He paid with money taken from Galya’s cabin and headed for a table. Halfway to the table, as though an afterthought, he asked, “Do you have a phone directory I could borrow?”

The woman nodded, bent down behind the counter, and reemerged with a directory.

Rook reached for it with a smile. “Thanks.”

But when he tried to take it from the woman, she held on tight. “One hundred fifty.”

One hundred fifty rubles was just a little over five dollars U.S., but it was still a lot for using the phone book. When Rook gave her a questioning look, she added, “Times are hard. People drink more vodka than coffee.”

Rook paid her and smiled. “I should have got cream and sugar.”

“Those are extra, too,” the woman said as he sat down with the phone directory. Thirty seconds later he had a phone number and address for Maksim Dashkov.

Rook stood to leave, but saw three men in uniform standing outside the shop. It was doubtful he’d be recognized, but on the off chance he was, he was in no condition to fight his way past two hundred thousand Russians.

He gave the woman at the counter his most winning smile and said, “How much for a phone call?”

The woman picked up the phone and placed it on the counter. “Five more.”

Rook gave her the last of his money, picked up the phone, and dialed. It was answered on the third ring by a man with a rough voice.

“Maksim Dashkov?” Rook said.

Suspicion filled the man’s voice. “Yes, who is this?”

“A friend of Galya’s.”

“Galya,” the man said in a whisper. “I haven’t heard from her in two years. How is she?”

Rook wasn’t sure how the man would respond, but he deserved the truth. “She’s dead.”

“Dead? How?”

“I can’t tell you that now,” Rook said, looking out the window at the three sailors. “But her dying wish was for you to help me.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then the man spoke. “Where are you?”

SIXTY-EIGHT

Babylon, Iraq

THE LAST THING
King remembered was looking down at his feet and seeing them disappear beneath the sand. He dropped his weapon as he reached out for some nearby brush, but was unable to reach it. Then he was in the earth, swallowed down and shat out. After falling ten feet, he struck his head on something solid and lost consciousness.

He awoke with a throbbing pain on the side of his head and a scratching thirst in his throat. Other than the colors dancing in his vision, he could see nothing. The pain grew worse when he remembered the last words he’d heard from Knight.

The Tower of Babel isn’t here.

If this isn’t the tower,
King thought,
then where am I?

In the darkness he found his small Maglite flashlight and turned it on, keeping its beam close to the stone floor. In the dim light he touched his hand to the raw spot of his head. He felt a sharp sting as the salt from his hand made contact with the wound. But there was very little blood on his hand, which meant the wound wasn’t bad.

He turned the flashlight on the wall and found a solid brown surface. Columns built into the stone rose from floor to ceiling every few feet, but appeared more decorative than supportive as they were hewn from the stone that made the wall. King aimed his flashlight up at the ceiling. It, too, was solid brown stone, but there was a sand- and stone-filled gap above him. More sand surrounded his body on the floor.

Standing over the weak spot, King had provided just enough pressure to loosen the sand. He’d been sucked down into the tunnel before it sealed above him again.

He stood with the flashlight in hand and looked for his rifle. Not seeing it, he remembered its fate.
Damnit,
he thought, and then drew his Sig Sauer handgun.

Leading with the light and gun, King walked down the tunnel. He wanted, more than anything, to find a way out and continue the search for Fiona, but what if Knight had been wrong? What if this was the Tower of Babel? He had to be sure.

He slowed as his flashlight revealed a large opening on the left side of the tunnel. He stopped at the corner and listened. He heard nothing, but the air smelled of stone, and something else.

Something fresh.

Something dead.

He chanced a glance with his flashlight and found a large open chamber. A clamshell staircase descended into a large atrium. A dried up tile pool sat at the center of the space. Large stone boxes descended on both sides of the staircase, filled with ancient soil. It was clear to King that they once held large plants or trees, and as he looked around the space, he tried to imagine it in its former glory. Flowers and trees surrounded the atrium. Water flowed from the lion’s head, into the pool. Sun shown down from above, warming the stone.

He looked up at the stone ceiling. It was smooth and unnatural. Then he realized this whole space should be full of sand. The desert had claimed the structure long ago, but someone had hollowed out the insides and fortified the ceiling somehow.

Not someone,
King thought,
Ridley.

He took the stairs to the atrium floor, which held a mural of a naked, bearded man; his arms wrapped around two bulls standing on their hind legs, whose faces and beards matched the man’s. Several marble statues stood around the outer perimeter of the space. They were tall and straight, hands clasped together beneath rigid beards. Their oversized eyes were inlaid with deep blue lapis lazuli.

Staring into those blue eyes, King felt a chill. Someone was in the room with him. Watching him. He could feel it. He scanned every corner, lit every shadow, but saw no one. His senses told him he was alone, but something else, perhaps a sixth sense, shouted otherwise.

Three arched doorways led out of the atrium, one to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead. Each was girded by ancient carvings depicting goats, lions, giant eagles with outstretched wings, and large lizards. After a quick check of the three exits, King hurried through the center tunnel, eager to leave the atrium and its sinister feel behind. The central branch led to a second staircase that descended deeper into the buried structure.

As he reached the bottom of the long staircase, King came to a large mural. It was faded horribly, but he could make out a glowing building covered with arches, staircases, and hanging plants and trees. Then he recognized the central atrium as the one he’d passed through. He took a deep breath through his nose as he realized he was standing inside the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

That same sniff also detected a foul odor. It smelled similarly to what he’d caught traces of in the atrium, but was much stronger. King rounded the corner in the next chamber slowly. The room was circular, surrounded by columns and tall statues similar to those in the atrium.

Detecting no movement or sound within the room, King moved inside. At the center of the room were several wooden tables. They looked old, but far from ancient. The dirty floor was covered in scuff marks. A glint of something shiny caught his attention. He squatted down and picked the object up.

Broken glass.

Modern
glass.

Then he saw more. Food wrappers. Discarded water bottles. A pile of discarded tea.
Definitely Ridley.
The man loved fresh tea. King knelt by the tea. It looked wet, but a quick touch revealed it was a dry and flaky mass. King kicked the tea, breaking it open and felt the core. Bone dry. Ridley had been gone for some time.

“Damnit,” King whispered.

A larger piece of paper caught his attention. It looked like it had fallen out of a notebook and slid beneath one of the tables, perhaps forgotten in a rush to leave. He picked it up and turned it over. The page had handwritten notes. King recognized Ridley’s handwriting. At the top of the page was written,
WHO IS HE???

Below that was a series of quick chicken scratch notes. He was able to pick out a word here and there:
ancient, god, historical figures, human (?), lost, the bell, dimension, Hercules(?).

King paused. Ridley was trying to identify Alexander. With the name Hercules on this page, he seemed to be doing a fairly good job. Part of King wished more was revealed on the page, and another part didn’t want the answers. King folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket. After someone deciphered Ridley’s handwriting he might glean more from the page.

He stood and looked down at the tabletop. What he saw twisted his stomach and locked his feet to the ground. Part of him was thrilled because it meant he was on the right track. But the shattered remains of Fiona’s insulin pump also filled him with dread. When did it break? If it happened days ago she could already be close to death. How did it break? The thing looked smashed. If she had been wearing it when this happened, she could be seriously injured
and
hyperglycemic. King picked up the fractured device and squeezed it, turning his knuckles white. He was so close.

An echoed sound rolled into the chamber. Distant and organic. A high-pitched whine. Had something heard him? And if so, what was it? The sound came again. King strained to hear it clearly.

It sounded like a girl.