The atlantean artifact, p.7
The Atlantean Artifact, page 7
As he sprayed and cleaned, he thought about the situation. He figured that the only reason the organization had hired a chemist rather than an actual janitor to do this job was that they needed his professional opinion of the remains upon entering the room. They didn’t just want 23 to be cleaned, polished, and shined back to its rock-walled and crypt-like state, they wanted to know if there was anything ‘out of the ordinary’ about the space.
And chemically speaking, anything ‘out of the ordinary’ in this case meant anything besides the mixture of vomit-and-fecal sludge and the hint of a chlorine-like smell, and to date he had not experienced anything besides that. The reports he would write up soon after completing the cleaning and reset tasks said as much, and because of the monotony of it, the isolation of it, he left each cleaning job with the minute feeling that he was wasting his life, his talents underutilized. Every now and then he even wondered if he’d come back the next time he was asked.
But he did come back every time. He knew that the job was far better than anything else he could get, and the work each night, while difficult, was short. A few hours a day and he was finished, and most days didn’t require a deep-clean of Room 23, but a simple tidying up of the rest of the subterranean facility. The salary was enough to keep him interested in coming back, but as a man with an interest in and a knack for science, he knew deep down that he was coming back every evening for another reason entirely.
He had been recruited to this job because of an affiliation with a particularly controversial religious group back in the States. Most people, at best, thought the organization was a bit uncouth. At worst, however, people protested their very existence. Rap was politically aligned with the group, but he’d never been one for public humiliation, so he tended to keep his involvement minimal, sidelined.
Apparently, however, the Prehistory Division of the Ministry of Antiquities in Egypt liked his particular brand of politics, as well as his background and education. They’d offered him far more than any other job he’d be able to find stateside, moving and living expenses, a car, and a retirement package.
And when he’d come aboard and learned a bit about what the organization he now worked for was trying to accomplish — what they were really trying to do — he understood the need for all the secrecy, the compartmentalization. He agreed with their premise, with their line of reasoning, and their projected outcome.
He’d drunk the proverbial Kool-Aid.
Sometimes he even thought he would be willing to sacrifice his time and energy for the cause, even without the attractive paycheck.
But that devotion, that loyalty, to the cause meant that there was a longing inside him to truly understand what it was they were doing with this little bell-shaped object. He had his theories — he was a scientist, first and foremost.
But he hadn’t had the opportunity to actually ask anyone what it was they were working on here. He knew the endgame, the final destination, but he didn’t understand this piece — his piece — of it all. He didn’t understand what, exactly, he was doing.
He wanted to know what the hell was going on in here — in Room 23. He had his theories, but without sufficient testing and time inside a laboratory, there was no way to know for sure.
He started cleaning, holding his breath as he sprayed the space with water and let the remnants and chunks drip and ooze into the drain.
CHAPTER 15
REGGIE
“Where are you now?” Reggie asked.
Sarah’s voice cut through the cellphone and into his ear. “Great Lakes. On assignment, but the students can keep it going until I get back.”
Reggie sighed. “That’s a hell of a flight, Sarah.”
“Well I’m not asking you to cover the airfare,” she said. He sensed her bristling on the other end of the line. “I just need help, and I don’t know who else to call.”
Reggie was in Anchorage, sitting in his sparse apartment staring at the television-turned-computer-monitor with the video chat in full-screen mode. The large video playback window made Sarah’s face far larger than it should have appeared, and the poor connection caused her face to jump and freeze between sentences.
“I know,” he said. “I was just making small talk. Sorry.”
He and Sarah Lindgren had a bit of a strained relationship. They’d met on an island off the coast of The Bahamas, working together through an organization called the Civilian Special Operations. Reggie was a member, but Sarah had been considered a consultant on that trip.
They’d barely survived, and Reggie and Sarah had both wanted to take their new professional relationship to a more personal level. Ever since their return from The Bahamas they had tried to make it work, but neither wanted to admit what both knew was true: they weren’t meant to be together. Sarah was restless and constantly wanted to move around, to do field research and publish papers, as well as speak at universities around the world.
Reggie was content in Alaska, helping his new organization get off the ground. The CSO was currently working on a massive renovation of his best friend and coworker’s private cabin, and it was nearing completion. A second wing and second story, complete with a brand-new communications facility attached to it, the CSO headquarters would be a perfect mix of all the things Reggie loved: high-tech, modern appeal in a reclusive and hard-to-reach location.
“It’s okay,” Sarah said. “I’m just scared, I guess. He — he’s gone. Why would someone take him?”
“We don’t know that someone did,” Reggie replied. “I mean this Interpol grunt didn’t really tell you anything, right? Just that they can’t find him?”
“He said my father was ‘declared missing’ roughly forty-eight hours ago.’
“So he just walked to the grocery store and got lost,” Reggie said. “It happens. He’s old.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Bad joke. Sarah, I want to help you. But I don’t even know where to start. And Mr. E is wanting to get us all together to talk about the future. Some multi-day meeting he’s trying to plan.”
Mr. E and his wife were their benefactors, the founders of and main investors in the CSO. They had recruited Reggie, his friend Harvey “Ben” Bennett, as well as Ben’s fiancée Juliette Richardson after hearing of their success tracking down a criminal organization in the jungles of the Amazon.
“I know,” Sarah said. “Just… there’s no one else I can call.”
Reggie sighed again. Dr. Lindgren was not just an acquaintance to him. She was more than a professional contact as well, and if it had been up to Reggie she would have been more than that still.
I’m not getting out of this one, he thought. He wasn’t sure Sarah was being rational, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Instead, he took the indirect approach.
“Sarah, how do you know he’s been kidnapped? I understand your father’s a smart guy, but how can you be absolutely sure he isn’t just on some self-proclaimed mission or something?”
“My father would have told me he was going into the field, or at least told his new girlfriend where he was going. And he wouldn’t have been gone for more than a night. Where would he even sleep?”
“And you hadn’t heard from him since before The Bahamas?”
He could sense a hesitation. Her pause wasn’t just silence, it was as if he could tell she was considering her next words carefully.
“He — he hadn’t called or anything, but he wrote letters. The last one I got was delivered right before I got the call from Interpol.”
Something in Reggie changed. A sense, a feeling. He wasn’t sure what it was, and it certainly wasn’t strong enough to act on just yet, but he knew himself well enough to know that it was worth his attention.
“It was definitely from him. He has a certain style to his writing that I would never mistake. But there was something else in the envelope besides the letter. He wanted me to figure out what it was.”
“Something else in the envelope?”
“A rock, or stone. A flat round cylinder with a protrusion on one of the sides and an indentation on the opposite side. Seems to be authentic at first glance, but I have no idea what it is or where it’s from, so it’s impossible to be certain.”
Reggie thought for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. “We have access to labs here, Sarah. If you could bring it back with you, maybe we —”
“I’m not leaving until I have a lead. My father is probably somewhere in Europe, so there’s no way I’m traveling back to Alaska just yet.”
“Understood. Maybe you can send the stone over then? Overnight shipping even? I’m sure the CSO will foot the bill.”
“No, Reggie. I want to examine it a bit more before I let go of it. It’s weird that he sent it to me in an envelope and didn’t just snap some pictures and email it over.”
“And it’s weird that you got the envelope at almost the exact same time as you got the phone call from Interpol.”
“You think they’re related?”
“I’ve been in enough sticky situations to know that coincidences are rarely just that — the letter and this item are probably at least a step in the right direction. At the very least, if you can figure out where it’s from, you have an idea of where your old man’s been.”
“That’s true. But I’m not an archeologist, and I can’t just wait around for a nearby school to get back to me. I need to expedite this, but I don’t want a bunch of academics peering over my shoulder.”
“You don’t have any friends in high places?” Reggie asked.
“Of course I do,” she responded. He could tell she was smiling as she spoke the next sentence. “That’s why I called you.”
CHAPTER 16
BEN
Ben paced around the living room in his tiny, one-bedroom cabin while he spoke. “Reggie, it just can’t work right now.”
Reggie’s face was enlarged on the television screen. Harvey ‘Ben’ Bennett’s fiancée, Juliette Richardson, had finagled the connection together and set up a small computer to be able to video chat with the other members of the CSO from the comfort of their living room.
Ben purposefully kept himself far away from anything tech-related, both from a desire to not ignite his already short temper and because Julie was so good at all of it. She was an ex-IT person for the CDC, and she had a background and education in computer science. Setting up a wireless access point and video monitor for communication was Greek to him, while Julie could do it in her sleep.
“It has to work,” Reggie said, onscreen. “She needs us.”
“I get that, and I want to help — I truly do,” Ben responded. “But you’re the one who wanted to figure out this skull business once and for all. What changed?”
The ‘skull business’ was a reference to a skull that Reggie had found after one of the CSO’s missions in Montana. The skull had been resting in a chest atop a map and a small fortune in Spanish silver. He had been urging the CSO to push the skull to the top of its priorities, citing the organization’s mission statement, which directed the CSO to focus only those priorities that were apolitical in nature and outside the realm of what the US military was capable or willing to invest in.
Reggie had been pushing for more and more resources to be thrown toward the skull, as he was very interested in both the skull’s history and significance as well as its unknown owner. He was a history buff, interested in the stories and lessons of the past, and ever since digging up the relic he couldn’t get it out of his head.
“The skull isn’t going anywhere,” he finally answered. “Sarah needs our help.”
“She’s not even in Sweden, where her father was taken,” Julie said from the couch behind Ben. She made a face at him, and he stopped pacing, plopping down into the armchair next to the couch.
“She’s somewhere in the Great Lakes region. Working on a university assignment or something.”
“I didn’t realize she’s still at a university.”
“She wasn’t clear,” Reggie said. “But she’s been trying to publish her opinions and findings about the incident in The Bahamas. Apparently a lot of her colleagues are up in arms about the last couple of papers on it, saying they were made up or at least ‘heavily embellished.’” Reggie made air quotes with his fingers as he said the last words, punctuating his annoyance with the academic establishment.
Ben swallowed. He vividly remembered the saltwater crocodiles swimming around him and the team. The one-on-one standoff with the alpha croc, the narrow misses.
And most of all he remembered the ones who didn’t make it out of the tank.
The nightmare had been real, and he had a strong urge to have a chat with anyone in the academic or scientific community who thought Dr. Lindgren’s assessment was ‘heavily embellished.’
“What do we know about her father’s disappearance?” Julie asked.
Onscreen, Reggie nodded. “He was reported missing about two days ago by a neighbor. He has a girlfriend, but it’s not apparent yet if she knows about it.”
“I thought he was married?”
“He is — or was, I’m not sure. But they’re split up. Interpol called Sarah to let her know the next steps, and they left it up to her whether or not to tell her mom.”
“And how far has Interpol gotten with the case?” Julie asked.
“They’re being unsurprisingly cloak-and-dagger about it all,” Reggie said. “Besides the initial phone call and email to Sarah, they haven’t given her an update. My guess is her father’s just a glossy 8x10 on a stack of folders on some jockey’s desk.”
Ben nodded in agreement. “Probably. But that doesn’t mean we can just rush in and take over the investigation. Besides the obvious overstepping of our civilian bounds, the CSO can’t be involved officially. Besides that, Mr. E wouldn’t ever let us take a case like this. We’re not private investigators, Reggie.”
“I know,” Reggie said. “But we don’t need Mr. E’s approval.”
That part was true. After their debacle off the coast of The Bahamas, Mr. E and his wife had called a debriefing meeting and the team collectively decided to change how their missions were determined: voting would take place, and quorum-plus-one would have to be met before launching any trip.
“Still,” Julie said. “Ben’s right. It’s not the sort of thing we need to be involved in, Reggie. I’m sorry. There’s nothing of historical importance associated with the mission. It’s in Interpol’s hands, and that’s probably for the best.”
Reggie’s large smile appeared. “Actually, that’s not entirely true.”
“What else do you know?”
“Sarah believes there is something significant about this mission.”
“Significant how?”
“She thinks her father was kidnapped, and the people who did it are trying to find something of massive historical significance.”
“Interpol thinks he was kidnapped?”
Reggie nodded. “That’s the working theory anyway. They’re still filing it under ‘missing persons’ until they have more — or any — evidence to the contrary. But Sarah is adamant.”
Ben could see that Reggie had been baiting them, pulling them both into this very moment. He had already decided that he agreed with Sarah. But Reggie’s personal feelings for the woman aside, he was an astute observer, and he wouldn’t allow their relationship to interfere with good decision-making.
So that meant that Reggie was already on board with this new escapade. Ben and Julie would have the impossible task of trying to talk their friend out of helping Sarah find her missing father.
Maybe we won’t have to talk him out of it at all, Ben thought. “What sort of significance? Give it to us straight, buddy.”
Reggie’s grin grew even larger. “She thinks they sent her their location — where they’re keeping her father — by way of ancient artifact.”
CHAPTER 17
REGGIE
The conversation continued later that evening, when Reggie finally made it to the cabin. Ben had grilled fish on the back porch, ignoring the two feet of snow piling up outside, and Julie poured them all a new white wine she had found in town. The three of them caught up, shared stories, and ate together before jumping back into the topic du jour.
Ben poured Julie another glass of wine and a glass of whiskey for himself and Reggie, then they found comfortable spots on the couch and armchair in the living room.
“I know Julie’s dying to know,” Ben said. “What’s this ‘significant thing’ that got sent to Sarah?”
Reggie cleared his throat and took a swig of the whiskey. It burned more than it should have. “What is this?” he asked. “More importantly, how much did you pay for it?”
Ben looked upset, but Julie laughed.
“There’s a homesteader about twenty miles down the road on the way to town,” Ben explained. “He’s starting to make moonshine. This is a corn whiskey he’s had going for a few months.”
“Well tell him to stop making it. I can feel myself going blind.”
“It’s perfectly safe, Reggie. Want another ice cube?”
“How about you fill the glass up with ice, add some water, and hold the whiskey next time?”
Julie cracked up, but Ben just pouted. “You don’t have to like it. More for me.”
“It’s all yours, bud.” Reggie squinted through the glass and examined the light brown liquid. He could see the wisps of fusel oils from the alcohol stirring up in the drink. Out of generosity, he held the glass up to his lips and tried another sip.
The second sip was even worse.
He coughed, beating his chest with a fist. “God, it burns. I don’t think you’ll ever have to buy lighter fluid again.” He turned to Julie. “Or nail polish remover.”
“I don’t paint my nails,” Julie shot back. “But we can light fires and have a makeup session later. I want to hear about this artifact.”
