James Barney - The Genesis Key

The GenesisKey

James Barney

TO KELLEY

with love

Contents

September 5, 1979. Tell-Fara, Iraq.

D aniel 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 werent 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 southwestbuffeted Daniels 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 AK47 assault rifle at Daniels chest. They stopped a few feet away.

Both men were taller than Daniel, who was just shy of six feet. And, unlike most Iraqis hed 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 Talbots 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 gunmans 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 AK47, 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.

Daniels heart sank as he listened to the mans shuffling feet disappearing down the rocky path.

On the other side of the hill, Daniels 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 theyd 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 AK47, now held loosely against the lead gunmans 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 hed been dreading. Beckys voice in the distance, a mans voice, then Beckys again. A car door slammed loudly, and Daniels 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. Its okay Becky, Im 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 didnt understand his reply. Yes... Director Sargon knows us. Whatever the problem is here, Im 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 Daniels ribs. Daniel obeyed the command and gently pushed Becky away.