Area 51: The Sphinx-4 (28 page)

The phone went dead. Turcotte turned to Yakov and relayed Duncan's information.

Yakov stood. "The KGB must have the Spear. I will find out."

"Remember what I said," Turcotte reminded him.

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"I will." Yakov walked off.

Turcotte flipped open the SATPhone and punched in a new number.

"Billam here."

"It's Turcotte. I'm sitting across the square from Lubyanka. Yakov is going in."

"This guy Quinn is pretty good," Billam said. "He got us floor plans for Lubyanka. We could land the bouncer right on the roof and work our way down. Any idea what floor you'll be on?"

"By the time you get there, if I need you, I'll know."

"We're locked and loaded," Billam said. "We can be airborne in thirty seconds and the pilot of the bouncer says he can get us there in thirty-six minutes."

"Let's hope you don't need to come," Turcotte said. "I want you to keep on top of Dr. Duncan also. Out here." He closed the phone and put it in his pocket, then checked his watch.

AREA 51

D- 17 Hours, 40 Minutes

Major Quinn walked up to Professor Mualama. "How's the translation going?"

"Most interesting," Mualama said. He reached into his backpack and pulled out the scepter. "I now know where this goes."

Quinn stared at the artifact. "That's Airlia."

"Yes. I found it in the coffin."

"Goddamn!" Quinn exploded. "When the hell were you going to tell us you had that?"

"When I knew what it was," Mualama said.

"We've been searching for the key to Qian-Ling and—"

"It is not the key to Qian-Ling," Mualama interrupted him. "I knew that from the very beginning. But what I

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didn't have to know is where it was the key to and if I could trust you."

Quinn had seen this before, in the dark days under Majestic. Information was compartmentalized—in this case the threat from Lexina—so much that those who had pertinent information weren't aware it was pertinent. Secrecy was sometimes a necessity, but always with a cost.

"And you know where it goes?" Quinn asked.

"Yes."

"Don't move." Quinn pulled out his SATPhone and called Duncan.

LUBYANKA, MOSCOW D- 17 Hours, 30 Minutes

"We have cooperated with United Nations Alien Oversight Committee as directed by our president and parliament," the man seated across from Yakov said. His name was Lyoncheka and he wore a very expensive suit, something that was not unusual here in the halls of the FSB headquarters these days. Yakov knew that the reason Lyoncheka could afford such clothes was that he had strong ties with the Mafia here in Moscow. It was the new way.

"It is your organization," Lyoncheka continued, "that was penetrated. It was your facility that was destroyed. Why do you come to me?"

"Because I believe the KGB withheld alien material and records from Section Four. Material recovered at the end of the Great Patriotic War."

Lyoncheka leaned back in his deep leather chair. His desk was huge, made of expensive wood. The windows behind him opened onto Lubyanka Square. It was on the third floor, which Yakov knew meant much prestige, because the office of the head of the KGB, now the FSB, was on the same floor, just three doors away.

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The KGB had changed its name to FSB, but Lyoncheka had the same look Yakov had always associated with the KGB. A thick, solid body that did not fit well inside the tailored suit, heavy-lidded eyes that rarely made direct contact, and a total lack of anything remotely resembling happiness in his features. The sort of man that would choke his own mother to death if it would advance his position and increase his power.

"The KGB no longer exists," Lyoncheka said.

"You have all the records from—"

"No, we don't," Lyoncheka interrupted. "Much was destroyed in the change of power from communism. We are a free country now. As such we cannot maintain the type of records the KGB used to have. And"—Lyoncheka smiled without any humor—

"there were many incriminating records that could not stand the light of day so the individuals who were mentioned in them spent many a late night shredding and burning."

Yakov was impressed that Lyoncheka could say that without the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. Yakov realized it was time to switch his approach.

Appealing to Lyoncheka as a member of the government was obviously futile. He would have to approach the man's more basic side, the part that worked hand in hand with the Mafia.

As with any other country, there had always been crime in the Soviet Union, and there was crime now in the new Russia. Yakov knew that under the Communists, the top criminals had been in bed with the government, their actions controlled.

If anything, since the change, it was now the government that was in bed with the criminals.

In the decade following the fall of communism, the Mafia had grown to the point where it rivaled the government for control of the country. Those who were smart—and ruthless—like Lyoncheka had seen the

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handwriting on the wall very early on. The previous year Russia had taken in a total of $60 billion in Western goods; over half of that had been imported illegally by the Mafia. Yakov knew that in the streets of Moscow, the murder rate was standing at approximately a hundred Mafia-related killings a day. And no one was being arrested for those crimes.

"I believe UNAOC would pay for any Airlia-related information," Yakov said.

Thick bushy eyebrows lifted in mock amazement. "Are you trying to bribe me?

That is a crime."

"I cannot bribe you," Yakov said, "because you say you do not have the information I am seeking. I just mentioned that UNAOC would probably pay for that information. It is you who are making the connection between that statement and yourself."

"Very cute." Lyoncheka leaned back and steepled his thick, sausagelike fingers. "I do not enjoy playing word games. Tell me, do you know who destroyed Stantsiya Chyort?"

"I do now. The Ones Who Wait."

Lyoncheka nodded. "It is a terrible shame. The Americans are having trouble also. Their Area 51 was attacked from the sky, was it not? And there have been reports of a nuclear explosion in the—what do they call it—their heartland? And one of their shuttles destroyed on the ground. Their government vehemently denies such stories, of course. I also understand their fleet off Easter Island has had some trouble?"

"I know nothing of any of that."

"But you want information from me?" Lyoncheka pulled a bottle out of a drawer and two glasses. He poured a generous amount into both. He shoved one across his desk, and Yakov picked it up.

"To Mother Russia," Lyoncheka proposed.

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"To Mother Russia," Yakov agreed, but his hand paused at Lyoncheka's next words.

"I do not think you put your country first."

Yakov put the glass down on the desk and waited for the other man to continue.

"You will toast our country, yet you work for the Americans."

"I do not work for the Americans," Yakov said.

"You let your Section Four comrades get killed, yet you immediately go to the American Area 51 instead of coming home. You seem in no desire to avenge the deaths of your comrades."

"There are larger issues," Yakov said.

"Larger than Russia?"

"Larger than Russia."

"There is nothing larger than Russia," Lyoncheka said flatly.

"The world is larger than Russia," Yakov argued.

"Not to me." Lyoncheka took a drink. "Not to me, comrade. I served the Soviet and I serve the new state, but it is all the same to me. The old women cleaning snow off their steps with whisk brooms, the children playing in the parks, the men working in the factories. I serve them." He abruptly changed directions.

"The Americans' Majestic-12 was infiltrated by these aliens, was it not?"

"Yes. Their minds were affected by an alien computer they uncovered at Tiahuanaco in Bolivia. They brought it back to their lab at Dulce in the state of New Mexico. It directed them to fly the mothership, working most likely because of a program that was activated when they uncovered the guardian."

"I know all that," Lyoncheka said. "Don't you think it highly likely that maybe some of our own people have also been so affected?"

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Yakov nodded. "I have always considered that a possibility."

Lyoncheka lifted his glass, unwrapped his index finger from around it, and pointed it at Yakov. "You think me, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"Would I know if I was?"

Yakov blinked. "I don't know."

"And if you were, would you know? Would I?"

Yakov didn't say anything. He wondered where this was heading.

"Section Four caught one of these human-alien creatures . . . didn't you?"

"Years ago," Yakov acknowledged. "It chose to die rather than be questioned.

We autopsied it and found evidence of cloning. And some nonhuman genetic material."

"Yes, but the others, the humans affected mentally by this guardian computer, they are not so easy to discover. They are just like you and me. The Americans had one on their shuttle crew who killed his shipmates," Lyoncheka said. "And then there are these Watchers—who blew up that other shuttle. So many groups, so many enemies. And now they are tightening the noose. The American President is threatening our president with retaliation if Stratzyda is used against his country, even though we no longer control the satellite and can do nothing to stop it.

"I am neither progressive, saying let us work with these aliens, nor am I isolationist, saying let us ignore them. You cannot ignore a threat. I am Russian. I say we fight them." Lyoncheka leaned forward and his voice dropped.

"But they are all around us. They have tried to get to me before. You can trust no one." A large meaty fist slammed down on the top of the desk.

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"To stop them we need something," Yakov said. "Something from the Archives."

Lyoncheka cocked his head. "What exactly do you need?"

"A key. With it we can stop Stratzyda."

Lyoncheka remained still for a minute before he spoke. "The Archives you look for exist. I can give you some help. But you must remember, Russia comes first."

Lyoncheka slid a piece of paper across the desk. "Meet me there, this evening."

AREA 51

D- 17 Hours, 30 Minutes

Quinn turned the scepter so that the ruby eyes glittered in the overhead lights of the conference room. It was not what von Seeckt had described. "It's heavy.

There's something inside."

Mualama nodded. "I suspect it is some sort of machine that functions as a key."

They both looked up as the door to the conference room slammed open and Lisa Duncan walked in. She had raced back to Area 51 from the Nellis hospital after getting Major Quinn's report that Professor Mualama had withheld an artifact—a key.

Quinn placed it down on the table, and Duncan picked it up. She wasted no time on recriminations. They had seventeen hours before Lexina's deadline.

"What do you think it opens?" she asked Mualama.

"I've made a barely legible translation of the marker. Knowing that this"—he tapped the scepter—"is a key pulled it all together."

Duncan had no more patience. "It goes to the lowest level of Qian-Ling?"

Mualama frowned. "Qian-Ling?"

"The tomb in China."

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"Dear lady, I know what Qian-Ling is. And there is a reference to China on the tablet." He pulled out a notepad and flipped through it. "Here. It says:

'Admiral Cing Ho—In the Year 2038—brought the power and the key. The power stayed. The key was passed on to the ones from the inner sea.' "

"Is this the key to Qian-Ling?"

"I do not think so."

Duncan closed her eyes to collect her thoughts. "What is 2038 from the Chinese calendar in the Western calendar?" she asked.

Mualama thought for a few moments. "Six fifty-six

B.C."

"Who was this Admiral Cing Ho?" Duncan asked.

"I do not know."

Duncan looked at the translation for a few seconds. "The power—could that be the ruby sphere we found in the Great Rift Valley?"

"Very likely," Mualama agreed.

"But if the Qian-Ling key was passed on"—Duncan tapped the scepter—"what is this?"

"A different key," Mualama said.

" 'A different key.' " Duncan sat down and put her head in her hands. After von Seeckt's disclosures, she had to force herself to focus. "One thing at a time. You say this isn't the Qian-Ling key?"

Mualama was patient. "No, I don't believe so. According to the marker, it is—"

Duncan held up her hand. "Okay. Do you know where the Qian-Ling key is?"

"If it is the key discussed on the stone," Mualama said, "it was passed on to those from the inner sea, which means the Mediterranean. In 656 B.C., that could be one of several groups of people. Rome was not yet founded, but the Greeks controlled a good portion of the Mediterranean. The Assyrian Empire, which ruled from Turkey

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along the crescent of the eastern Mediterranean to Egypt, was still in power, although its capital, Nineveh, was sacked not long afterward, in 612 B.C."

"In other words, you have no clue where the key mentioned on the stone went,"

Duncan summarized.

"That key, yes. Although I suspect there may be other ways to try to track it down."

"How?"

"This key might lead us to information that will lead us to that key,"

Mualama said. "In fact, this key may lead us to the truth. The entire truth."

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked. "If not Qian-Ling, What is the scepter a key to?"

"I suspect a room. A hiding place."

"A room where?" Duncan demanded.

"I believe it is the key to the Hall of Records."

"What Hall of Records?" Duncan asked.

"According to legend," Mualama said, "there is a hidden chamber that contains the entire lost history of mankind. Going back much further than our current recorded history. To the island of Atlantis and a fantastic kingdom on the island."

"We know Atlantis did exist," Duncan said, "so maybe this Hall of Records exists. But wasn't the Hall destroyed when Atlantis was blasted?"