Chapter 3

“Another late night, Miss Zafrini? Maybe you need to schedule some other sort of nocturnal activities.” Hank flashed a crooked smile over the top of his Maxim magazine and winked.

Dima forced a smile. She knew the middle-aged security guard to be harmless and that his attempts at flirtation were intended to be flattering, yet it galled her that she had to put up with it. She had complained about him before and gotten nowhere. Even now, in the twenty-first century, working at a major university, she was still expected to take his clumsy overtures as complimentary rather than creepy.

“You know me, Hank. Too busy for any of that foolishness.” She hurried out the door before he could make one of his usual comments about her long legs, glossy black hair, big brown eyes, or olive complexion. He had actually reached his peak the previous evening when he assured her that he knew Jordanians were not terrorists. “Freaking redneck,” she muttered as the door slid closed behind her.

Outside, the humidity wrapped around her like a blanket. Even at nine o’clock at night Atlanta was a veritable steam room. Oh well, she’d known what she was getting into when she moved here, but the position in the university’s archaeology department had been too good to pass up. Or so she had thought.

Inside her battered Honda CRV, she blasted the air-conditioning and the new Volbeat album in equal measure and spent the drive home cursing her lazy department head who kept dumping his projects on her so he could spend time “training” his new grad assistant. Rumor had it, tonight’s instruction was taking place at the Marriott Marquis. She had considered tipping off his wife but she had no idea under what name he booked his room. Besides, his marriage wasn’t her problem. She had enough concerns of her own to be getting on with.

By the time she reached her apartment she had tired herself out and a dull feeling of discouragement had settled upon her. Perhaps she should move back home. At least there she’d be around friends and it would get her mother and father off her back.

Passing through the empty lobby, she checked her mailbox and was surprised to see among the circulars and credit card offers a small box with no sender’s name or return address. She wondered what it might be. She never received mail from home, much less packages. Her parents had finally mastered the Internet and now did their pestering through cyberspace.

The box was light; so light, in fact, she wondered if it might be empty. She gave it a shake but heard nothing. Weird.

Her apartment was decorated in a style she liked to call “too busy to care.” The sofa, her lone piece of living room furniture, faced the television set which she hadn’t gotten around to removing from its box. As long as she set it up in time for football season, she would be fine. A single, framed photograph hung on the wall — a family portrait from her teen years. Four faces smiled back at the camera. She didn’t like to look at it, hated to in fact, but she displayed it out of a sense of obligation.

In the kitchen, luxuriously furnished with a card table and two folding chairs, she tossed the junk mail in the garbage, poured a glass of red wine, and contemplated dinner. Cold pizza or salad from a bag? It had been a long day and even tearing open a plastic bag felt like far too much effort. Pizza won out.

Sitting down at the table, she pushed aside the half-finished puzzle she’d started on Valentine’s Day when her date stood her up, and carefully opened the box. Inside, encased in layers of bubble wrap and pressed between two sturdy squares of cardboard, she found a Glassite envelope containing scraps of old vellum covered in faint writing, and a note. She took a bite of pizza, grimacing at the cardboard texture of the stale crust, and began to read.

Dima,

I know this isn’t the proper way to care for or transport an ancient document but I needed to get it to someone I trust, someone who can work on it with me. You’re an expert at this. I have one more stop to make, but I’ll get to you as soon as I can. Feel free to begin working on it. I think you’ll find it’s right up your alley. Have fun!


Robert

Robert Crane was an old friend and colleague. She hadn’t seen him for years and was surprised he even knew her current address, much less setting her a task without first touching base. And what was up with this note? Robert had never been the secretive type, but this message was maddeningly vague. Maybe it was a prank. When translated, the fragments inside the envelope would probably spell out an insult. That would be more Robert’s style. She could still hear his infectious laughter. The man loved his jokes. Oh well, she could use a laugh.

She held up the envelope and examined the sheet inside. Her heart began to race. If the document was a fake, Robert had outdone himself. A quick inspection with a magnifying glass convinced her that this was the genuine article. Warming to the challenge, she grabbed her laptop, a pad, and a pen and set to work. A few minutes later she had already translated a few phrases.

called the name of that son Noah … began to multiply on the face of the earth … in the earth in those days, but they were not of man…

So it was something from the Bible. More accurately, something extra-Biblical. She knew the book of Genesis contained no story of Noah’s birth. It came to her in a flash and the breath caught in her chest. Her slice of pizza slipped from numb fingers to fall forgotten onto a paper towel.

“It couldn’t possibly be. There’s just no way.”

She hastily typed the phrases into her web browser, took a deep breath, and tapped the enter key. The search results left no doubt.

“Robert,” she whispered, “if this is a joke, you are a dead man.”

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