Gorgon

CHAPTER 12

The front door opened and the Turkish policeman was led in, looking confident and brash. Borshov hung back in the shadows of the darkened room and examined him: young, handsome, shiny wedding ring — perhaps he had been passed over for an expected promotion, or had a new wife who liked gifts that were a little beyond his policeman’s wage. A little extra spending money might be welcome.

Borshov moved out of the shadows, and the young man stepped back, his face immediately losing its grin.

The giant Russian stuck out one enormous hand. ‘English?’

The man nodded warily, ignoring the Russian’s hand. ‘English … a little.’ He held his finger and thumb about an inch apart.

Borshov nodded. ‘Good. We must hurry. Please sit and make comfortable.’ He motioned to one of two heavy wooden chairs his men were bringing into the room. ‘Tea, coffee?’ he asked the policeman and raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes; coffee.’ The man sat down with legs splayed, confidence returning to his young athletic frame. He grinned. ‘This … ah …’ He sniffed as he searched for the right words. ‘This secret information is gold for you, yes?’

Borshov shrugged, then laughed darkly. He held up a thick wad of Turkish notes. ‘Gold for us, and maybe gold for you, da?’

The policeman allowed his turned-down lips to express his disappointment at the sum of money. ‘I could lose my job or go to jail if anyone finds out I tell you this. I think is very high value … maybe to others as well.’

Borshov smiled, dragged the other chair closer to the man and sat down facing him. One of Borshov’s agents brought a single mug of steaming coffee and held it out.

Borshov raised his eyebrows. ‘Hot?’

The agent nodded once.

‘Good.’ Borshov threw the boiling liquid into the young policeman’s face, eliciting a howl of surprise and pain.

Immediately a Spetsnaz agent grabbed his shoulders and held him in the chair. The policeman’s hands were over his face, and his skin had turned an angry red. His screams turned to sobs. ‘My eyes.’

Borshov nodded and his men grabbed the man’s hands away from his face and held them flat against the chair’s wooden armrests. In a few savage motions, they drove large nails into each hand, pinning them flat.

Borshov threw the empty cup to the side of the room and sat forward, gripping the man’s knees. ‘So, I think you might lose more than your job today, da?’

The man moaned and tried to hunch over, but Borshov’s men now held him securely in place again, as did the thick nails spiking his hands.

The big Russian patted one of the man’s knees. ‘Okay, no more playtime. We understand each other good now, okay?’

The policeman sobbed again, but nodded.

‘Good. Now, you tell me everything about the attack on your police, and the weapon that was used.’

Within fifteen minutes Borshov had what he needed. He knew that the man the Turks believed responsible for the attack was also killed — some sort of petrification disorder. Whether it was caused by a radiation, biological, or chemical weapon was still unknown. He stood in the front doorway, watching the dark street. Muffled screams still emanated from inside, but he knew anything else that dribbled from the man’s mouth would be less reliable and more a result of the madness caused by pain. He puffed on a cigar, and blew a plume of smoke out into the dark. The man responsible, Janus Caresche, an antiquities thief, had gone down there looking for something.

Borshov grunted. ‘Found more than you bargained for, da?’ His laugh sounded like two metal plates grating against each other.

He dropped the cigar and ground it out. He would contact his command, and find out more about this man and what he was looking for deep down in a 2000-year-old drain.

Matt Kearns tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t help staring at Sam. His head turned from the hulking HAWC to the computer screen, back to Sam, and then back to the screen, as if he couldn’t quite make his mind up what to do next.

He cleared his throat. ‘You look … well.’

Jack Hammerson smirked. Sam just nodded.

‘You’re standing … by yourself,’ Matt went on. ‘And I heard you …’

Sam half-smiled. ‘The wonders of science, Professor.’ He motioned to the screen. ‘We got work to do.’

‘O-kay.’ Matt swiveled back to the computer and the images. ‘And this was recently found written, um, scratched into a wall in a newly discovered chamber beneath the Basilica Cisterns of ancient Constantinople?’ Matt rubbed his temples as he frowned at the computer screen. ‘You know, this new antechamber could be 2000 years old … or even older.’

Hammerson remained silent, watching the languages professor examine the data. He knew the young man hadn’t wanted to come, but he’d personally pulled the guy out of a pretty sticky situation in the Appalachians last fall. Kearns owed him. Normally, Hammerson kept those kinds of debts on ice, but he needed the man’s expertise, and he needed it now.

The professor pushed his long hair back from his face and shook his head as he read the Turkish notes. ‘Nope, nope, nope — not Zoroastrian. It doesn’t have this tight curling form, and its glyphs are more like Egyptian.’ He half-turned to Hammerson. ‘Way too sophisticated for Sumerian either. Who wrote these notes — some grad student?’ He shrugged. ‘However, I can see a lot of similarities to proto-Greek … Still, there’s too much circular imprinting of the letters that doesn’t exist in that early alphabet.’ He sat back. ‘As for it being nonsense, I can tell you right now, that’s wrong. It’s a language, all right.’

Jack Hammerson walked around the desk to stand directly in front of Matt. ‘If it’s a language, you can decipher it, read it, right?’

Matt shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He looked back at the screen. ‘I’m not surprised they thought it might be an early form of Greek … I think they were close. Look, this is right out there, and just my own view … but I believe it could be Eteocretan, or perhaps even an authentic representation of Minoan, and if it is —’

Sam scoffed. ‘Minoan? Theseus and the Minotaur Minoan?’

Matt turned. ‘Got a better suggestion?’

Sam held up his hands. ‘Not yet.’

‘Well, let me know. And everyone knows those pumped-up Hollywood stories, but that was only one of their legends. They had mermaids, Cyclopses, Gorgons, dozens of light-and-darkness-dwelling entities — Crete is riddled with limestone caves that were inhabited for tens of thousands of years. In fact, the first real humans left traces there as far back as 130,000 years ago … that’s Paleolithic. On other continents, Neanderthals were still cracking heads with bone clubs.’ Matt sat back and folded his arms. ‘It was a strange thing. The Minoan civilization, one of the mightiest in the world, simply collapsed, and no one really knows why.’ He indicated some of the strange markings. ‘Whoever wrote this into the wall was a scholar of antiquities or a specialist in paleolinguistics — and I mean a real specialist. No one has spoken this language for about 5000 years, and only a handful of people in the world would even know what it is.’ He glared at Sam. ‘With even fewer being able to read it.’

Sam slapped him on the shoulder, making Matt wince. ‘And I’m betting you’re one of them?’

Matt rubbed his shoulder. ‘Ouch … Yes, but not well, and mainly by fluke. My first languages professor was captivated by Minoan art and culture, and taught me how to appreciate it, first, and understand it, second.’

Hammerson looked hard at Sam. ‘It’s okay, Matt — we appreciate and value your opinion. Where’s your professor now?’

‘Dead, I’m afraid.’ Matt sat back. ‘You could try Professor Gerhard Reinhalt in Germany, Doctor Francis Lin Bao in China, whereabouts unknown, or maybe the great Margaret Watchorn in England. She’s pushing ninety, but she’s recognized as the pre-eminent Minoan expert living today.’ He tilted his head. ‘She’s also the undisputed expert in their theological mythologies.’

Hammerson grunted and shook his head. ‘No, we’re happy to have you assisting us.’ He began to pace. ‘So, the million-dollar question — what does it say?’

Matt turned back to the screen, and adjusted the contrast and magnification. ‘Unfortunately, it’s what we call Linear-A form — classed as near unreadable. Basically, all we can do is take the later Linear-B form and use the Greek Euboean-derived alphabet as a guide. Not perfect, and far from exact.’ He sucked in a deep breath, and after a few moments shook his head. ‘Not a lot that makes sense, but from what I can make out it says: Fear is risen again, children of Zeus, slayers of …’ He turned. ‘Children of Zeus — that’s us by the way. According to ancient Greek mythology, we mortals were created by Zeus when he gave us the Earth as our home.’ He turned back to the writing. ‘… shall be forever locked in stone … Magera will consume … Hmm, Magera, that rings a bell. Obviously ancient Greek, but can’t place its significance.’

Hammerson stopped pacing. ‘That’s it?’

‘Pretty much,’ Matt said. ‘The rest is either undecipherable or obscured. Some of the words could be slightly wrong, but that’s the gist of it.’

Hammerson grunted. ‘Not a lot to go on.’ He paced some more. ‘Another question for you. Janus Caresche — heard of him? Could he understand it? Write it?’

Matt scoffed. ‘Janus the Anus … sure I’ve heard of him. He’s a liar, a thief, and an asshole. The guy’s responsible for the theft of dozens of high-value artifacts all around the world. He’s rumored to have removed an entire wall of Egyptian crypt art. He’s got a bounty on his head, and he’s —’

Hammerson held up one hand. ‘Okay, we get it, he wasn’t a great guy … but was he capable of writing it?’

Matt shook his head. ‘Absolutely not, no way. Understand it? Still no way. Could someone like Caresche recognize it? Maybe … that’s his job. He could have copied it from another source, I guess, but why would he?’

Hammerson shrugged; he didn’t have any answers.

‘I’d love to send some of this to Margaret Watchorn,’ Matt started, but Hammerson shook his head. ‘Okay, well then … next option is I need to see more. If you can get me more shots, maybe different angles, I might be able to be a little more conclusive.’ He looked at the writing again. ‘Interesting thought … it could be a warning. But if so, why write it in a language that hasn’t existed for thousands of years? That’s what’s so weird; whoever wrote this went to a lot of trouble to make sure it only a few people could ever read it.’ He looked up, his face excited. ‘Or they assumed more people could understand it … Fascinating, and intriguing. I’d love to see more.’

Hammerson was pacing again. He still didn’t have enough information … yet.

He heard Matt snort, then the professor said softly, ‘I’ll tell you one thing. If Caresche was down there, he wasn’t there as a tourist — he was after something. I wonder if he found it.’

Hammerson turned, frowning. ‘You think he went there for something specific — an artifact?’

Matt nodded. ‘Like I said before, that’s his job. He went down into those catacombs with a brief. That’s how he works. I think he was filling an order for someone; you just need to find out who that was.’

Hammerson looked at Sam, and the big man smiled in return. ‘Yeah, we can do that.’

‘Make it happen, Lieutenant,’ the HAWC commander said, then turned back to see Matt leaning in close to the screen, his forehead creased. ‘What is it — you got something else?’

Matt leaned back a few inches. ‘Maybe … something weird. Check this out.’ He enlarged one of the characters that had been gouged into the wall. Hammerson and Sam crowded in close. ‘You see that? Just at the edge of the letter stroke?’

Hammerson shook his head.

Sam pushed Matt along and took over the keypad. ‘Let me do this.’ He opened a box around the character, and the computer immediately zoomed in and digitally cleaned up the image.

Jack Hammerson leaned forward and squinted. There looked to be a few quarter-sized chips or flakes stuck into one of the grooves in the stone. ‘What is that … a fingernail?’

Matt shook his head. ‘That’s what I thought, at first. Call me crazy, but I think a hand of sorts made these marks.’

‘Jesus, what sort of hand could make those gouges … in solid stone?’ Sam said, tidying up the resolution even more. The objects came into sharper focus.

Hammerson frowned at him. ‘You’re showing me how you do that before you get outta here, Reid.’ He stared at the image. ‘Could be nails. But I think you’d lose more than just a few of them if you raked your hand down a solid wall.’

‘You’re right; so I don’t think they’re nails at all,’ Matt said softly. ‘I think they’re scales. See the uniform size? But thick, like armor plating.’

Sam grunted. ‘Makes sense; there’s carp in the cisterns. Maybe they —’

‘Nope. That’s not a fish scale. I still remember my senior biology classes. C’mon, think, Sam.’ Matt nudged the big HAWC. ‘Fish have scales embedded into their dermis, deep but thinner; they also have slime glands. These babies are more rounded, thicker, and there are growth marks. I bet if we got a better look at one of those, we’d find it was pure reptilian keratin. Reptile scales actually grow like hair.’

‘What sort of reptile?’ Sam frowned, and folded his huge arms across his chest.

Matt snorted, and swung around in his chair. ‘Well, I’m not talking alligators in the sewers. I’m betting this is a reptile that knows Minoan, and, according to where these scales are located, stands about seven feet tall.’

Hammerson clapped his hands together. ‘Good work, Matt. Good information. I agree with what you said before — it is fascinating and intriguing. Hang around for a day or so, and we might have something even more interesting for you.’ He pointed to Sam. ‘Lieutenant, find me Caresche’s paymaster.’

The Uşak rug bazaar was one of the largest in the country, with buyers coming from neighboring provinces to select the best, which they would sell internationally at greatly inflated prices. Before dawn, hundreds of sellers crossed the Lydian Cilandiras Bridge over the Banaz Stream, to compete for space in the bazaar and for the buyers’ attention. It was still dark, but soon the sun would rise, and the cacophony of hawkers’ voices, haggling traders, and playing children would turn the park-like grassland into a riotous circus of sound and color.

Halim watched his mother and grandmother unroll a pair of enormous rugs, their best. Pressure was on all of them to sell their wares early and then be off home. There was death about, a grotesque illness sweeping the countryside. The whispers hinted that the army had collected the bodies of the afflicted, and whole families, whole towns had been wiped out. The newspapers had urged people to stay indoors. A djinn, his grandmother had whispered knowingly. Other old women had picked up the word, and made the sign of the evil eye over their faces, so the devil would not see them this day.

Halim’s mother held his shoulders tight and stared into his face as she laid down the law to him: he was to stay close to her or his grandmother. Halim hummed and drew on the ground with a stick, watching his mother smooth the rug’s edges, and then work with a fine pick to adjust any thread that dared to lift its head above its brothers. He knew why she paid the rug such fussy attention — it took many months to weave, dye, and then dry, but a single sale could deliver enough money to keep the family comfortable for the next half-year.

Bored, Halim said he was going to have to pee, and headed off to the tree line. Once out of sight, he changed course and instead made for the bridge. His mother would scold him if she knew, and his father would more than likely thrash him for disobeying her. But this time of year, snakes, frogs, salamanders, and all sorts of wonderful creatures came out to bask in the day’s warmth. If he could catch one, it would keep him amused for the entire day.

He leaned over the side of the bridge, and waved at his dark reflection. He had the stream to himself, save for several large dragonflies, about a thousand chirruping crickets, and a few small birds warbling in the trees hanging over the water. There was a chill on the back of his neck — cold, but not unpleasant. Halim had collected a handful of stones, and now he dropped them one at a time into the cool swirling water, causing a few minnows to dart out of the reed banks to investigate, before vanishing in flashes of silver and green. He hummed tunelessly in the pre-dawn. He knew if they didn’t make a sale early, they would be there all day and long into the warm evening, before grandfather came with the truck to carry the three of them back home for a late supper. Until then, it was dry flatbread with pickle jam — luckily, he liked pickle jam.

As he watched the water, chin on his hand, the air misted and became cooler — like smoke lazily drifting across the stream surface to dull its sparkle. He looked skyward, expecting to see clouds pulling across the sky — which would be a tragedy for his mother, and all the rug sellers. Three hundred and sixty-four days a year they prayed for rain, but on the day the rugs were unfurled in all their brilliant dyed glory, they prayed for it to be dry. Today there were no clouds, just the same thin mist drifting in from the east. He squinted; it seemed thickest down the road, as if his grandfather’s truck was backing up, blowing exhaust fumes. But there was no truck, no noise, and even the birds and crickets had grown quiet.

Halim angled his head, his face creasing as he concentrated. In the center of the rolling mist, something was taking form, rising up, solidifying, a dark center appearing as if the cloud was denser at its core. The shape was tall, moving toward him, but gliding rather than walking. He grimaced, rooted to the spot. Something about the dark mass instilled dread in the pit of his stomach.

‘Hello?’ His voice was weak, betraying his nervousness. Speak like a man, his father would have said. Halim regretted wandering away from his mother and grandmother. He had the urge to turn and flee, and not stop until he was hugging his mother. But he couldn’t move.

The mist began to clear, and just as the form became a figure, something warned him to look away. He spun, crushed his eyes shut, and placed his hands over his face. He leaned far out over the bridge, holding his breath while he waited. He could feel it now, freezing cold on his back, every hair on his body standing erect, his skin prickly with goose bumps. There was no sound; it was like he had stuffed cotton in his ears, the air muffled and silent around him.

He couldn’t take it any longer and opened his eyes, looking down into the stream. He saw himself in the water, and looming up behind him, something so monstrous, so horrible and terrifying, that he immediately voided his bladder into his trousers. He felt bile in his throat and an explosion of pain behind his eyes. The warmth down his legs unlocked his stricken throat and he found his voice, screaming so long and loud he thought he would never stop.

He did, when consciousness left him.

When he awoke, his head hurt, and there was a needle-like pain behind both eyes. His senses slowly returned — he felt the sun hot on his face; he heard the stream slipping by underneath the bridge, crickets singing, dragonflies zooming about, their iridescent wings and green eyes like tiny jewels.

Halim had never owned a wristwatch, but the sun was well above the horizon — hours must have passed. His mother would skin him alive. He got to his feet, staggered a few steps, then began to run, back along the path, through the trees and into the bazaar. But instead of the swirling dust, riot of color, and noise of hundreds of people haggling, fighting or laughing, there was nothing. A silence so total, he had to rub his ear to make sure he hadn’t been struck deaf.

‘Mama? Nana?’

People everywhere, but all so still. Some were lying down, others were kneeling or sitting, many with hands thrown up trying to shield their faces. Halim saw that all were a ghastly white, even their eyes were the bleached blankness of dry sand.

He found the small square of ground marked out by the beautiful reds and blues of the rug dyes his family preferred. Mama was there, sitting crosslegged, one arm out, the other hand over her face. Nana was kneeling, tiny as always, her hand in front of her face, warding off the evil eye. It hadn’t worked.

‘Mama?’ He touched her — she was as hard as stone.

He nudged his grandmother, and she toppled over, her body remaining in its pose, stiff and unbending.

Halim crouched next to his mother and edged in under her outstretched arm. ‘I’m sorry, Mama. I fell asleep. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

His head ached terribly as he leaned against her, feeling the hardness under her clothes. The familiar feel and smell of her, of her warmth, perfume, and love, was gone. A tear rolled from his cheek, to splash onto her leg. It dried quickly on the stone.

‘One survivor.’ Kemel Baykal leaned forward on his knuckles, hearing them crack against the wooden desktop. ‘One fucking survivor, and over 2000 dead.’ He spat the word distastefully. ‘Turned into stone, who knows how, by something we can’t see and can’t find.’

‘The Land Forces have been mobilized,’ began the soldier who had brought the report.

‘No.’ Baykal shook his head. ‘No, have them stand down. We could just be sending thousands more to the same fate. Find it, tell me what or who it is, and what weapon it’s using. Then we can send forces to engage it.’ The big commander walked to a window and stared out at the Special Forces training grounds. ‘We must know our enemy first.’

He returned to his desk and picked up the cup of coffee sitting there. ‘How many helicopters have we in the air?’

‘Eighty-two, sir. Also seventeen spotter planes, but as yet they have found nothing.’

Baykal took a sip of the thick, dark liquid. ‘Three hundred thousand square miles of country, and we have under 100 sets of eyes in the air looking for it.’ He turned back to the window. ‘It covered 170 miles in a single day. We thought they, it, was on foot, but it’s moving too fast.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘That is, unless we now have two of these … things wandering our countryside. And the attacks are getting larger.’ His jaw clenched, the words hissing out between his teeth. ‘What is it?’

The soldier stayed mute.

Baykal bared his teeth. ‘What is it? What is killing us?’ He threw his cup across the room, and it shattered on the wall. An explosion of dark coffee ran slowly to the carpet. He rubbed his forehead with one large hand, then, as if remembering he wasn’t alone, looked up. ‘Dismissed.’ He turned away, then spun back. ‘Wait. I want Doctor Layla Ayhan to attend to the survivor. Tell her I’ll join her when the boy is able to speak. I need answers, quickly … any answers.’

The soldier closed the door as he exited. Kemel Baykal sat down heavily at his desk, his fingers drumming its surface for many minutes.