“Exactly right,” Davidson said. “Within the sound is a binary code, which translates into English. A Web site I believe, which leads to another site. All part of an alternate-reality game.”
Davidson stood and erased the equations he’d written on the whiteboard. He picked up a red pen and wrote as he spoke. “So we have deduced that, one, there is much more information in sound that we can perceive. Two, sound is capable of altering the physical world, implying that said extra information exists. And three, ninety-seven percent of DNA is a mystery to us. Who’s to say the right DNA, carried as information in a sound wave and applied to the physical world, couldn’t affect life in the nonliving? Of course, if this were used to create a golem there would be other concerns.”
“Such as?” King asked, trying not to sound over interested.
“Traditionally, a golem created for less than noble purposes will become more and more evil each time it kills. But the dark energy that consumes the golem remains with its creator, even after its destruction. Any subsequent golems created will be corrupted as well. It’s said that golem masters often die with black hearts, their bodies and souls corrupted. It’s all hearsay of course; you know how it is with history.”
Alexander wore a funny grin. “I do.”
“Perhaps the stories are a warning,” Davidson said, “to not use the life imbuing language?”
King and Alexander glanced at each other. Given what they knew, it seemed a likely scenario.
Davidson saw the look they shared. He sat up straight. “You’ve discovered this language, haven’t you?”
“No,” King said.
“We’re just researching the idea,” Alexander added quickly.
“For a movie.”
This last statement totally deflated Davidson’s excitement. He was about to ask them to leave when King’s phone rang. He answered the phone, “I’m here.”
“We found Ridley,” Duncan said on the other end.
“Where?”
“London. Security camera caught a glimpse of him at Heathrow Airport.”
“Was Fiona with him?”
“She’s not in the shot, but that doesn’t mean—”
“I know. And it doesn’t matter. We’re going to London.”
“I have every available resource tracking him. Call me when you land.”
“Will do.” King hung up the phone and looked at Alexander. “He’s in London.”
Both men stood. Alexander opened the door to leave. Davidson stopped them with a clearing of his throat. “Who’s in London?”
“Brad Pitt. Thanks for your help,” King said, then exited the room.
The professor, who now wore a broad smile, said, “If you see the press on your way down, send them up.”
King stopped and leaned back into the office. Something about Davidson expecting press coverage put him on edge. “You never did mention why the press was coming to see you today.”
“I published my theory. Null physics and the Spoken Creation. Technion put out a press release yesterday. I’m giving a speech on the topic in”—he looked at his watch, his eyes widening—“forty-five minutes.”
King tensed. If Davidson had made his theory public and Ridley discovered it, he would instantly see where the research would eventually lead. He had already wiped out every ancient language that might be used to reproduce the so-called language of God. But if modern science were to uncover the language again by studying the effects of sound on the environment, then …
Davidson saw King’s sour expression. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid you may have painted a very large target on your—”
Movement outside the large office window caught King’s attention. The metal obelisk that had been standing outside was hurtling toward the office like a spear.
“Get down!” King shouted, diving for the professor.
A second later the obelisk crashed through the window with the force of a wrecking ball.
FORTY-ONE
Washington, D.C.
TOM DUNCAN SAT behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. His suit coat hung over the back of his chair, his sleeves were rolled up, and his tie dangled loosely. He looked like any other hardworking president, except for the fact that he was leaning back in the chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. For all the power his office granted him, he found himself momentarily immobilized. As the eyes of the world watched his every act outside the rounded walls of the Oval Office, scrutinized every word, every inflection of his voice, every facial expression—looking for a flaw—inaction became the safest course of conduct. With the wolves circling and out for blood, anything he did might make them attack.
What made this hard for Duncan was that he was also a wolf. As a former Army Ranger he excelled when in the movement. As president he applied his energy to the challenges faced by the country, and as Deep Blue, he focused his military mind on the Chess Team’s missions. But now he could only monitor and advise. A deeper involvement could expose and endanger the team. The Chess Team was hidden but not buried, not black. There had been no reason to hide their existence from the government he ran. But now …
The time for a new direction, a new plan, was upon him.
Hard choices and big changes needed to be made.
So he retreated to his office, cleared his mind of the media, of Marrs, and searched for solutions.
Before he could focus his thoughts, the phone on his desk rang. Its digital chime didn’t get a chance to finish as Duncan sat up and hit the speakerphone button. The White House switchboard had been given strict instructions to allow calls from a very short list of people through, each with a unique ring. This one belonged to Dominick Boucher.
“What’ve you got?”
“I’m faxing it over now.”
The full-color fax machine behind the desk blinked as the incoming file transferred.
“Is this about Ridley?”
“Yes sir,” Boucher said. “Two major developments. He rented a gold Peugeot 307 Cabriolet from Europcar at Heathrow. Europcar GPS chips all their cars and we tracked it to Wiltshire County.”
Duncan recognized the name. He’d been there once, in college, as a backpacking tourist. “Stonehenge?”
“We believe so, yes.”
“But why?”
“I couldn’t tell you that for sure, but if he’s interested in ancient languages, perhaps there is more to Stonehenge than we know. Something that hasn’t been uncovered yet. The site is incredibly old and we know very little about the people who built it. Whatever it is must be important because he’s taking bold risks to get it.”
“Are Queen, Bishop, and Knight ready to go?” Duncan asked. Keasling was on the task of debriefing and briefing the team, getting them geared up and ready to drop wherever King needed them.
“Well, that’s why I’m sending the fax. Development number two. I’m not sure we should send them to King.”
Duncan’s forehead scrunched. He looked at the fax machine. What is Boucher sending?
The gears of the fax machine finally kicked in, sending a single piece of paper through and coating it with hot toner. An eight-by-ten photo rolled out. Duncan snatched it up. A couple dressed in tank top vests and cargo shorts appropriate for warm weather archaeology smiled for the camera. Behind them were groups of people—locals, interns, and other science types—milling about. And in the background was what looked like a very large, very old staircase partially covered by vegetation and snaking tree roots.
“What am I looking at?”
“The photo was uploaded to Flickr an hour ago, and you can see in the bottom right the date stamp is today. So this is fresh. The structure in the background is la Danta Pyramid in El Mirador, Guatemala—the largest ever built by the Maya, and even bigger than the great Cheops pyramid at Giza.”