11.

New Age Bookshelves – So Yeah, The Foot – Hurley Stares At Ben For Once – Akkadian Exposition – Special Delivery For a Mrs. Hume

The Island

"I don't know how much you guys know, but this place is fucked up. Seriously, incontrovertibly, astonishingly fucked up. I could make my career on explaining exactly how and why this is, but all my books on the topic – and there would be a lot, people – would end up on the shelf next to Von Daniken and Sitchin." The woman – she had introduced herself to the four new arrivals on their second night as Renee Kircher, an archaeologist - flicked her lighter shut and then dismissed it, dropping it onto the beach blanket next to her. She leaned back and took a contemplative drag on the cigarette, eyes half lidding against the campfire glare. "But I think I might outsell 'em." She plucked a stray leaf of tobacco from her lower lip, then looked at the rest of her audience and grinned. "I love it. It's amazing."

They were five that night, huddled around the crackling warmth of the fire and the darker, delicious smells of grilling fish. Five of them in the shadow of a statue that the speaker looked at with genuine love and reverence.

"Assume we don't know jack, which is a safe assumption, because we don't." Kyra shrugged, then resettled herself on the sand. "We've been here a week, and I can tell you this beats the shit out of the time I did a job for one of those Caribbean resort mills. Which suck, by the way, never go to one of them. It's about as fake as Tom Cruise's marriage and they don't pay for ass. Anyway." She flicked a finger toward Krish. "Figure this out, we got a weird crack team lineup that looks pretty good for some sort of globalized business attack and... an archaelogist. That's pretty weird itself. So you telling me this is weird isn't fresh news. Krish looks ten times healthier now than he did earlier this week, that sets a new bar for weird, according to him. Plus, there's that temple inland that looks kind of like Angkor Wat. The statue – what was that, Egyptian? What else? Does it get weirder?"

The digger clamped her cigarette in her mouth for a moment, jerked her thumb back towards the foot, and rustled for a stack of paper she was sitting on. "Been in there to see that tapestry?" she asked, the words muddled around the butt.

Tsuchi nodded. "Piece missing." Krish managed a grin at the kid; he'd opened up very slightly during the week.

"Nah, the dudes in charge have it. Tapestry itself is weird; Greek and Egyptian all mixed up like that. Usually see that on commerce tablets, the occasional royal decree. And the age of it is weird, it's not the right era. They let me send out fragments for carbon dating or fabric analysis, and that tapestry is definitely not Ptolemic. It's only a couple hundred years, but it's like it was made in a time capsule or something. If it's a fake, it's amazing. In any case, I'm digressing. The scrap they have indicates the statue was a very odd representation of Tawaret." Another long drag as the cigarette gutted out. She stamped it down and then flicked it into the fire. "Kind of androgynous, which is unheard of for that particular deity. But the kicker is how old it is – old, dates back to Old Kingdom itself – and that it was hollowed out later for this guy 'Jacob' to live in. That right there tells me civilization has been on this island for at least three thousand years. Suck on that a moment."

"All right." This from the doctor, who sat crosslegged, fingers plucking constantly at the sand that collected on the tops of his shoes. He had a permanent expression of discomfort. While the young Japanese man had loosened slightly since the arrival, he seemed to have tensed further.

"That statue? Taken out by a 19th century slaving vessel, which only worked because the act of hollowing the statue's lower body caused a weakened structure. According to the guys, that ship had something to do with the trading companies and the New World economy. It's inland, too. Not far from that? A crashed plane with a Nigerian registry. For one thing, the geography of this place is off the charts. Here be dragons, because that little plane could not have gotten to the same place as that ship without there being either a lie, a tesseract, or drugs involved. But I'm not done yet!"

. . .

Ben sat in his study, quietly absorbing Kircher's findings. Hurley sat across from him, hands fiddling with a can of Mountain Dew. The tin made scrabbling, distracting noises across the wood of Ben's table. He glanced up occasionally to catch Hurley looking at him with an odd expression, then back down at the papers and the glossy photos marred with the woman's scrawls. The can scraped again and Ben licked his lips, contemplated saying something, and then let it go.

Another scrape a moment later. Ben tilted his head, grimaced, then grabbed a thin book, reached across the desk, picked up Hurley's wrist, and stuck the book under the can.

"Sorry, dude. I didn't realize I was doing that." Hurley puttered with the can for a moment, then let it go, putting his hands in his lap like a punished schoolboy. "Was kinda in my own thoughts."

"It's fine, Hugo. The digger's demeanor is coarse and inane enough, but her analysis makes up for it in density. I'm having to give some effort to this." He put the papers down and lifted his head. "Also, you're staring at me."

"Yeah, usually that's your gig. Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry. What's on your mind?" He rubbed his temple. Another headache was settling in.

"You alright? Been weird for a few days. Weirder."

"I'm fine." He glanced up, noting by Hurley's expression that it wasn't a detailed enough answer. "I had a disruptive phone call. It appears to be fine. I was merely unsettled. Am unsettled. It will pass." He gestured at the papers. "This is more confusing. I'm inclined to let her down there for a proper look to make sure. Of course, that's your final call."

"You really think it's okay?"

"As I say, your call. We picked her because of her speciality in this area. One of us ought supervise, and of course nothing can be touched or meddled with, but it might provide fodder for thought." A wan smile. "I admit, it's somewhat humbling to realize just how little any of us knew about this place."

"'Kay. I'll think it over."

"It's more important what comes next for the rest of them. I'm getting concerned."

Hurley gave him a worried look.

. . .

Renee was sitting up again, giving each of them a meaningful look in turn. "I'm trying to get them to let me into this underground site on the island. They're concerned about letting others in this place, kind of a crucible in the island, but the conclusions that I've been drawing... I really need to be sure before I can back my own findings." She shrugged. "From what they're describing to me, this place is older than Old Kingdom Egypt. A lot older." She paused.

Krish knew a leading line when he heard it, rolled his eyes before giving in. "How old?

"Four thousand years or more. They're describing to me glyphics that resemble Assyrian cuneiform. Akkadian, maybe, and I guess they think the same, and that's why I'm here. It beats what I was doing, but that's a different story. Anyway, there's some sort of pool and ritual stele down there that predate the concept of the Egyptian djed, according to their description. Further, there's bodies that I want to look at, very old, possibly caretakers or some other sort of service."

"We're lost." Krish flicked a hand at her.

"It's not that important. It's just really interesting. See, the fact that it's underground is trippy stuff. The only place like that is the Osireion, and that came two thousand years later. It's part of global imagery; axis mundi, where the tree of the world meets the soul of the universe. But this thing goes down, whereas, if it's Akkadian, they were typically more interested in going up. You heard of the Tower of Babel, right?"

Doc Ellis nodded. "And they said: 'Come, let us build us a city, and a tower, with its top in heaven, and let us make us a name; lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.' " A thin smile. "Book of Genesis. I had to choose; Sunday school or hanging out with the gangs."

"Sounds like a safe choice," said Krish.

"Not really." Another thin smile, this one with a tint of sadness at the eyes.

Renee shrugged. "That's the one. It was real, by the by. The ziggurat of Marduk, Etemenanki. Which this place still predates, but. What I'm wondering, and what I threw at the guys as a theory, is if maybe this place was once dedicated to Inanna instead. That fits more with her-" at that, the thumb jutted over her shoulder again. "And with this theme of fertility that I'm finding in the temple hieroglyphs. It makes more sense, considering."

"Considering what?"

"The very old mother/prostitution cults that sprang up over Inanna's descent into the underworld."

Kyra dropped back onto her elbows. "That does sound pretty fucked up. But you don't sound as weirded out by the fact that all this is in the middle of Oceanic East Jesus, just up the current from the Beats Me Gulf."

Renee gave the other woman a wild smile. "Why the hell not? Akkadian culture set the tone for later dynasties of Sumer and spread semitic culture across Europe and Asia. Possibly Africa as well, if my girl's right. Akkad was the first great empire. And we still can't find its goddamn capital. Screw Schliemann and Troy; we can't find Sargon I's pimping playground. Maybe it's under Baghdad. Nobody knows. Can tell you this much; there's almost no chance of getting into Iraq to take a look these days.

"So you give me a chance to check out some crazy maybe place off the seacharts when I can't get into Iraq and I've gotten kicked out of Egypt, you think I'm gonna turn that down? For all I know, guys... this was Akkad's lost capital. Or a fragment of it."

. . .

"Why are you concerned, dude?"

"There has been a distinct lack of movement on the part of Paik. From what I can gather based on public information, there was a flurry of activity at Widmore when they bought in, and since then, little else. Further, Eloise Hawking was kind enough to send a note regarding the... mysterious arson that usefully destroyed the Lamp Post Station. There were some independent investigators mixed in with the fire and police, and since that time, she has been concerned that the fire was not thorough enough."

Hurley tilted his head. "I missed something there, dude. I know she was all in that place and watching it, but you told me it got cooked and - "

"She burned it down, Hugo. Everyone else thinks it was just a random church arson." Ben rubbed a hand across his face. "That's the joke."

"Oh. Duh. Sorry." Hurley shifted, uncomfortably. "I was always more of an Airplane sort of guy. Obvious jokes."

"I know." There was a brief, weighty undertone of exasperation. "I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And the more I think about certain recent events, the more I grow concerned."

"We're back to that unsettled thing, right?"

"Right." Ben stared across the room, past Hugo's head. "I find myself in the unenviable position of having to suggest safety precautions regarding the daughter of my worst enemy." He glanced to the side at Hugo's puzzled expression. "You know, the one I tried once to shoot?" The blue gaze dropped again towards complex dissertations of Akkadian history. "I am concerned that the brief contact I had may have been a prelude of things to come. We're going to have another front of trouble to deal with, Hugo. Despite our best efforts at defense, and considering your preferences of protecting those we have dealt with, I'm afraid we have a vulnerable flank."

. . .

Los Angeles, California

It was a dirty, banged up van advertising grocer meats along its side in both English and Spanish. The phone number underneath led to an answering service checked regularly by a bored woman who weeded out the rare caller interested in the per-pound price of 85/15 chuck and forwarded on calls that carefully used pre-arranged code words. The driver was himself dirty and banged up, close-cut hair around a meaty but otherwise ordinary face. The arm that hung out the window was clothed in a butcher's white coat. It was one of a thousand such unnoticeable vans that thronged every city. The human gaze slid over it like it wasn't there. A cop that ran the plate would find it clean and unremarkable, tail lights in good order, not a single reason to pull it over. Not a single reason to suspect it did not carry a butcher and his produce.

Although it could be argued that, in fact, it did carry such a cargo in its windowless back. Seated, motionless and silent, was a slender man in black, city fatigues folded into a carryall at his feet. Next to him was the narrow plastic case that carried his SIG-Sauer SSG 3000. The man knew every ding and curve of the polymer stock, the precise kick of the weapon when it fired. He knew every nubble of the case and the cold metal shell of each .308 cartridge. He was less interested in the memories of human faces. It made his job easier. Much easier.

Otherwise, he might have actually had a twinge of guilt at being told to kill an unarmed woman.