The Project 04 - Black Harvest

CHAPTER ONE

    Sometimes it's better not to find what you're looking for.
    The last gasp of a bitter New England winter clenched the campus at Dartmouth College in arctic cold , but i nside Rauner Library it was warm and comfortable. James Campbell peered through a magnifying glass at what he'd found.
    N ine reddish-brown clay tablets from ancient Persia , covered with writing . The marks were as clear and sharp as the day they had been pressed into the clay , almost 2400 years before. Campbell made a final note on his laptop computer and closed it down.
    Campbell was a stout man in his 60s. He had gray hair thinning back in a widow's peak from a face creased with years of peering though microscopes at tiny life forms that heralded death and destruction. He'd seen nothing alive under his glass tonight. Only the tablets that he'd found buried in the archives. They held a clue to the fulfillment of a dream. Or a possible nightmare.
    It could be the key , he thought.
    Campbell made pictures of the tablets with his smart phone and composed two messages. A touch on the screen sent the emails and pictures on their way. He placed the phone and a copy of the writing in the case with his laptop. The tablets went back to their drawers in the restricted archives. He shrugged on his heavy coat, picked up the laptop and headed for the exit. It was late, but Campbell's status gave him access at any hour. A tired watchman rose from his chair and unlocked the door. There was a whiff of bourbon about him. Campbell stepped into the frigid night.
    The ground crackled under his feet. The sky was a sea of brittle stars. Each breath of frozen air felt like the kiss of a razor, sharp and hurtful. He walked to his car, parked in the deserted lot. The windows were fogged. Odd, he thought, in this dry air.
    The rented Volvo protested and started. Campbell waited for the engine to warm. He thought about the tablets.
    Something sharp pressed across his throat. Adrenaline flooded his body.
    "Don't move." In the rear view mirror, Campbell saw a dark face. The bones were narrow, the eyes hooded and dark.
    "What..."
    "Don't speak unless I tell you. Understand?"
    "Yes."
    "You've been researching something. Answer, yes or no?"
    Campbell swallowed. The blade made a thin pain against his Adam's apple.
    "Research. Yes."
    "What have you found? I'll know if you lie. If you lie I'll cut off your ear. You believe me?"
    "Yes." Something primal coursed down his spine, left over from an age when humans lived in caves. Fear.
    "What have you found?"
    "Records from Alexander's conquest of the Persian Empire, after he entered Babylon. Accounting from the King's treasuries."
    "Nothing else?"
    "No." Sweat started on his forehead.
    Campbell screamed as his ear flew onto the floor. Blood poured down his neck. Before he could move the knife was back at his throat, wet with his own blood.
    "You're not a historian. You lied. Don't do it again. Tell me what I want and you walk away."
    The man hadn't hidden his face. Campbell knew he was going to die. He thought of his wife, ill at home. Sudden sadness brought tears to his eyes. What would she do?
    Impotent thoughts of survival flooded his mind. Maybe he could twist away. Use the laptop or car keys as a weapon. Pull the knife from his throat before it cut him. Scream, open the door, roll away.
    All useless.
    Pain seared the side of his head. Blood ran down under his collar. He felt dizzy. The voice from behind was quiet. "I'm going to ask one more time. What have you found?"
    Stall him. Maybe I can get my arm up in time.
    "I swear, just lists of stores, what was in the treasury before the conquest. Records demanded by Alexander." That part was true. "Nothing of importance. It has all been seen before."
    "Do you have the tablets with you?"
    "No, they're in the library."
    "In the library."
    "Yes."
    White fire slashed across his throat, through flesh and arteries and bone. Blood spurted over the windshield. Campbell grasped his throat with both hands, trying to stem the flood, choking on his life. He thrashed and gurgled and fell forward and died.
    The man got out of the car, ignoring the mess slumped over the steering wheel. He went around the back, opened the front passenger door, took the laptop from the seat and walked away into the frozen night.

CHAPTER TWO

    Nick Carter was done sleeping for the night. He'd had the dream about the grenade again. Now it was five in the morning. He waited for the sun to come up. Already