The Atlantis Gene (The Origin Mystery 1)

Something else, on the screen, the location map. Josh thought he’d seen it — a flash, a red dot. But now it was gone. He stared again.

A boom, boom, boom at the door jolted Josh almost out of the chair. The men were beating on the door like a war drum, trying to make the thick iron come free. The pounding matched the throbbing in Josh’s chest as his heart beat uncontrollably.

The computer screen displayed the erase progress: 12% Complete.

The dot lit up for good: D. Vale. It drifted slowly, in the river. Vitals were faint, but he was alive. His body armor housed the sensors; it must have been damaged.

Josh had to send David what he’d found and a way to contact the source. Options? Normally they would establish an online dead-drop: a public web site where they exchanged coded messages. Clocktower routinely used eBay auctions — the pictures of the product for sale included embedded messages or files that a Clocktower algorithm could decrypt. To the naked eye, the picture looked normal, but small pixel changes throughout added up to a complex file Clocktower could read.

But he and David hadn’t established any system. He couldn’t call. Emailing would be a death sentence: Clocktower would monitor any email addresses, and when David checked it, Clocktower would trace the IP of the computer he used. The IP would give them a physical address, or a very close idea. Video surveillance feeds nearby would fill in the rest, and they would have him within minutes. An IP… Josh had an idea. Could it work?

Erasing… 37% Complete

He had to work fast, before the computer stopped functioning.

Josh opened a VPN connection to a private server he used mostly as a relay and staging area for online operations — transforming and bouncing encrypted reports around the internet before delivering them to Central. It was just added security to make sure Jakarta Station’s downloads to Central weren’t intercepted. It was off the grid, no one knew about it. And it already had several security protocols he’d written. It was perfect.

But the server didn’t have a web address — it didn’t need one — just an IP: 50.31.14.76. Web addresses like www.google.com, www.apple.com, etc really translated to IPs — when you type an address in your web browser, a group of servers called domain name servers (DNS), match the address to an IP in their database, and send you to the right place. If you typed the IP into your browser’s address bar, you’d actually end up in the same place without the routing; 74.125.139.100 opens Google.com, 17.149.160.49 opens Apple.com, and so on.

Josh finished uploading the data to the server. The computer was starting to run slowly. Several error messages popped up.

Erasing 48% Complete.

The drumming had stopped. They were using the torch again. A round bulge of strained metal had formed in the center of the door.

Josh had to send David the IP. He couldn’t call or text. All the sources and case officers would be monitored by Clocktower, and besides, he had no idea where David would end up. He needed somewhere David would look. Some way to send the numbers in the IP Address. Something only Josh knew about…

David’s bank account. It could work.

Josh also maintained a private bank account; he imagined almost everyone in their line of work did.

The cry of bending metal filled the cavernous room like a dying whale. They were close.

Josh opened a web browser and logged in to his bank. Quickly, he keyed in David’s bank routing number and account number. Then he made a series of deposits to David’s account:

9.11

50.00

31.00

14.00

76.00

9.11

It would take a day for the transactions to post, and even after they did, David would only see it if he checked the account. Would he know it was an IP address? Field operatives weren’t exactly tech-savvy. It was a long shot.

The door broke. Men were through, soldiers in full battle armor.

Erasing 65% Complete.

Not enough. They would find something.

The box, the capsule. 3-4 seconds. Not enough time.

Josh lunged for the box on the table, knocking it off. It crashed to the glass floor and he followed it. His shaking hands reached inside, grabbing the gun. How did it go, slide, shoot, press here. God. They were at the entrance to the glass room, three men.

He raised the gun. His arm shook. He steadied it with his other hand, and squeezed the trigger. The bullets ripped through the computer. He had to hit the hard drive. He fired again. The sound was deafening in the room.

Then the sound was all around. Glass was everywhere, tiny pieces. Josh was rushing to the glass wall. Then glass fell all around him, on him, cutting him. He looked down, seeing the bullet holes in his chest and the blood running from his mouth.

CHAPTER 26

Pesanggrahan River

Jakarta, Indonesia

The fishermen paddled the boat down the river, toward the Java Sea. The fishing had been good the last several days, and they had brought extra nets — all they had in fact. The boat sagged with the weight, riding lower in the water than it normally did. If things went well, they would return as the sun set, dragging the nets behind the boat, full of fish, enough for their small family and enough to sell at the market.

Harto watched his son Eko paddling at the front of the boat, and pride washed over him. Soon, Harto would retire and Eko would do the fishing. Then, in time, Eko would take his son out, just like this, just like Harto’s father had taught him to fish.

He hoped it would be so. Lately, Harto had begun to worry that this would not be the way things would come to pass. Every year there were more boats — and less fish. They fished longer each day and yet their nets carried fewer fish. Harto pushed the thought from his mind. Good fortune comes and recedes, just like the seas; it was the way of things. He must not worry over things past his control.

His son stopped paddling. The boat started to turn.

Harto yelled to him, “Eko, you must paddle, the boat will turn if we don’t paddle evenly. Pay attention.”

“There’s something in the water, Papa.”

Harto looked. There was… something black, floating. A man. “Paddle quickly, Eko.”

They pulled up beside him, and Harto reached out, grabbed him, and tried to pull him into the narrow boat loaded with nets. He was too heavy. He wore some kind of shell. But the shell floated. Some special material. Harto turned the man over. A helmet, and goggles — they had covered his nose, kept him from drowning.

“A diver, papa?”

“No, he’s… a policeman, I think.” Harto tried to pull him into the boat again, but it nearly tipped over. “Here Eko, help me.”