Ja.n.u.s held his hand up and spoke softly. "If you would indulge us a moment, I would like to hear more about the PIE. You said there were other derivative languages?"

"Oh yeah, tons of them. All the Italic languages: Italian, French, Portuguese, Spanish... let's see... all the Slavic languages: Russian, Serbian, Polish. What else, Balkan languages. Of course Greek; the Greeks were PIE descendants. Sanskrit, as I mentioned; Hindi, Farsi, Pashto. There are also tons of extinct PIE languages. Hit.i.te, Tocharian, Gothic. In fact, scholars have been able to work backwards to actually reconstruct the Proto-Indo-European language. And that's actually the basis of about everything we know about them. They had words for horse, wheel, farming, animal breeding, snow-capped mountains, and for a sky G.o.d."

David paused, not sure what to add next. "In general we know the PIE were extremely advanced for their time-their use of horses, the wheel, tools, and agriculture made them a force in the region, and their descendants went on to dominate the world from Europe to India. As I said, today roughly half the world speaks a Proto-European language. In many ways, they are the ultimate lost civilization." David stopped again, then glanced at Ja.n.u.s. "You said you had two questions?"

Ja.n.u.s was deep in thought. After a second, he realized the room was waiting for him. "Oh yes. I... would like to know... where they are now."

"That's the real mystery. We're not even sure where to look for them. What we know of them is based on language reconstruction and myths-specifically the mythology they pa.s.sed down to their descendant groups along with their language. Those are the tools of history: language, stories, and artifacts. In this case we don't have many artifacts, just their language and myths."

"Myths?" Ja.n.u.s said.

"Here again, we're reconstructing the past based on shared myths across cultures-these are instances where the same story appears with slight changes. Obviously the names are changed, but the shape of the narrative is the same. One common belief is that there were two progenitors of mankind: brothers, sometimes twins. For the Indic, it was Manu and Yemo; the Germanic have tales of Mannus and Ymir. These mythologies were eventually incorporated into histories. For the Romans, Remus and Romulus; the Hebrews, Cain and Abel. Another common myth is that of the Great Flood-it appears in some form in every PIE culture. But overwhelmingly, the most common myth is that of an epic battle ending with the slaying of a serpent, usually a dragon of some sort."

Chang picked up the page. "It seems Dr. Grey had some inkling of who the PIE were. What does it mean: PIE = Immaru? I am not familiar with Immaru."

David looked at Kate. Do we tell them?

Kate didn't hesitate. "The Immaru are, or more likely were, a group of monks in the mountains of Tibet. After the incident in China, where David was almost killed, they rescued us."

Chang winced, and David thought he was going to say something, maybe an apology, but Kate continued.

"I talked with several of the monks. A younger one, Milo, took care of us, and an older monk, Qian, showed me an ancient artifact: a tapestry. He believed it was a historical doc.u.ment that had been pa.s.sed down for generations, thousands of years. It depicted four floods. The first was a flood of fire, which I believe to be the Toba Catastrophe-a volcanic eruption seventy thousand years ago that changed the human race. The tapestry showed a G.o.d saving a dying band of humans. The G.o.d gave them his blood. I believe that depiction was an allegory, a representation of a gene therapy an Atlantean gave those dying humans. That gene-the Atlantis Gene-helped that small band of humans survive in the volcanic winter that followed."

Dr. Chang nodded vigorously. "This matches the Immari a.s.sumption-that the Atlantis Gene was introduced seventy thousand years before present and that it caused the cataclysm: a change in brain wiring that set the human race apart from other hominins."

"Qian also told me that the Immari are actually a splinter group of the Immaru-a faction of monks that separated thousands of years ago. The Immari had grown tired of allegory and myth. They wished to pursue answers in science and archeology," Kate said.

"That may be, but I can't comment," Dr. Chang said. "I never advanced high enough to know the true Immari history. It was closely guarded and a.s.signed its own mythological status. Dr. Grey would have known the history-he was a member of the Council-one of the three highest-ranking officers. Do you think that's why he included the note on the Immaru and PIE? Do they have something that relates to the plague?"

Kate considered that. "I know Martin was looking for something. His words to me were: 'I thought it was here in southern Spain, but I was wrong.' Maybe he was trying to trace the history of the Immaru and the Proto-Indo-Europeans to find the object... Maybe they have it." Another thought occurred to her. "The Immaru did have something, a box. The second flood depicted on the tapestry was the flood of water. In it, the G.o.d returns and tells the humans to repent and move inland, but many refused, ignoring the warnings. But the Immaru had faith. They heeded the warning, and carried a large box into the highlands."

"What was in it?" David asked.

"I don't know-"

"You didn't ask?!"

"Qian didn't know."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," Kate said.

"Well... what did it look like?"

"I don't know, like a large plain box they were carrying on poles. Like... the ark in Indiana Jones."

"The ark in... Okay, never mind that," David said. "What was the rest of the tapestry?" He hoped it would shed more light on Martin's code. The first two depictions had confirmed David's theories. He was close to unraveling the message.

"The third was the flood of blood. A global apocalypse. The fourth was the flood of light. Our salvation. Qian said they were events yet to come."

"You think the plague is the flood of blood?" David asked.

"I believe so."

"You told Martin about the tapestry?"

"Yes."

David nodded. "The tapestry is a chronology. It chronicles the major turning points in human history. I believe this code is also a chronology: a timeline that Martin was creating to decode the tapestry and try to isolate specific events in the past-events that are key to finding a cure for the plague."

"Interesting," Kate murmured.

"Bravo," Ja.n.u.s said.

"I concur," said Chang.

David leaned back in the chair. That was the purpose of Martin's code-he was sure of it now. The mystery that remained was: who killed him, and why? It was someone on this boat. Was it one of the scientists-because of Martin's research?

The sound of boots on the thin carpet interrupted his thoughts, and David turned to see Shaw charging into the room.

"We're ready. We need a decision-" He glanced around the room, taking the four of them in for the first time. "What the h.e.l.l is this? A b.l.o.o.d.y tea party?"

"We're discussing Martin's notes," Kate said, pointing to the page on the coffee table.

Shaw s.n.a.t.c.hed it up.

David lunged for him and grabbed the page out of his hand. "Don't. You're getting grease on it." He tossed the page back on the coffee table. The look on Kate's face said, It's tough dealing with barbarians, isn't it? He knew her so well. In the background, he heard Shaw erupt.

"Are you kidding me? We're in the middle of-"

David slowly turned his head to Shaw, ready for battle, but a faint glimmer on the horizon caught his attention. He stared at it a moment, then stood and crossed to the window. Yes-lights in the night. A boat. Two. On a direct course for them.

CHAPTER 65.

From Tibet to Tel Aviv Milo unslung the heavy pack and walked to the edge of the rock ledge. The untouched green plateau in western Tibet stretched to the horizon, where another mountain ridge met the setting sun. The serene, picturesque landscape reminded him of the monastery. His mind instantly flashed to his last moments in that place, the only home he'd ever known. He had stood at the top of another rock ledge, looking down, watching the wooden buildings burn, crumble, and tumble down the mountain, leaving only a burnt, blackened rock face.

Milo pushed the scene from his mind. He refused to think about it. Qian's words echoed to him: "A mind that dwells in the past builds a prison it cannot escape. Control your mind, or it will control you, and you will never break through the walls it builds."

Milo cleared his mind and turned back to the pack. He would make camp here, then leave at first light as he had done each day before. He took out the tent, then the animal traps and the map, which he consulted every night. He thought he had to be somewhere near the Kashmir region of northern India or Pakistan, or possibly somewhere in eastern Afghanistan, but truth be told, he had no idea where he was, and he hadn't seen a single soul, no one to offer any clues. Qian had been right about that: "You will walk a long and lonely road. But you will have all that you need."

At each of Milo's questions, Qian had issued a quick retort. Food? "The beasts of the forests will be your only companions, and they will sustain you." Milo moved into the forest as he had each night before, and began rigging the traps. Along the way, he ate nuts and berries. He never brought them back to his camp. As he hiked throughout the day, he usually consumed enough to maintain his energy levels until his protein-rich breakfast of animal meat the next morning.

When the traps were set, he erected his tent and laid out his mat. He sat and focused on his breathing, seeking the stillness within. Gradually it came, and the memories and musings of his mind melted away. He was vaguely aware of the sun slipping behind the far ridge, pulling a curtain of darkness down the mountain.

In the distance, he heard the snap of one of the traps he had laid. There would be breakfast tomorrow, that much was certain.

Milo retired to the tent, where the last two items Qian had given him lay waiting in the corner. Both were books. The first was ent.i.tled Anthems of the Dying, but to Milo's surprise, there were no songs inside, only three simplistic stories.

The first story was about a father who sacrificed himself to save his daughter. The second was about a man and woman who traveled across a vast wasteland to find the treasure their ancestor had left them, which was their only hope to cure their dying people. The last part told the story of a humble man who slew a giant and became a king, but renounced his power, giving it back to the people.

Qian had pointed to the book. "This book is a guide to our future."

Milo had hesitated. "How can the future be written?"

"It is written in our blood, Milo. The war is always the same, only the names and places change. There are demons upon this earth. They live in our hearts and minds. This is a history of our struggle, a chronicle of the past war that will be repeated. The past and our nature predict our future. Read it. Learn it well."

"Will there be a test?"

"Be serious, Milo. Life is a test we take every day. You must focus. You must be there for them when they need you."

"Who?"

"You will meet them soon enough. They will arrive here and they will need our help, now, and even more in the future. You must be prepared."

Milo considered this for a moment. Somehow, it excited him. He felt filled with purpose. "What must I do?"

"A great dragon pursues them. Their respite will be brief. The dragon will find them and breathe fire down upon us. You must build a chariot for the sky to carry them away. They must survive."

"Wait, there's a dragon? It's coming here?!"

Qian shook his head. "Milo, it is a metaphor. I don't know what will come, but we must be ready. And you must prepare for the journey after that."

He wanted to ask about the dragon again, but he resisted. Instead, he asked, "Why me?"

"It must be you. The rest of us are too old to make the journey."

"I've been telling you that for years," Milo said playfully.

Qian rubbed his forehead, and suddenly looked older than his ninety-four years, like a fragile papier-mche person who could disintegrate at any moment.

Milo had spent the following weeks building a basket-for the chariot that would carry these people away from the dragon. He had thought it was all a diversion-something Qian had made up to keep him from pestering the older monks. But then they had come-Dr. Kate and Mr. David-just as Qian had said. Mr. David was just as Milo had seen him before: at death's door. But Dr. Kate had healed him.

Qian's other prediction had come true as well. The dragon had come, flying through the air and breathing fire, and Dr. Kate and Mr. David had barely escaped. Milo was again at the top of the mountain, staring up at the basket he had built. It hung from a ma.s.sive balloon, one of many floating toward the horizon, away from the burning monastery below him. They had known-the older monks. They had taken only one younger monk. Milo. They had not run from their fate. "It is written," Qian had said. But who wrote it?

Milo opened the second book, The First Tribes of Humanity: A History. He understood this book even less. It was written in an ancient language Qian had made him learn. Milo had been thrilled to learn English, but this language was different-far more difficult. And the text... what did it mean?

"When you know the answer, only then will your journey begin," Qian had said.

"If you know the answer, why not just tell me?" Milo asked, smiling. "We can save some time, and I can take off in the balloon and be there soon-"

"Milo!" Qian steadied himself against the table. "The journey is the destination. Finding the answers for yourself, achieving understanding, is part of your journey. There are no shortcuts along the path."

"Oh. Right."

By the time Milo reached what was left of Tel Aviv, he thought he understood the books. And he had changed, because of what he had seen and the things he had done to survive.

He found a fishing vessel he thought would take him.

"What do you want, kid?"

"Pa.s.sage," Milo answered.

"Where you headed?"

"West."

"Got anything to trade?"

"Only my willingness to work hard. And... the greatest story you ever heard."

The fisherman eyed him suspiciously. "All right, get on the boat."

CHAPTER 66.

Somewhere off the coast of Ceuta

Mediterranean Sea

David stared at the two sets of lights on the water for another second. "Kamau!" he shouted.

Within seconds, the tall African appeared in the saloon, covered in sweat and grease.

"Get us underway," David said.