Chris Kuzneski - The Prophecy

‘One of ours?’

Payne shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t talk to the guy. He was too busy shooting at me.’

‘Yeah, but you’re doing it online. That’s slightly different.’

‘Not really,’ Raskin said as he opened the necessary program on his system. ‘Our games are pretty damn intense. The loser has to pay for beer.’

‘Oh,’ Jones mocked, ‘that sounds just like Iraq.’

Raskin grinned, glad he was getting under their skin. It was the least he could do after the whole Sandecker episode. ‘Are you sending me the prints or what?’

‘I already did. Check your e-mail.’

Raskin clicked on the message, then went to work. Within a few seconds, he had opened up the digital scans of the prints and started running them through multiple databases, spread across several of his computer screens. Faces and fingerprints flashed all around him, yet his eyes stayed glued to the monitor in front of him. ‘This might take a while. What else did you need?’

‘Can you access data on active criminal cases?’ Payne wondered.

‘Of course, I can.’

‘What about a homicide that happened this morning?’

‘Actually, that’s what I want to find out.’

‘Please tell me it wasn’t another hooker.’

‘Hey,’ Jones joked, ‘the first two had it coming.’

‘Time out,’ Payne said, putting a stop to the humour. ‘We’re trying to ID this morning’s shooter, and I was unable to get his prints before the cops showed up.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Less than two hours.’

Raskin gave it some thought. ‘Where did this happen?’

‘In Pittsburgh, near my office.’

‘Then the answer is maybe .’

‘Maybe?’

Raskin nodded. ‘CSI units in most major cities have hand-held scanners that can take fingerprints at the crime scene. With a touch of a button, they can upload the data to their station where an officer can run the prints. No ink, no smudges, no waiting.’

‘So,’ Jones said, ‘if the Pittsburgh police have uploaded the data—’

‘Then I can pluck it off their system. If not, we’ll have to wait.’

‘Can you check—’

‘Already on it,’ Raskin said as the clicking of

‘Gotcha, you little bastard!’ Raskin taunted.

‘Got what?’ Payne wondered.

‘Right now,’ he answered, ‘I’m e-mailing you a digital copy of the victim’s fingerprints for your personal scrapbook. I know how you serial killers love your precious mementos.’ He chuckled as he continued working. ‘In addition, I’m piggybacking my original search, which will allow me to look for both of your shooters at the exact same time. Kind of a buy-none-get-two-free sale, Randy Raskin style.’

Jones glanced at Payne. ‘Did he just say Randy Raskin style ?’

‘I think he did.’

‘Does he know he said it aloud?’

‘I think he does.’

‘Should we get him some help?’

‘I think we should.’

Raskin ignored them and kept on typing. ‘God, I’m good.’

‘Randy,’ Jones asked, concerned, ‘when was the last time you left the office?’

Payne laughed and shook his head. ‘Hey Randy, we have some leads we need to pursue on our end. Can you give us a call if you find something?’

‘Will do, Admiral. Call you later.’

‘Thanks, man. We appreciate it.’

The sound of typing continued long after they hung up the phone.

22

Petr Ulster ignored the view as he trudged up the steps towards the document vaults on the upper floors. It was a journey he made several times a day, moving from room to room, helping researchers from round the world with their pursuit of historical data. Although he didn’t consider himself an expert in any particular field,

It was a skill set that served him well as curator of the facility.

Unlike most libraries, the main goal of the Ulster Archives wasn’t to provide books to the general public. It was to bridge the evergrowing schism that existed between scholars and connoisseurs. Typical big-city museums displayed 15 per cent of their accumulated artefacts, meaning 85 per cent of the world’s finest relics were currently off-limits to the public. That number climbed even higher, closer to 90 per cent, when personal collections were factored in.

Thankfully, the Ulster Foundation was doing something about it. Since the Archives had opened in the mid-1960s, they had promoted the radical concept of sharing. In order to gain admittance to the facility, a visitor had to bring something of value — whether it was an ancient ornament or unpublished research that might be useful to others. Whatever it was, it had to be approved in advance by the Archives’ staff. If for some reason they deemed the item unworthy, then admission to the facility was denied until a suitable replacement could be found.

Especially after the events of three years ago when a violent squad of religious zealots had tried to burn the Archives to the ground. Their goal had been to destroy a series of ancient relics that threatened the foundation of the Catholic Church, including evidence about the True Cross. Thankfully, the attack had been thwarted by Payne and Jones, who had been at the Archives conducting research of their own. Without the duo’s heroism, Ulster and his staff would have been slaughtered, and everything would have been lost for ever.

Though they expected nothing in return for

With another swipe of his ID card, Ulster entered the Renaissance collection room. Similar to the other document vaults at the Archives, the floors were made out of fireproof wood — the floorboards had been coated with an aqueousbased resin — while the white walls and ceilings had been treated with a fire-retardant spray. The texts themselves were kept in massive fireproof safes protected behind bulletproof security doors.

Beeps filled the air as Ulster entered his tendigit security code on the digital keypad. The sound was soon replaced by the low rumble of the partitions as they inched across the floor in their motorized tracks. Once the glass had disappeared into the walls, the dials on the individual

From the supply cabinet in the corner, Ulster grabbed a notebook and a box of coloured pens and placed them on the wooden table that sat in the middle of the room. If he had been handling an ancient manuscript, he would have lined the table with a plastic laminate similar in texture and strength to Formica. But since he would be using modern textbooks to translate the riddle, a sterile liner wasn’t necessary.

Ulster had printed the letter in the centre of a crisp sheet of paper. It consisted of four lines of text, written in fancy calligraphy, composed in a multitude of ancient dialects that had been scrambled together in one message. On the top page of the notebook, Ulster made a list of words he recognized. He made a second column for the modern translation of the terms, followed by a third column where he identified the language. Older forms of French, Latin, Greek, and Italian were obvious because he had worked extensively with them over the years. Hebrew was slightly

The final language, Provençal — which was a dialect spoken in southern France — took the longest to classify because of its similarities to other Occitan dialects. But once he had identified it through trail and error, he called his elderly assistant, Hans, who brought him a language primer from Ulster’s personal library in his residential suite.

After that, it was just a matter of time before he deciphered the cryptic text.

Ulster knew every language utilized a unique word structure that determined where different parts of speech (adjectives, pronouns, etc.) should fall in a sentence. He also realized that a sentence’s meaning often hinged on two parts of speech in particular: nouns (people, places, and things) and verbs (actions). Because of this, he temporarily ignored all the minor words like articles and prepositions, and focused on the words that he considered important.