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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

“Every time.”  The woman looked suspiciously back and forth at Mona and Omar.  “All of Saad’s children are broken.  All of them.”

41

41

Deep in his bunker, his thinking room, Mido Saad stood motionless, once again quietly staring at the patchwork of pictures, a colorful mosaic of papers covering two entire walls and most of another.  They were arranged and perfectly hung like a giant hand-drawn puzzle but with pieces that did not match.

He gazed at them for several minutes before finally reaching forward and pressing a hidden button behind one of the pages, causing a door to click and swing slowly inward, still obscured beneath the checkerboard of paper drawings.

Saad turned to verify the main door to his bunker was locked from the inside before stepping through the smaller doorway and into another, narrower space.

Perhaps eight feet wide and twelve long, the hidden room appeared distinctly different from the bunker, adorned with nothing on its walls and containing only a single table and chair beneath three bright overhead lights affixed to the concrete ceiling.

On the table, beneath a rectangular pane of glass, rested a solitary object.  A book.  Ancient and brittle and splayed open, revealing two of its hundreds of pages.

Saad approached the table, staring down, mesmerized, with his eyes intently focused.  He absently pulled the chair toward him and lowered himself into it.

Raising the protective glass, he pushed it up until it remained propped open, allowing him to lower his fingers upon the delicate, frail papyrus pages.

He still needed to touch it.

Having done so thousands of times, Mido Saad simply could not keep from caressing the fragile paper, pages so thin and frail they were beginning to crumble at their darkened edges.  He knew full well that the oil and residue from his fingertips only added to the object’s gradual demise.

He didn’t care.

Unlike the pictures on his walls, the book had never been digitized.  Memorialized, yes, but not digitized.  He could not risk the possibility of a copy of the book’s contents being discovered by someone else.

Even accidentally.

No, he had gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure no one else had ever laid eyes on it.

At least no one alive.

No one on the planet was aware of its existence, what it said or who had written it.

His fingertips softly traced the outside edges of one of the pages of papyrus, causing tiny pieces to crumble and fall away, though he was careful not to get too close to the lettering.  It was written in Sumerian, the oldest language on Earth.

The book’s only copy had been created by Saad’s own hand, translated into modern Arabic and encoded, then hidden in a place that would appear little more than gibberish if discovered.