Free The Genesis Key by James Barney

“repatriate” a precious fifteenth-century mosaic from a private collection in London for his own personal summer residence in Tikrit. It was a beautiful mosaic; there was no doubt about that. It depicted a heroic Persian cavalry officer in full battle regalia. Surely, it would have enhanced the décor of Hussein’s summer home. But, as Sargon explained to a fuming Hussein, the National Museum simply could not use government funds to purchase artwork for a private residence. Thus began an unspoken feud between the two that had simmered on low boil for more than five years. The situation intensified when, two years later, Sargon purchased that very mosaic for the National Museum and displayed it prominently in the museum’s front gallery.
    Things got even worse when Hussein got wind that Sargon had authorized foreign archeologists to excavate a temple in southern Iraq. “ Treasonous! ” Hussein had famously declared in a meeting of interior defense officials.
    Sargon was sure he was on Hussein’s dreaded “enemies list.” Moreover, he was sure Hussein would soon be treating the Iraqi National Museum as his own private art gallery, taking anything that struck his fancy. Undoubtedly, that beautiful fifteenth-century mosaic would be among the first pieces appropriated.
    The buzz around Sargon’s office this morning made him think that today might be the day. When he tried to call home at 10:00 A.M. and found the phone line dead, that confirmed it beyond all doubt. Cutting off government communications was the first step of any successful coup.
    For months, Dr. Sargon had been planning for this exact moment. But now that it was actually here, he suddenly feared his plans were inadequate. He’d planned to drive his family south to Az Zubayr and then into Kuwait. His political credentials would facilitate their safe passage. If not, he had plenty of cash to make it happen. For months, he’d been exchanging modest amounts of Iraqi dinars for British pounds, using his official position as curator of the National Museum so as not to raise any suspicions. He now had nearly £20,000 in British currency in his personal possession—enough to exit Iraq safely, if not comfortably. Hard currency went a long way in this part of the world.
    On the other hand, it could also get you killed.
    Sargon honked his horn again, which had no effect other than to prompt an obscene gesture from the driver in front of him. Curse this traffic!
    If he could have called his wife from the office, she would have been packed and ready to go by now. What if she wasn’t even home? What if she’d taken Farhana to the market? Unthinkable, Sargon concluded. His wife would never go out without checking with him first, and she’d said nothing about going to the market this morning.
    His street was now just a block away. Losing patience, he punched the accelerator and veered the Mercedes halfway onto the sidewalk. Vendors and pedestrians yelled at him as he zoomed past the backed-up mess on the Qadisiya Expressway, the main highway that bisected downtown Baghdad. He didn’t care. His official tags made him practically invisible to the local police.
    He banked right onto Rasheed Street. Now liberated from the traffic-clogged main artery of the city, he pushed the Mercedes hard, reaching fifty miles per hour as he roared down the wide, palm-tree-lined avenue toward his house.
    At 110 Rasheed Street, he pulled the car over and jumped out. He rushed through the front door of his luxury apartment and bounded up the stairs to the living quarters on the second floor. “Nisreen!” he called, barely suppressing his panic.
    â€œWhat is it?” his wife responded from the kitchen. Her fearful tone mirrored Sargon’s own anxiety.
    â€œWhere’s Farhana?”
    â€œUpstairs, sleeping. What’s the matter?”
    Sargon grabbed his wife firmly by the shoulders and said sternly, “We