The Babel Codex Read Free

threatening to sue Burris.
    Ten feet by twenty feet, the room had probably been used for storage when the trading post had been a viable operation several centuries ago. Roots erupted from the walls, and several tendrils that looked like spaghetti stuck down in places. The stink of fresh earth filled the room.
    The dig’s location outside Addis Ababa was a building, an abandoned hotel that dated to World War I. Communities tended to build on older cities. People evolved over time, but they didn’t move away as long as the resources were there.
    “I know. I heard.” Burris grinned and nodded, then pulled out an earpiece. “He was rigged with a body mic. Got the whole thing on tape.”
    The archaeology team had set up a small desk in this room, which provided enough space for three laptop computers and preliminary identification tools. Recovered items were logged in at the workstation, then transported outside where they were further documented and cataloged. Electrical cords connected to the generator, which throbbed distantly outside, crisscrossed the floor, powering the laptops and the electric lanterns hanging on the walls. And, apparently, enabled Burris to rig “skeletons” with body mics.
    “Man, the sound of him hitting that wall is awesome! Splat. Pure gold. That is going to play beautifully when we put this special together.”
    A radio show about Annja’s time in Addis Ababa with Burris was, as Doug Morrell had pointed out, advertising Chasing History’s Monsters simply couldn’t afford to buy. A special segment was supposed to be a gift. Burris’s Unacceptable! was a soapbox statement against everything he disagreed with. But what sealed the deal with Doug was Burris’s agreement to reciprocate with a cameo on the TV episode Annja was there to film.
    She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She’d worn it pulled back off her neck because this meet was supposed to be all about business. Hence her khaki cargo shorts and hiking boots. “Your friend has a broken nose and a possible concussion.”
    The skeleton had been loaded up by one of the archaeology students and driven back to the city for treatment.
    Burris shook his head and counted off on his fingers as he said, “First of all, he’s not a friend, just some guy I hired out of a bar who fit the skeleton suit. Second, a guy who gets handsy with a woman without her permission gets whatever is coming to him. I’m just glad you were able to take care of yourself.”
    He sounded so sincere that Annja was tempted to believe him. However, she’d heard him sound sincere on the radio show when he wasn’t. He was good at acting innocent. He’d probably been doing it since he was a kid. He was thirty-five going on nine.
    “Third, this whole rooting around in the dirt thing is getting pretty boring.” He glanced meaningfully around the room. “Can you imagine me telling my listeners about digging in the dirt?”
    “Then why did Doug tell me you wanted to do this segment?”
    He snorted dismissively, ignoring her. “My gardener, Luis, and his guys could go through this place faster than the people working here.” He paused as he had a new thought. “I hope they’re not getting paid by the hour. Man, talk about milking it.”
    Annja made herself count to ten the way she’d been cautioned back in the orphanage in New Orleans where she’d been raised. Around Burris the past few days, she’d been counting to ten a lot.
    “Most of these people are not getting paid. They’re college students helping Professor Sordi for college credit or experience they can put on their résumés.”
    Shaking his head, Burris turned to the nearest graduate student, a spindly guy who reminded Annja of Sheldon Cooper on The Big Bang Theory . “Say, pal...”
    The grad student looked at Burris, blinked, looked at Annja, blinked again, then looked back at Burris. “Yes?”
    “You’re not getting paid for digging?”
    “No. I’m a graduate assistant to Dr.