Chris came into his apartment and tossed his mail on the table. He'd spent the night down at the pub, and just felt like lying down and sleeping. He moved to his bed, coated in research materials and his laptop. The laptop was placed on his bedside table, but the papers were quick to learn that Chris wasn't in the mood for organizing as he fell down right on top of them. A book on Incan cultures found its new home under his bed, unlikely to see the light of day for weeks. Chris, callously uncaring for his research, drifted to sleep.



Light streamed in through the window on to Chris's face. It is to this he opened his eyes, fully able to experience the pounding headache from his night out drinking. He immediately put his hand up to shield from the outside, groaned and slowly rolled out of bed. He moved to his window and closed it. No need to make his head any worse. He slowly stumbled his way to the kitchen, only to find his laptop sitting open on the table. He turned it on and found that a full act had been added to his most recent project.

I don't remember doing that... he thought, noting that he needed to go back and check the work he'd done in his booze-haze. He closed the laptop and moved toward his fridge for some semblance of breakfast.

Eventually he sat down with a coffee and some toast and started to read through his alcohol-induced frenzy. He was affronted by the complete lack of grammar and spelling, but otherwise the story seemed to be in good shape. He saved the new version and moved on to his mail. Bills, bills... an advertisement for the 'Adult Superstore'.... That went straight to the trash. And a letter--Who sends letters anymore? he thought--with no return address. Intrigued, he opened it.

A blue keycard fell out on to the table. Chris picked it up and examined it. There was a fingerprint on the side with the magnetic scanner, and on the other some kind of blue logo designed around an image of the globe. There were no discernible features, other than a message telling him to call customer service. He put it down next to his computer and started reading the letter.



Chris put the letter down, suppressing laughter. Clearly someone with his address had thought it would be hilarious to wind him up a little. Either that, or some nutbag was sending these letters out to everyone who'd ever posted anything in a conspiracy chat room. Chris swore he hadn't ever used his real information in one of those places, but you never know. Some people-especially people who were obsessed with 'uncovering' secret agents, were good about that stuff. He tossed the letter in the trash and went back to his writing.

After ten minutes of staring at the blinking line, continuing to taunt him, he found his hand twirling the blue card which had been left on the table. He looked more closely at it, about to send it to join its letter friend in the trash, but still curious as to what it meant. He looked at his page, waiting for any last-minute ideas to strike him before he went off on one of his crazy people-research binges.

None came. He sighed, knowing what he was about to start doing to himself, and opened up Google. Several variations of "blue earth" "world logo" and "earth fingerprint logo" he finally got a match to what he saw on his card. The fourth result for "blue earth logo fingerprint" in images led him to the information page of a private intelligence agency, DI ACT1.

Time to test the legitimacy of his letter. After trawling through the website for a few more minutes, he found a customer service number. With the letter in hand (having recently grabbed it from his trash bin), Chris checked the time. 7:30. 16 hours... the mail arrived at his house around 5... Assuming that's when the stranger was counting from, he had another hour and a half to make his decision.

Chris dialed the number, and received an automated service. After twenty minutes of go-around, he put down the phone and gave up. He picked up the letter again. It was hard to focus on--his hangover was not making it easy to think straight. The words kept blurring as his eyes tried adjusting to the light of the room. For this reason, he didn't notice for another ten minutes that the date was written incorrectly.

Well, he needed a phone number. Chris dialed. "The number you have reached is not currently available. Please try again." "Apparently not..." He went back to staring at the letter. He could have sworn he was on to something. An idea suddenly occurred to him. He picked up the phone again. 00-1*-303-180-8201. US area code for Denver... He listened for the ring.

He once again received none. He scanned through the letter one last time, before realizing something. He added in the extra numbers from the letter-1316-and redialed. 00-1-808-201-1316. He waited for the ring, Googling this new area code. Hawaii?

The phone rang seven times before the automated voice answered, “Aloha! You are either lucky or incredibly smart, my yet unknown friend. Surely, you find yourself perplexed, the way one is after learning such information, by the unreality of the situation, the impossibility it presents to the mind. I feel I must apologize to you for the unfortunate danger I’ve placed you. In time you will understand. Also, please forgive the impersonal, electronic voice of the IVM system...it seemed the most practical method of communicating with everyone.

Your journey begins at DIA. You are aware of the conspiracy theories surrounding Denver Airport, the murals, the NOW time capsule, and the underground military base. What has been said is not all true and not to far off from the truth. There is more to DIA than meets the eye, obviously, which you will soon witness yourself. When you arrive at DIA show the keycard, I sent you, to the security guard whit the same world logo on the left sleeve of his uniform. He will be by the westside carousels ten-to-nineteen. Ask him where you can catch the train. Follow his instructions. Unfortunately I cannot meet you, but you will meet the others.” The conversation ended and the line went dead.

Chris redialled the number two more times, transcribing the automated message. Once he was sure he had it, he read through the information given and returned to the internet. Wikipedia time, he thought, looking through the article. There was a video on it as well--clearly this person believed that there was some kind of base beneath the airport. Still, it was an interesting opportunity, and there was certainly a market for conspiracy stories at the moment.

Chris began to book a flight out to the DIA. He could get a start on the flight.



Chris arrived at the airport three days later, and once his passport was settled he began searching for the security guard mentioned on the phone. After searching for half an hour, he sat down in the baggage area and pulled out his laptop, ready to start his video diary.

"I've just arrived at DIA, the Denver International Airport, to go on some crazy conspiracy hunt set up by this 'Historian.'. I did some research on the plane, and whatever this thing is, he believes it goes all the way back to Egyptian mythology. How it all ties together is unclear, and it's hard to get a glimpse of how this guy thinks without meeting him in person. I'm assuming it does all tie together, of course, and that he's not just seeing things that aren't there. I have yet to see a security guard fitting the description I was given, and if I don't see one soonI'm going to catch a train up to my cousin in Washington. Linx out."

He closed the diary and looked up to see the crowd from his flight had thinned out and left it easier to see the guard across the room. He reached into his pocket and walked over, showing the guard the keycard. "Excuse me, but where can I catch the train?"

Matt fumbled around for his keys in the dark outside his friend's home. He had been staying there ever since the fire. When he finally managed to get the correct key and get it in the lock, he pushed on the door a little too hard and fell to the floor on the other side. By the time he managed to stand, the lights were flipped on and Thomas was standing in the hallway with a bat. He sighed in relief at the sight of his drunken friend. "Damn man!" Thomas shouted. "You scared the shit out of me, Matt!"

Matt blinked several times, adjusting to the light. "Sorry, man," he mumbled. "I had a few jrinks an' a libble troutle wif da door." He grabbed the door trying not to lose his balance. Before he knew it he fell to the floor unconscious.

Matt awoke several hours later. He had been moved to his bed and was still dressed the same clothes as last night. The sun hardly came into his room through his dark curtains. It was nice. He could barely see a thing. It helped to keep him calm, what with the loss of his wife and daughter only two weeks ago. He reached to his side and turned on the light. He swung his legs off the bed and stepped onto the floor. Crouching down, he opened the drawer of his bedside table. As he opened, he started to reach a hand in, but he paused. His bottle of whiskey was gone. It was a good thing he had stopped getting hangovers since the first time he got blackout drunk, or else, he would be more than extremely annoyed right now.

Annoyed, he stood back up and walked to his closet. He opened it up, and his mini-fridge was gone. "Damn it, Thomas!" He opened his door and made his way to the kitchen. He saw all of his bottles next to the sink, empty. He walked over and a note caught his eye. The note read:

Matt, you need to quit the drinking. I did this for you, buddy. We'll talk some when I get home from work.

Matt just looked at the empty bottles and walked over to the table to sit down. An envelope caught his eye. It was addressed to him. A little confused, he picked it up to examine it. "No return address..." Out of pure curiosity he opened it. Anything to distract him from the situation. Reaching in, he pulled out a letter and a card. It had some sort of world logo on one side and a fingerprint on the other. It said to call customer service. "Hmm... No number."

Tossing the card onto the table, Matt took a look at the letter. After reading through the letter, he sat in thought for a moment. His first thought was that someone on /b/ had managed to get his address and name. However, for the sake of a distraction, he made his way to the computer. After looking up various phrases, mostly from the last paragraph, he gathered that whoever had sent this letter was just another end of the world nut.

Despite this, Matt felt like he was missing something. He looked through the letter once more. His mind then wandered back to the card. There had been no number for customer service. His eyes went to the top of the letter to see the date. There was something wrong. It was missing a single digit in the year. It seemed to leave it with seven numbers. Pulling out his cell, he dialed 180-8201. He got nothing. Hanging up the phone, he scanned the letter for more. 13 and 16 caught his eye. With those numbers added, it left a full number, area code and all. Searching the area code, it came up as a Hawaiian number. "Alright, maybe this will be interesting. Probably some troll." He dialed in 1-808-201-1316.

Denver International Airport was brimming with people, travelers checked in and out in what seem to be an endless pour of activity. Uniformly busy were the airport’s security personnel. Ever since the airport’s conspiracy rumors began they’ve had to deal with all levels of conspiracy aficionados. For security officer John Smith, today had become exceptionally unique when a woman, he never seen before, walked up to him revealing a level zero security key-card and casually asked where to catch the train. He was, for a moment, caught off-guard by the women. Maybe it was the intensity in her beautiful mocha-eyes that trapped him in her gaze, or the full shape of her lips sketching a friendly smile, or the sweet aroma of her feminine perfume he can still smell, which he didn’t anticipate. He almost let her go before he listened to his instincts and reported the incident.

Within minutes the women’s image was stalked by the airport’s security cameras, the monitors showed her standing in front of the ‘Peace and Harmony with Nature’ mural, one of the controversial renditions of environmentalism and preservation by Leo Tanguma, in the Chicano-art style. The artwork was an impressive morbid depiction of green politics – at the center of the art piece were depicted the images of saddened children with extinct animal and plant species. In the background, a forest on fire and further back, a city covered in an ill colored haze, but what stood out, and possibly the reason people said the piece had hidden messages, were the even darker elements in the image. One of the children held what looked like a Mayan tablet ascribed to be a depiction of the end of civilization. And at the bottom, of the peaceful painting, were three open-caskets containing dead girls from different cultures. On the left is an African woman with shackled neck and wrists. In the center is a Native woman. And on the right is a white girl recognized as Jewish, surrounded by the rudiments typically buried with the dead, among these items is the Star of David and a bible.

John guardedly approached the beauty with one hand casually resting on the holster of his weapon, “Interesting peace, isn’t it?” he asked. The scent of her perfume brought a smile to his face again. He was taken by the women; she was young, Caucasian, possibly in her early-twenties, and about 5’ 2” tall. She had sunglasses on the head, which pushed back the wild black tresses from her face, and wore a low tangerine v-neck sweater top, revealing the mounds of her breast, over a white spandex body-suit and jean mini-skirt. She wore white running sneakers that looked newer than anything else she had on. She carried a grey coat, folded over her left hand, and a stuffed black backpack over the left shoulder, and a roll-aboard carry on, which she still dragged with her right hand.

Three security personnel stood by and two dressed in civilian clothes observed them unnoticed. An oriental couple with a video camera approached the mural. John was not interested in the artwork, and in fact, he was irritated at the attention these peaces attracted. He never understood why they had been order in the first place, but who was he to question the bodies of power that hired him, he was nothing less than a soldier.

“Interesting does not begin to describe the feelings this painting can invoke, it is an exceptional peace of art,” she replied. She sized up John’s posture and held his gaze before she asked, “Are you the Historian?”

He smiled to hide the fact he was puzzled by the question. But there was no time for an answer, the order had been given to apprehend the women, and before the women, or anyone else noticed what happened, she was taken by the two security officers dressed in civilian clothing through a nearby door.



John was still thinking about the young women when he was approached by a man holding a level zero security key-card, and asked exactly the same question the women had asked hours earlier. Today was an exceptional day indeed he concluded. Either his cover had been blown or a new security thread was knocking at their doors. He didn’t bother informing the incident this time, instead he asked the man to follow him, and escorted the unsuspecting traveler through a series of doors and to an empty interrogation room. The room was exceptionally bright and white clean, with nothing but a metal table and two matching chairs at angular ends. There was a glass window which added a false sense of space to the small room. John asked the men to wait in the room that someone would be in to speak with him shortly. He stood by the door and looked toward the glass window before a buzz signaled he can exit. The door locked behind him, leaving Christopher Linx inside.

Matt listened to the recording over the phone. He didn't know why, but he felt drawn. He felt like he should actually go to to Denver. There it was. His curiosity and sense of adventure. It was what made him want to be a cop. The only thing that had stopped him from joining the Army was his daughter. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a coin. "Well...I am on leave," he said to himself. "Alright. Tails, I go, heads, I stay." He flipped the coin into the air. Catching it, he immediately slapped i onto his left hand. Lifting his right to see the results, it came up tails. "Looks like I'm going on a vacation."

Pushing his chair away from the computer, Matt stood up. He heard the front door open. "Must be Thomas," he concluded. He walked out into the kitchen. Thomas was standing next to the table holding the card which Matt had left.

"The hell is this thing?" Thomas inquired. "Some sort of credit card?"

"No clue, man. It was in the mail for me. And before you say anything, I understand why you did it. I shouldn't torture myself. I'll just be digging my way to an early grave. Not that that wouldn't be nice at this point."

Thomas smirked back at Matt. "Well, I'm glad you aren't pissed. I was expecting you to punch me right in the face as soon as ya saw me." He paused for a moment. "Ya know what you need to do, man. You should go on a vacation. Get your mind off of everything."

Matt couldn't stop himself from laughing. "Actually, I was about to tell you that I was going to do exactly that. Don't know where, but I'll figure that out when I get to the Airport. I really hate to say this, but I do have plenty of cash from the insurance company." He stopped, holding back a few tears. "I guess it would be a way for them to think I'm happy. I know that's what they would want. And, Tom. If you ever need anything, just ask. You've been a huge help for me."

For the next hour or so, Matt just packed his bags and talked to Thomas. Eventually, everything was ready and Thomas drove him out to the Airport. Upon arrival, Matt managed to get a a seat on the next flight to Denver. Unfortunately, he had to buy a first class ticket. Coach was packed.

By the time Matt reached Denver International, it was getting late. By the time he got off the plane, it was eight thirty. "Damn it," he said under his breath as he walked around the airport looking for the security guard. "Where the hell is he?" The guard's shift was almost up by the time he found him. Matt tried not to look very awkward as he approached the man. "Hey, man! Could you tell me where I can catch the train?" He tried not to make things seem too formal as he showed off his card.

Chris watched the guard leave before looking around the room. It was small, and looked exactly like the interrogation rooms in television.

"Come on, what's all this about?" he called to no one in particular. "You can't just lock me up for no reason! I've... Uh... Written lawyers before! I know my rights! Which, by the way, you didn't read me. Yeah! Just because I'm foreign doesn't mean I don't know about your laws!"

Chris gave up--clearly he wasn't going to get a response. He sat down, making sure his back was to the window. No reason to make this easy for them. While waited, he pulled out his laptop again. Strange they didn't take it from me he thought, opening up to his video diary.

"New development. I followed the instructions from the call exactly, and was promptly detained by the guard I was told to meet. I don't know what kind of game someone's playing, but it's certainly not off to a good start. I'll keep you updated on anything new.". Chris closed his laptop and put it back in his bag. He turned to give a cheery wave to the guy on the other side of the window before settling in to wait for someone to come and apologize for his treatment.

Roy had just spend two hours in a local tea house with some colleagues and he was more than ready to relax. He liked the tea house, as it was the epitome of Turkish culture, but discussing the reliability of dating methods and the meanings of some recently discovered inscriptions in Egypt could be very tiring. Although he loved his job, he lately couldn’t help thinking that he needed a break from all of it. Maybe it was a good time to visit his parents and oldest sister in London. Or he could go to his other sister in Germany, who had married the mayor of a small village near the Alps. Contemplating the possibility of a small vacation, he opened the front door of the building he was currently living in.

He was greeted in the hallway by the landlady, a frail looking woman, but one that didn’t take no for an answer. “Good evening Mrs. Polat”. He was about to go upstairs, when the woman grabbed him by the coat. “You wait,” she said to him in broken English. She walked towards a small table and picked up a couple of envelopes. After mumbling to herself a bit, she took the third one and placed the rest back on the table. She showed him the envelope and looked rather unhappy. Roy could see it was addressed to him. Pointing towards it, she said “Man came. I paying. You pay me.” He then noticed the stamp in the right corner. The man must have been some kind of special courier, which means the delivery service wasn’t free. After paying Mrs. Polat the money, though Roy was sure she asked for more than she had originally paid, he took the envelope and went to his apartment.

After pouring himself a cold drink, he opened the envelope. Inside were a plastic keycard and a letter. The card itself was already strange, as it had no logo of a company (or at least one that he knew off) and on one side there was the depiction of a fingerprint. This was, however, nothing compared to the strangeness of the letter. Roy couldn’t really make sense of it. It had a Dan Brown-like feel to it, though much darker. The meaning of the eye in the pyramid was very obvious and some Hindu gods were mentioned, but how all of that was connected, or why it should matter to him, he didn’t know. He was about to throw the letter away, when he realised he had to pay for the damn thing.

Ow well, I could at least see what it’s about.

He picked up the phone in order to dial the number on the key card. Only then he realized that there was no number mentioned, only that it can be found. Roy took another look at the letter. He had already noticed that the date was wrong, but discarded it as a typo earlier. Those seven numbers aren’t enough though. He read the letter again and laughed when he saw the other two numbers. Dialling 18082011316.

Roy listened to the message, perplexed. Denver? He listened to the message once again, then threw the phone away. No way he was going to Denver. He stood up and took off his clothes in order to take a shower. When the hot water fell down on his body, he felt completely at peace for a moment. Then the letter and the phone message got back into his thoughts. It all sounded so crazy, so unreal. And yet he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was worth checking out.

In a moment of unexplainable impulsiveness, although nobody would hear him, he said: “Roy, you were planning on going away for a while anyway, so why not go to Denver?” He always wanted to go the Colorado. Or was it Nebraska?

------------------------

After a long flight, including a transfer in Chicago, Roy finally arrived at Denver International. While he was waiting for his luggage, the same backpack that he always took with him for the last ten years, he caught himself checking if his passport was still in his pocket for the sixth time. I must be quite nervous. He was already regretting his decision to come to this place. On the plane he had done some research into both the airport as the things mentioned in the letter, and he became more and more convinced that he had fallen victim to some elaborate joke.

He reached the westside carousels, however, before he could change his mind. Seeing the world logo on one of the sleeves of a security guard, Roy was surprised the man actually existed. “Excuse me,” he said to the guard, unsure what to do, “my name is Roy Halliday. Uhm... Are you the one that I’m supposed to talk to? About the train?” He fumbled around in his pockets and showed the man his keycard. “You know where I can catch the train?”

John was truly puzzled by today’s events. He sat in the interrogation chair recounting yet again today’s events, himself trying to make some sense of it all, and praying he didn’t lose his job in the process. “…the woman approached me and asked directions to catch the train. I noticed she had a level zero key-card in her hand, which I though strange as I’ve never seen her before. I considered the possibility she was new, and provided directions. I reported the incident and was immediately told to apprehend the women, and we did. Several hours later, while back at my post, another individual, this time a male, approached me holding an identical key-card and asked the same question as the female. This time I brought the individual to holding room 3.” He paused for a moment trying to recount what happened next without sounding ludicrous, which was how he felt at the moment, “I don’t know why these individuals target me, and I want to make sure it is on record, that I’ve never seen, interacted with anyone of the individuals before today.” He paused again unsure if the agent believed him. “The third man that approached me, we already had under surveillance. We noticed him wondering about the airport, he seemed to be particularly interested in uniformed security personnel – it was brought up that he might be looking for me. So we set up a trap and I made sure he could find me, and as suspected the man approached me holding the key-card and asked for directions to the train. We thought he was going to cause trouble so we tagged him, once he fell we contained him and brought him in,” he sighed as he continued the report. “I was then order to stay in the Westside carousels as a full investigation was being conducted, and more suspects were expected to try and contact me. I was told to identify my self an assistant, and lead the targets to the inspections waiting area. When the fourth individual approached me he appeared nervous and somewhat unsure if I was the contact, I reassured him I was, and brought him in.”

John leaned back in the chair, his eyes fixed on the agent investigating the case. Agent Vega was beautiful but not as beautiful as the young women he met earlier, he thought. She definitely didn’t smell as sweet – Vega had a peculiar cigarette scent mixed with her perfume, which John didn’t find attractive. She was sharply dressed in a grey executive suit and pink button-down shirt, and even with the soft color her look was rather masculine. Her hair was lose and iron-straight, parted on the left side, which made her features pop, her lips were finely shaped with a dark pinkish color, and a smudge of eyeliner accentuated her brown eyes. She had an intense, inquisitive stare he found intimidating. But when she spoke she spoke softly, femininely, over sounding her S’s, which he found quite cute. There was a softness about her that contrasted her cynical persona. He knew the agent had to do her job, but he wished the entire day be over and done with. “Stick around, I may have more questions for you later on,” she said to John, and left the room.

The minute Vega stepped out of the room she lit a cigarette. Vega knew the soldier was telling the truth. She had some idea of what was going on, having already interrogated the first conspiracy theorist. What she could not comprehend was how these people can blindly follow orders from someone they don’t even know. She walked down the hall and past a wall-size logo of the world, underneath was written Defense Intelligence, Agency of Conspiracy Theories, and opposite of it was the main room filled with cubicles, work stations, monitors and workers busy at work. She continued through double glass doors where two armed guards stood, written on the doors in red letter; Authorized Personnel Only. On opposite direction came down Director Steve Banks, her boss. She stopped and took a drag off her cigarette.

“Vega, these things will kill you,” he said, and grabbed the cigarette from her killing it under his foot. “Hey I have a good one. Listen up. What do a cop, an archeologist, and a television writer have in common?” He couldn’t stop smiling, he enjoyed disquieting her, and he liked her. In his mind there were no buts about it; she was the best candidate to investigate the security breach. Even if she was due a few days off.

Luz didn’t bother to answer, in fact she stared him down, and she knew the answer was not going to benefit her in anyway.

“Ah come’on, at least take an educated guest?” he joked. “Okay kiddo, finish this one job, for me, and then is vacation time for you,” he said, seriously.

Luz entered the interrogation room followed by two guards.

“My apologies for the long wait, but we are the largest airport in the world and we couldn’t be busier this time of year. My name is Luz Vega, Head of Airport Security. The two gentlemen beside me are going to take your belongings for inspection. Don’t worry your items will be returned to you, after we have ourselves a little chat,” said Luz.

The guards grabbed what they came to get and exit the room. Luz pulled the empty chair back and sat, leaving enough room between the table and her self. She crossed the right leg over the other and folded arms across her chest. She looked at the time on her wrist-watch before speaking, “As you can imagine you’ve placed your self in a dangerous situation. What I don’t understand is why? Can you please explain to me how it is that you find your self here, with me?”

Chris eventually was joined by the woman, Luz Vega. As the security guards began to take his stuff, he started to protest, "Is that really...?" but gave up. He sat back down and turned to the woman across from him.

What I don’t understand is why? Can you please explain to me how it is that you find your self here, with me?”

"I got a letter, from some kook calling himself the Historian--whatever kind of name THAT is--with some cryptic clues about Hinduism and portals and the Age of Truth. At first I thought it was one of my friends playing some kind of joke on me, or a crazy dude who thought he knew the "secrets of our governments' wrongdoings" or something. I was going to ignore it, but I was stuck in my writing and decidedit would be interesting for a movie script or something to see what theletter was about. Normally I wouldn't come out this far, but I have a friend who works in Denver on some of your American shows, and if it turned out to be a bust I'd go see him about getting a freelance job over here."

Chris figured that should satisfy the woman. "See? No threats to security, or terrorist threats. Oh, and if anything happens to me, a copy of the letter and a transcript of the phone call that led me here are sitting at my house. IfI go missing, it'll take all of two minutes in my house to figure out where I went. And I'm sure you don't want people asking questions about your secret interview rooms for detaining innocent fliers."

Chris leaned back in his chair, deciding to appear confident even if this woman proably had dozens of ways to deal with his barely-threatening leverage.

Luz’s eyes stared blankly at Christopher Linx. She observed his body language, listened to speech patterns, and reactions, detecting the difference between a lie and the truth. His story matched the other travelers. But he knew more than he led on. She was disappointed he didn’t have the letter. She wanted to read it for herself.

"...If I go missing, it'll take all of two minutes in my house to figure out where I went. And I'm sure you don't want people asking questions about your secret interview rooms for detaining innocent fliers."

“We have enough conspiracy theories surrounding DIA already, what harm will it do if one more is added to the mix,” replied Vega. She remained collected and serious but she had made a joke of Mr Linx last remarked. “You are right, Mr. Lix, you’ve been played a cruel joke. I know you are innocent, and that you have no idea why you are here. You had writers block, you are looking for a new story, so you follow the directive of a recording from a ‘KooK’ (your word), and hoped on a plane from England to Denver, to meet a security officer who can tell you where to catch a train – did I get the story right so far, Mr. Lix? Did it ever occur to you that you may be exactly where you are supposed to be, Mr. Lix?”

Luz continued to say his name wrong intentionally. She was studying him, trying to get under his skin. She wanted more information, and she was sure Mr. Linx had researched, and deciphered the letter before he decided to hope on a plane and come to America. He mentioned the Age of Truth, and in her mind she made a mental note of it, but couldn’t connect where she heard these words before.

Matt sat down at the table in the interrogation room so that he was facing the two-way mirror. He would periodically wave to his reflection or make random comments. Eventually a woman entered with a couple of security guards. She explained the situation as the men took his things. When the questions started flying, Matt couldn't help but chuckle a little.

Stretching his arms, he let out a sigh. "I'm in dangerous situation all the damn time," he said. "I'm here because I'm part of the curiosity driven pile of dog shit stuck on the boot of America. Before we get started with this, could I get a drink or a smoke? "

The guard identified himself as an assistant. Roy assumed he meant the assistant of this mysterious Historian, whoever the hell he was. He wanted to ask the guard all kinds of questions, but the tired look in the man’s eyes made him decide otherwise. Instead, he followed the man, under the impression that he was taken to the train station. While they were walking, Roy considered the possibility of identifying himself as the Archaeologist.

After walking through a number of doors, Roy had lost count, the guard had escorted him inside a room. “Wait here,” the guard said and left before Roy could say anything. He looked around the room in surprise. It was small, had a glass window to one side and the only furniture was a table and two chairs. The room resembled one of those stereotype interrogation rooms on television. As he put down his backpack and said in one of the chairs, Roy’s first thought was that he was being arrested for something. That’s not possible. The guard wouldn’t have me freely following him if that was the case. Then he thought that he had to fill out some documents, all for the sake of bureaucracy, but he found it very unlikely that something like that had to happen in a room like this.

The Historian. This must be his next stage, the part where I’m supposed to meet these ‘others’.

Knowing that this was the most likely scenario, Roy relaxed. It wasn’t what he had expected, but there was probably a good reason behind it. Now all he had to do was to wait. He took out the letter from the inside of his jacket, and starting reading it again for the, figuratively speaking, hundredth time.

"It's Linx, Ms. Vega. My name is Christopher Linx. And if this IS where I'm supposed to be, then I was hoping you would tell me rather than interrogate me." He felt like the woman was playing games with him, but for all he knew this was how interrogations in secret underground complexes worked. "Besides, you just said it. It was a cruel joke. If you know I didn't do anything, maybe you could just let me go to see my friend and go find the person who sent me here. I mean, if you're this intense about me finding your super-secret underground complex--the one the internet is full of information on--then I'm sure you're very interested in knowing who knew enough about this place to get me here with a single, annoyingly vague letter."

He smiled. "You know, I'd be perfectly happy to help. My laptop has digital versions of the letter and phone call. I could give them to you."

In one room she had the the New York Times reporter, the television writer, and the archeologist. But the cop was the one she wondered about the most. The others all had professions that fit the agenda of the Historian, if in the least they were all genuinely interested in the topics. But why was Matt chosen for this game?

Stretching his arms, he let out a sigh. "I'm in dangerous situation all the damn time," he said. "I'm here because I'm part of the curiosity driven pile of dog shit stuck on the boot of America. Before we get started with this, could I get a drink or a smoke? "

“I’m afraid I’ll owe you that drink.” Luz placed a gold pack of Benson & Hedges on the table, after lighting a cigarette herself she passed Matt the lighter. She took a deep drag off the cigarette in her hand before speaking again.

“Now, from the beginning, tell me about the letter, the key-card, and the Historian?” She took a drag from her cigarette and waited for the men’s reply. What could he tell her she didn’t already know? So far the detainee’s stories match and the situation had become obvious to agent Vega. These people were deliberately sent here, possibly to find the secret government agency. She had a million questions running through her mind.

“Sharing what you know will help your position,” said Luz. What she said sounded like a warning, but it was meant as a reassurance. Luz gazed and nodded at the glass window and shortly after one of the guards, from earlier, brought in Mr. Linx’s laptop. He placed the laptop on the table and pushed the object toward Chris. Luz looked at her watch again. The guard remained in the room, and stood by the door. “What did you figure out from this letter tell me what you think the Historian knows and what conspiracy is he talking about?”

Chris opened his laptop and opened the file he had on this trip, but leaving the video diary for his eyes only. He turned the laptop to the woman across, and began to talk about what he knew.

"From the letter itself, not that much. Obviously whatever he believes, it involves ties to the Hindu religion. He mentions the all-seeing eye as well, which is usually believed to be a purely Egyptian symbol, but Shiva's third eye was also referred to with that name, and the Mayans had similar symbols as well. As far as the engineered Manu goes, the Manu is theleader in Hindu religion that saved the world from a great flood, similar to the Christian story of Noah, if a bit more believable in the methodology. He was the symbol that proceeded a golden age, sometimes referred to as the 'Age of Truth' I mentioned earlier. Now, if I were writing the story based on this information alone, it would almost certainly have supernatural elements. There would probably be a portal to the underworld, related to a recent archeological dig. And, based on the referece to the thirteen men who became gods, I would probably have thirteen men on the dig possessed by the gods of the Hindu religion. Unfortunately, I can't tell what kind of upernatural beliefs this man has, so I could be way off. Another possibility would be that he believes the government is trying to engineer a Manu, a perfect leader, to bring about another Age of Truth, as in the Golden Age of Rome, or the European Renessiance."

Chris let the woman finish perusing his more detailed research on the subject, waiting for her response.

Just as Roy had finished reading the letter, three people, a woman and two guards, entered the room. The guards took his backpack and laptop away before he could object, leaving only the letter in his hands. The woman pulled the other chair towards her and sat down. She was of Latino descent, probably in her early thirties. What did she say? Dangerous situation? He had thought that this place was some set-up by the Historian, but never that it was dangerous. Her questions didn’t really make sense either. Did she or did she not work for this Historian? Not really trying to hide his confusion, he pondered the question for a moment.

“Look, I’m only here because of this letter.” He showed it and then pushed it towards her. “It directed me to a telephone number, where an answering machine told me to go to this place. I know I must seem like a crazy person to just hop on a plane and travel all around the world, just because some voice told me. To be honest, I’m not really sure why I’m here either.” He looked at his hands for a moment, then stared directly into her eyes.

“But you see, I had an uncle who was an archaeologist.” Roy wasn’t sure if she knew he was an archaeologist as well, though she probably did. Roy continued: “He told me that symbols are the only things capable of connecting humans through time and space, as each and every one of us understands a symbol on some basic level. Not the exact meaning of course, but it provokes the same feelings.” He pointed towards the letter. “Take the eye that sits in the pyramid for example. It’s called the Eye of Providence or the All-Seeing Eye, and nowadays best known as something that appears on the US one-dollar bill. However, the Eye has been used by many societies. The oldest known example is the Egyptian Eye of Horus, the god of the sky. The eye itself is personified as the goddess Wadjet, the protector of Egypt. Thus, it was an often used symbol by the pharaohs. Though known under different names, the eye has been used in Buddhism, Christianity and by the Freemasons as well. And of course, the most interesting given the letter, the third eye of Shiva, although I must admit I’m not that familiar with Hinduism. Anyway, in all these religions and societies, the Eye evokes the same basic feeling: the one of an omnipresent power, that makes you feel insignificant. Whoever sees the symbol of the Eye, no matter where you come from, can’t help but feel like he or she is being watched. No wonder certain intelligence agencies use the symbol as well.”

Roy suddenly realized that he was lecturing, and felt embarrassed. The woman doesn’t want to know all that, you idiot. “Sorry, I’m rambling. Must be the nerves.” Though that was a lie. He wasn’t nervous anymore. More like enthusiastic, but it probably wasn’t the right moment to admit that.

Only then it occurred to him to ask the question: “Who are you, anyway?”

"I'm afraid I'll owe you that drink," Luz said. She continued to light her own cigarette and place a pack on the table. After retrieving a cigarette for himself, she handed him the lighter. As he lit his cigarette up, she continued, "Now, from the beginning, tell me about the letter, the key-card, and the Historian?"

He couldn't help but smile as he took a drag. "First off," he began, "thanks for the smoke. And I'm gonna hold you to that drink." As he spoke, he made sure to take note of the woman's body language and something caught his attention. "I never said anything about a letter, Miss Vega. I'm guessing you've had a few people in my situation as well?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter he had received. Tossing it on the table, he added, "Anyway, I'm sure the letter can tell you more than I can."