As the two of them locked eyeballs, a man appeared in the hallway behind her and quickly made his way over, placing his hand on her shoulder.
‘Thank you, Estelle, I’ve got this,’ he said, adding a friendly tap. ‘Why don’t you rejoin the party. We’re about to serve liqueurs.’
Estelle shrugged her shoulders and headed back inside, swaying down the hallway.
‘Sorry about that, just my sister in full flow,’ the man declared in an upper class English accent, before swigging an imaginary drink, ‘if you know what I mean.’
‘Not a problem… Dr Wexler?’ Harker replied.
‘I’m afraid not. My name is Wendel Hippendale, so you appear to have the wrong address.’
Fakest name ever, Harker thought, shaking his head at such a poor choice of alias. ‘Well, Wendel, that’s a remarkable coincidence, because you look very like Dr Michael Wexler.’
It was clear that Wexler not only had a penchant for choosing bad aliases but wasn’t very good under pressure either, for his neck now began to twitch back and forth.
‘Look, Dr Wexler, we know it’s you,’ Doggie said flatly as the fellow peered over their shoulders into the street behind. ‘We can assure you we mean you no harm.’
Wexler was still eyeing them suspiciously. ‘Who are you and what do you want with Dr Wexler?’
‘My name is Professor Alex Harker and this is Dean Thomas Lercher of Cambridge University.’
The use of titles clearly had little effect on this man, so Harker sought immediately to get straight to the point. ‘There’s been an incident out at the Gibraltar dig site involving Dr Holtz, so may we have a word with you in private?’
Wexler’s eyes widened with concern but still he gave a shake of his head. ‘I don’t know a Dr Wexler, or a Dr Holtz, I’ve already told you. You must have me mixed up with somebody else.’
‘Such as a dead man?’ Harker muttered cynically, both eyebrows raised. ‘Come now, Michael, we know that’s simply not true.’
The man just about maintained his composure as he glanced back and forth between them, but his thumb had begun to twitch awkwardly. ‘Who are you exactly?’
Doggie now took the lead, and with a single stride he joined Wexler on the top step. ‘We’re men who believe in discretion, Michael,’ he said, glancing over the man’s shoulder towards the sound of company in the other room. ‘And given what’s happened, that’s something you should value highly at this moment.’
Harker was impressed – the dean still had what it took – and Wexler’s resolve visibly began to crumble.
‘Fine. Then you’d better come inside, hadn’t you?’
Their reluctant host stood back and waited for them both to enter the hallway, before closing the door firmly. He said nothing, but only beckoned with his finger for them to follow, then led them past the main room, allowing them a glimpse of Estelle downing a large glass of green crème de menthe as fifteen or so well-dressed guests egged her on enthusiastically.
‘We can talk in my study,’ Wexler explained as they followed him up a narrow staircase to the first floor.
The impressive paintings hanging on lilac-painted walls screamed wealth and taste.
‘Is that a genuine Caravaggio?’ Harker stopped before a painting of a naked young man hunched, holding a lamb in his arms, which was displayed in a gilt-trimmed frame illuminated by a rectangular brass display lamp.
‘Ah, yes, the Apostle John as a boy, with the lamb of God,’ Wexler replied, displaying a fleeting surge of pride in his possessions. ‘You have a good eye, Professor Harker.’
Wexler continued to the end of the landing where he opened a door into the last room.
Doggie leaned in close to Harker’s ear. ‘I never much cared for Caravaggio.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ Harker whispered back sarcastically, ‘I much prefer that poster of the Mona Lisa you bought in the Louvre gift shop.’
With Doggie looking mightily unimpressed they followed Wexler into his study and took a moment to take in the decor, while their host closed the door softly behind them. At the far end of the room stood a heavy mahogany partners’ desk. Long green curtains hung alongside each of the two large windows overlooking the street outside. The crimson carpet seemed at odds with the lilac walls and the desk itself sat on a red and white Persian rug which seemed to clash with the chrome skirting board that ran around the edges of the room.
The doctor seemed understandably miffed by their intrusion but he extended an arm and gestured for his visitors to take a seat in the two Herman Miller office chairs on the other side of the desk.
‘Thank you,’ Harker replied as he and Doggie sat down. ‘I appreciate our arrival must be somewhat disconcerting for you, given the… clandestine nature of the dig in Gibraltar.’
‘Not to mention the exaggerated reports of your demise,’ Doggie added with a wink.
From Wexler’s blank expression it was evident the doctor was unwilling to reveal any information he didn’t have to, and Harker settled back in his chair like a man in charge of the situation.
‘Are you aware that earlier today that same underwater dig site was destroyed, and Dr Holtz herself is now in a critical condition?’
The seriousness of Dr Holtz’s physical state was a deliberate overplay on Harker’s part, but Wexler remained silent regardless, allowing his visitor to make his point.
‘You should also know I was inside the pyramid when it collapsed. Or, more accurately, was blown up.’
There was still no reaction and so, like choosing the right bait for a fish to bite, Harker reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold coin Barbara Holtz had given him and then, very slowly for maximum effect, he leant over and placed it on the desktop. ‘And then there’s this.’
Wexler’s left eye now began to twitch with undisguised interest and he stared down at it, then back at Harker, then down at the coin again. He calmly picked it up off the desk and held it between thumb and forefinger as he examined it more closely. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I took it from the site, as you should know,’ Harker replied as Wexler continued scrutinising the coin. ‘Maybe we should start with what you yourself know, beginning with why you’ve faked your own death.’
Wexler looked irked initially, his lips tensing and his grip on the coin tightening. But as they sat there in silence, his expression began to soften and he replaced the coin on the desktop.
‘I’m not sure I understand exactly how you’ve become embroiled in all of this, Professor Harker.’
‘Please, call me Alex,’ Harker replied, sitting up straighter in his chair.
‘Very well, Alex. But seeing as you have me at a disadvantage, and in light of this,’ Wexler tapped a finger on the coin, ‘why don’t we start at the beginning?’
Finally chose the right bait, Harker reflected.
‘I was invited to the dig by Barbara Holtz because of my academic background in ancient texts,’ he began.
‘She said you invited her.’
‘No, that’s incorrect. She invited both myself and Marsouk Khan for the same reason, just over two weeks ago.’
This timeline contradicted Holtz’s account, but Harker remained quiet and allowed the man to continue.
‘It was a fascinating experience and like nothing else I’d ever seen – truly unbelievable, as I’m sure you’ll agree. A complete rewriting of traditional historical teachings. Involving a previously unknown civilisation, and one – if the frescos are to be taken seriously – that explains much about history we don’t understand.’
‘How so?’ Harker asked, despite not wanting to contaminate this explanation with his own views on the subject. Which were views he was not even sure of yet.
‘Let’s put that to one side for the moment,’ Wexler replied, shifting in his chair, ‘because, after the initial survey, we found something that at the time I did not truly appreciate the significance of. Both Marsouk and myself believed that this discovery should be made public, an
d we urged Dr Holtz to bring in the media, but she was adamant that the whole site remain a secret until we learnt more.’
‘So, what did you discover?’ Doggie asked, but Wexler merely waved his hand dismissively in the dean’s direction.
‘I’ll get to that shortly, if you’ll allow me to continue. Now, as I was just saying, Dr Holtz refused our request, and as the days rolled by it became an ever growing bone of contention between us. So, finally, I gave her twenty-four hours to agree to my request, or else I would go to the media myself.’ Wexler began rubbing his forehead. ‘Marsouk was found dead at his hotel eight hours later – an apparent heart attack, if you’ll believe that – and I… well, I panicked. I took off immediately.’
‘The reports claim your body was found washed up on a beach in the south of France,’ Harker interjected, and Wexler offered a nod.
‘My brother-in-law serves in the police force down there. I asked him for his help because my life was likely in danger, and he agreed. I then came straight here to Switzerland.’
‘That story will never hold up in the long run, Michael,’ Harker declared. ‘If there wasn’t actually a body, then someone will find out.’
Wexler shrugged his shoulders. ‘It won’t matter soon, anyway.’
This answer was unnerving and Harker shot Doggie a worried look. ‘And why would that be?’
Wexler stared gloomily out of the window and down at the sparkling lights of Zermatt below. ‘Because in a week’s time everything we know, love and cherish will be gone… all in the blink of an eye.’
Chapter 15
‘What exactly are you talking about?’ Harker demanded sharply, getting to his feet. None of this made any sense to him. ‘What did you find down there?’
Wexler seemed oblivious to his question and continued staring out of the window, but now up at the night sky. ‘Do you know how legends are started, Alex?’
He hazarded, ‘They’re actually true stories convoluted over time, through retelling, until they take on a life of their own. Well, that’s my take on it.’
‘Exactly. I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Wexler replied, turning away from the window to face him. ‘It starts with truth – fact – that, over time, becomes more than what it once was. Each generation adding to it, a little bit here, a little bit there, until finally, when enough time has passed, the legend recounted bears only a glimmer of the truth that it once related to. It’s all about time, you see. That’s the important component.’
‘OK,’ Harker replied vaguely, beginning to frown in confusion.
‘If enough time passes, then what was once legend is sometimes taken up as fact again – like Chinese whispers, when you think about it.’
Wexler rose from his chair and with an outstretched hand gestured Harker to return to his seat, before perching himself on the edge of his desk and continuing. ‘If an apocalyptic event took place on Earth, say twelve thousand years ago, how would those who survived it warn the following generations?’
‘Why would they want to warn them? It’s already happened.’ Doggie revealed his lack of interest in this bizarre conversation by flicking some specks of lint from his thigh.
‘Ah, but what if they realised it would happen again – and perhaps even had happened before. Then what?’
Finally, Harker thought, at last some foundation for a discussion. ‘Some kind of documentation would provide the most straightforward solution.’
‘True, true. But how sure could we be that such documents would survive the passage of time? I mean, materials can break down completely and turn to dust within a few hundred, let alone thousands of years. Languages evolve and empires shift. No, how could survivors of such a catastrophe even hope to ensure that their warnings might stand a chance of reaching people so far in the future? Something physical would be a gamble at best. Would it not make more sense to embed the message in something intangible, which could survive down the ages within the minds of humankind?’
‘You’re talking about religion, aren’t you?’ Harker asked, now feeling genuinely interested.
‘Precisely, Alex. How best to pass a message on to the future than through an ideology that countless humans hold so dear.’
Wexler made his way back to the other side of his desk and slid open the central drawer. He pulled out a large book with yellow sticky notes sticking out from the side, and opened it at the first one before motioning for them to approach the desk.
‘In every religious doctrine there are certain similar, connecting themes. All of them describe a higher power, a god. They all comprise stories of man’s realisation that this god is their master, to be served and worshipped.’
‘And?’ Harker was becoming mildly frustrated.
‘And this,’ Wexler replied, pointing to the reproduction of an oil painting depicting a gigantic flood, with naked people being washed away on cresting waves while a few clung to a small rock protruding from the surface, along with a single, bedraggled looking lion.
‘Noah’s flood.’
Wexler gave a grave nod of the head. ‘In every religion, on every continent, the legend of a great deluge appears. It is described as being of such epic proportions that almost everyone and everything was washed away by it.’
The doctor now began flipping pages to each of the bookmarks in turn. ‘The Bible, the Quran, Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism all contain the story in their doctrines. From China to the Aztecs, Mesopotamians, Egyptians, Hawaiians, Aboriginals, Sumerians… and I could go on and on. There is not one civilisation on Earth whose mythology or religion doesn’t describe the story of a great deluge – an apocalypse that wiped out humankind.’
Harker and Doggie remained quiet, uncertain as to what to make of this intense presentation. There was something in all this that they were still missing. Whether it involved a member of a doomsday cult or the guy who traipses the streets wearing a ‘The end is nigh’ sandwich board, they all shared one thing in common with Michael Wexler… that wide-eyed look of consuming obsession. And it was with that very gaze that he stared at them now.
‘Well, that’s all very interesting,’ Harker began, scratching his cheek, ‘and I will admit those frescos back in the pyramid did depict a huge flood of some kind, but I’m not sure that I…’ He motioned to Doggie, looking equally bemused, and continued, ‘… that we know where you’re going with all this.’
Wexler closed the book, reached into his pocket and pulled out a smartphone, which he began to tap on. ‘Did you notice anything missing whilst you were inside that pyramid?’ he asked, without looking up from the screen. ‘Something that stood out? Something on the walls maybe?’
Harker was racking his brains when he suddenly remembered the one oddity that had stood out. ‘There was a piece of plaster missing from one of the frescos.’
‘Good, you noticed,’ Wexler replied, now looking up from the mobile’s screen. ‘Barbara Holtz had removed it, but not before I managed to take a picture of it.’ He passed the phone over to Harker.
The image seemed familiar to Harker, and as he used his fingers to zoom in, he started to recognise it. ‘It looks similar to the Mayan Calendar, but the markings are different.’
‘Yes, the famous Mesoamerican Long Count calendar that had every conspiracy buff on the planet thinking the world would end back in 2012.’
Harker remembered it well. Although he himself could not take it seriously, there were many who did, but as he had expected, that date had passed with nothing eventful transpiring.
‘And your point is?’
‘My point, Alex, is that this calendar follows the same countdown as used by the Mayans, with one notable exception. The day of reckoning begins rather closer to us now.’
‘How close?’ Harker asked.
With a sombre expression, Wexler’s shoulders stiffened. ‘In just under a week.’
As fascinating as this seemed, Harker was not about to put any real credence into whatever their host alluded to, but he decided to tread
carefully given that a crazy, unhinged look was back in Wexler’s eyes. ‘That is very interesting, Michael, but there are the same types of prediction in most ancient cultures, from all over the world. What makes this one so special?’
‘Swipe on to the next photo,’ Wexler instructed, gesturing towards the phone.
Harker did so to find himself looking at an image of what appeared to be a series of dots surrounding a central orb.
‘What you’re looking at was found on that same piece of plaster, and right next to the calendar,’ Wexler said, pursing his lips. ‘Now, you tell me, what does it look like?’
Harker didn’t need any time to reflect because he already knew what it was. The orb in the centre had pointed triangles protruding from its surface, clearly representing light, and the other dots – or smaller orbs – had been placed at various distances from it. Each was connected to a faint ring showing its rotation around the central orb. ‘It’s the solar system,’ he said confidently.
Wexler nodded. ‘And how many planets are there?’
Harker did a quick count and then, for the first time since meeting the doctor he felt a slight twinge in the pit of his stomach. ‘Nine.’
‘Nine,’ Wexler repeated. And as the two men stared at each other, a frown spread across Doggie’s forehead.
‘Sorry, gentlemen, but am I missing something? Are we still on the subject of Noah and the flood and apocalyptic calendars, or should I just leave you boys to it? I’d be more than happy to go and join the party below.’
Wexler looked rather offended, then he pointed again to the phone. ‘Well, if that doesn’t impress you, then perhaps this will. Swipe to the next photo.’
Harker did as he was told and what he saw made him gasp. The photo showed the body of a man standing naked, but it wasn’t the nudity that was disturbing, rather the large elliptical-shaped eyes, olive-coloured skin and six digits on each hand.
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked, as Doggie craned to take a look.
‘I downloaded it from Barbara Holtz’s laptop,’ Wexler explained, looking thrilled with himself. ‘Bet you’ve never seen anything like that before.’
The Shadow Conspiracy Page 14
