‘You have been snooping!’ barked Swakilki.
‘What? No. Where am I? It’s you . . .’ began Vincent, recollecting the Japanese woman he had seen several times in passing.
Before he could complete his sentence, he felt a stinging slap across his face. ‘Shut up!’ she hissed. The venom in her voice was blood-curdling. ‘Do not play games with me. You have been tracking a prey that you had no business to.’
Vincent was completely disoriented. He didn’t have an answer. ‘Look, I really do not know what you are talking about. I would like to cooperate, but I am lost. What are you talking about?’
Swakilki looked at him with contempt. ‘My guest seems to have lost his memory. He seems to have forgotten his extended conversations with Brother Thomas Manning. He has conveniently forgotten his past-life sessions in London with Professor Terry Acton. Has he also forgotten the Bom Jesus papers that Acton gave him? I think he needs a jolt to be brought to his senses.’
Vincent couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Thomas Manning had promised to keep his conversation confidential. And why was this woman aware of Terry Acton? How did she know of the Bom Jesus papers? Was there a conspiracy that was being covered up? Could Terry’s research have made someone uncomfortable?
Vincent kept staring at Swakilki with a glazed expression on his face. In his brain, he kept seeing himself as the bodyguard killing Mama Anawarkhi to prevent her from plotting against the King Sapa Inca Pachacuti. Swakilki morphed into Mama Anawarkhi. She then morphed back into Swakilki. She then morphed into the Empress Wu Zhao, the evil power on the throne, as she shattered his limbs and placed him in a large wine urn to die a slow death in agony. Wu Zhao morphed back into Swakilki. Then back into Charlotte Lavoisier as she stabbed Jean-Paul Pelletier. He saw Sanson chopping off her head and then saw Swakilki chopping off Terry Acton’s head. Swakilki then morphed into a woman who was . . . no, this was not possible . . . Mary Magdalene! As usual, she was blurred—he was seeing several Mary Magdalenes! He was going crazy! Then it was back to Swakilki.174
That was when he realised the full significance of Swakilki. He had several past-life connections with her, the present being just one among a series of lifetimes.
‘Listen to me, please,’ pleaded Vincent. ‘I think I know what is happening. My interest in the subject that you spoke of is purely academic . . . why don’t you tell me what you want and I’ll see if I can fill in some of the blanks.’
‘See how the mighty have fallen,’ remarked Swakilki sarcastically as she grabbed a fistful of the hair on his head and breathed into his face. ‘Now you listen to me . . . you will do exactly as I say . . . do I make myself clear? I will not have you meddling around.’ Vincent nodded dumbly in fear as she left the room, the lock clicking firmly in place as she closed the door.
Vincent’s arms and legs were hurting. She had used a rough twine rope to tie his arms behind his back. His legs were tied together at the ankles. He had been in the same position for several hours. His head was pounding and his throat was parched. He was unable to figure out where he was. The basement seemed unused and was dark, damp and musty. With the exception of the entrance door to the far right of the room, there were no other doors or windows. A lone, naked ten-watt light bulb hung from a cable in the ceiling, casting a dim light where he lay.
The door was suddenly flung open and the Japanese woman barged in. ‘Dinner is served, Your Grace,’ she remarked as she put a tin plate containing some rounds of naan and lentils in front of him, along with a plastic bottle of water.
‘I can’t eat with my hands tied,’ mumbled Vincent and was treated to another stinging slap from Swakilki for being rude. ‘You will speak when spoken to, am I clear?’ she said to him. She untied Vincent’s hands and pointed her Beretta 93R automatic at him. ‘One false move and I’ll blow your brains out!’ she said. Vincent was not particularly hungry, but he knew he needed to preserve his strength. He wolfed down the food that had been offered with several gulps of water from the plastic bottle.
‘Now, why don’t you tell me what you were doing here? Trying to track down the family of Jesus?’ demanded Swakilki.
‘No . . . no . . . you’ve got it all wrong. I’m here with my aunt. She’s an Indophile and wanted to experience the Navratri festival . . .’ began Vincent. Swakilki cut him off.
‘I know about your aunt. Don’t bother me with the irrelevant stuff. You expect me to believe that after having seen Jesus in a previous life, after having seen him survive a crucifixion, after having discussed this with Manning, after having taken a set of Bom Jesus papers from Acton, after having reached Goa—the home of Bom Jesus—you are merely here on a holiday?’ snapped Swakilki.
‘Yes! Please believe me! Yes, I went through regression therapy. Yes, I saw Jesus. Yes, I did discuss the possibilities of a Jesus bloodline with Thomas. But no, I did not come to India to find anyone . . . I really do not know anything more,’ pleaded Vincent.
‘Hmm. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m going to read you a bedtime story. See if you can recognise the book . . .’
Swakilki pulled out a couple of A4-size papers and began reading. ‘Issa and Mary had a child by the name of Sara, who was born to them in India, but was later sent to Gaul with her mother. Issa remained in India, where he married a woman from the Sakya clan on the persistence of King Gopadatta, and had a son, Benissa. Benissa had a son, Yushua, who fathered Akkub. Akkub’s son was Jashub. Abihud was the son of Jashub. Jashub’s grandson was Elnaam. Elnaam sired Harsha, who sired Jabal, who sired Shalman. Shalman’s son Zabbud converted to Islam. Zabbud fathered Abdul, who sired Haaroon. His child was Hamza. Omar was Hamza’s son and he produced Rashid. Rashid’s offspring was Khaleel . . . Does the passage ring a bell, Father Sinclair?’ asked Swakilki.
Vincent replied hesitantly, ‘Sure. It’s from the Tarikh-Issa-Massih. Ah! I see now. You think I was playing detective?’
‘Precisely, Mr Sherlock Holmes! That’s exactly what you were doing,’ exclaimed Swakilki triumphantly.
Vincent protested, ‘But I only got to Khaleel. No further. In fact, I do not even know whether the book is reliable.’ Vincent conveniently omitted mention of the Urdu version of the Tarikh-Issa-Massih that Martha had located which seemed to take the lineage further.
‘Oh yes, it is reliable. Terry Acton had spent years researching the subject and would have assured you that it was completely reliable had his life not come to an abrupt end.’
‘So are you telling me you know who is at the end of the Jesus lineage?’ asked Vincent incredulously.
‘Figure it out yourself, Father. You’re the so-called research enthusiast, aren’t you?’ she retorted. ‘I made it so easy for you. Pity you didn’t bother to hang on to the papers that I gave you at the church!’
‘No. It’s not possible to figure out anything from those papers. The book that Terry Acton had in his possession, the Tarikh-Issa-Massih, only talks of sixteen generations after Jesus. Even taking a forty-year lifespan for each generation, we only have information for around 640 years after Jesus. The remainder of the story is not there!’ he explained.
‘Oh it’s there, all right. Maybe you didn’t quite look in the right place,’ muttered Swakilki. ‘In any case, enough! We have to now get rid of you,’ said Swakilki to Vincent. ‘Get ready, Father, you are going to see your Lord pretty darn soon! I normally kill my victims immediately. You are lucky that I have a soft corner for your aunt!’
Secretary (R), General Prithviraj Singh, had rolled into Goa with 100 elite troops and set up camp at the Fort Aguada Hotel. He was sitting in a makeshift communications room along with Zvi Yatom when Martha barged in, followed closely by Pandit Ramgopal Prasad Sharma. ‘Please help us,’ cried Martha. ‘My nephew has been kidnapped.’
General Prithviraj Singh looked up at them irritably and said, ‘Please let me do my job. We already have 100 men scattered across town doing nothing else but attempting to find Mr Sinclair.’
‘Please, Gene
ral Sahib!’ The general saw Pandit Ramgopal Prasad Sharma’s anxious expression. ‘Panditji?’ he asked. The general knew what the old man’s expression indicated. ‘Quick, Panditji. Do you know where we need to focus our search?’
‘Satan! The devil!’ said Pandit Ramgopal Prasad Sharma, while Martha continued to sob.
The workers were busy constructing the huge effigy of the demon Ravana in the heart of Goa. This effigy, duly stuffed with firecrackers, would be set ablaze on Dussera day, the tenth day after the nine-day Hindu festival of Navratri. This particular effigy was impressive indeed. It scaled a height of forty-five feet and depicted Ravana with ten heads. The demon had a menacing scowl on all ten faces and stood holding his weapons with his feet astride a huge platform. The platform itself was around thirteen feet high.
The company that had been awarded the contract by the coordinating committee was a newcomer and was going the extra mile to please its clients. The contractor had imported the fireworks that would be used from China. This had roused the suspicions of RAW. Within the next thirty minutes, the town centre was cordoned off by the Rapid Action Division commanded by the general. In the centre of the cordoned-off area stood the devil . . . the demon king Ravana with his ten heads.
The general picked up his mobile phone and dialled the number of his counterpart in the CMG—the Crisis Management Group—a part of the DEA, the Department of Atomic Energy. ‘I need a team here immediately,’ he shouted as his men went about arresting the workers who were putting up the effigy of Ravana.
Over the years that it had devoted to nuclear research, India had very little by way of nuclear detection technology. Its front line of defence had primarily consisted of slightly more sophisticated Geiger counters. Unfortunately, these machines did a pathetic job of distinguishing highly enriched uranium, a dangerous element in a nuclear weapon, from naturally occurring radiation, which could be found in almost everything, including fertiliser and kitty litter. The other drawback was the fact that the enriched uranium used in a ‘dirty bomb’ would normally be encased in lead, thus resulting in very small amounts of radiation leakage.
Since 9/11, scientists at the Indian Department of Atomic Energy had been working on a new generation of equipment that could enhance uranium detection. These devices were engineered to detect all types of radiation in the first phase. In the second phase, advanced computing software was used to characterise the source and type of radiation. In fact, even a dirty bomb ensconced in a lead container would be detectable because some of the gamma rays would still escape the casing and this ‘signature’ would be identifiable by the software code that was being perpetually updated by software engineers working in a high-tech facility in Bangalore.175
The challenge would be to take the prototype and manufacture it in ‘cookie-cutter’ fashion so that it could be coupled with simple notebook computers that came with pre-loaded detection software. This mass manufacturing was still some years away.
In the meantime, the prototype was available with the Indian Institute of Technology in Mumbai. The general, through a word from the Prime Minister’s office, had succeeded in requisitioning the equipment and having it door-delivered to him in Goa.
General Prithviraj Singh and Zvi Yatom were watching the Crisis Management Team from the Department of Atomic Energy disassemble the effigy of the demon king Ravana with his ten heads. ‘Thank you, God, for making it quick and painless to locate the device,’ Prithviraj thought to himself as he watched the men prise open the base platform that was meant to contain Vincent and the bomb. About an hour later, he was halfway through chewing one of his Montecristo cigars when the chief supervisor walked over to him. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘Nothing to fear.’
‘So you disarmed the nuke?’ asked the general.
‘Nuke? Nah. Just routine Chinese firecrackers stuffed inside the effigy. No explosives at all. Not even semtex.’ He paused. ‘And General?’
‘Yes.’
‘You said that we may find a guy strapped inside…’
‘Sure.’
‘No such luck.’
‘No nuke? No priest? Then where in God’s name are they, and why did Pandit Ramgopal lead me to Satan?’ asked the general just as his mobile phone started buzzing. It was Stephen Elliot from Langley.
The nightclub near Anjuna Beach was a really wild place. It had red walls, red lights and even a red floor. The lamps were three-pointed pitchforks that had candles on each of the spikes. In the centre was the dance floor on which women, scantily clad in dark red bikini outfits, gyrated to loud rave music. Smoke from joints and spliffs permeated the air as locals and hippies picked up strangers in the night.
The name of the nightclub was ‘Shaitana’—the Indian word for ‘devil’—‘Satan’.
Vincent had been left there, drugged with pentobarbital, an Aum Shinrikyo speciality. In his hand was a note that read:
You have been left in Shaitana’s red; without losing a hair on your head. I could destroy you—don’t think I can’t. For your life you should thank your aunt. What you search for does exist; but I pray you to desist! You think your search will treasure find? No, it’s better to be blind. Some secrets are better left alone! Why make the living into Skull or Bone?
Rawalpindi, Pakistan, 2012
The home of Dawood Omar, who was not only Pakistan’s key nuclear research scientist but now also an important member of Pakistan’s largest religious political front, the Jamaat Islami, was rather quiet at 5 am. He was fast asleep, jet-lagged from his trip to Pyongyang to sell nuclear equipment subsidised by Oedipus for Isabel Madonna.
That was when three dozen SAS agents broke down the doors and captured the startled man as he was reaching for his Kalashnikov. Dawood was a big fish indeed. The suspected mastermind of several sensational terrorist acts around the world, he had a $25-million price-tag on his head.
Stephen Elliot dug into Dawood Omar’s laptop and was struck with fear. On the hard disk was an Al-Qaeda plan to create a series of nuclear hell storms throughout the United States, Europe and Israel.176
Many hours of sleep deprivation later, Dawood began to sing. He revealed to his interrogators that the ‘American Hiroshima’ command structure reported not to Osama-bin-Laden but to his deputy, a nameless and faceless man who was simply known as the Sheikh. The Sheikh and his Master, Osama, lived just a few hundred yards apart in Waziristan. The nuclear deal had been paid for by a Christian group called the Crux Decussata Permuta. Dr Abdul Qadeer Khan’s University of Leuven connections with Alberto Valerio had been used.
The one question that Dawood had been unable to answer was what the Christians wanted in return for having arranged the nuclear deal. He didn’t need to tell them. Stephen Elliot already knew.
Washington DC, USA, 2012
The 132 rooms, 35 bathrooms, 6 levels, 412 doors, 147 windows, 28 fireplaces, 8 staircases and 3 elevators of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue constituted the highest security zone in the world.177 In the West Wing of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue stood the room built by the twenty-seventh President of the United States of America, William Howard Taft. Taft’s preference for an oval-shaped room could be traced back to the days of George Washington, who had introduced the inno-vation in order to ensure that his guests could all stand equidistant from him.
The forty-fourth President of the United States of America sat inside the oval office listening to the security brief being presented by Stephen Elliot, head of the SAS, in the presence of the National Security Advisor. This President was known to have a short attention span, preferring short and crisp briefings. Patience was in short supply with this President, Oxford education notwithstanding.
This President’s tenure had seen the ruthless reorganisation of the Department of Homeland Security, the most compre-hensive rehaul of the federal government in a half-century, consolidating twenty-two agencies and 1,80,000 employees. This President meant business.
‘So, what do we know?’ asked the President.
‘Wel
l, we know that our “ally” in the war on terror, Pakistan, has been a key supplier. Funnily enough, this has happened without presidential sanction from Islamabad. It seems that the A.Q. Khan network has been independently in action through Dawood Omar. The Russians provided Bakatin to play the friendly broker. The device was smuggled into India using the Lashkar-e-Toiba network but has now crossed several international borders. Our sources tell us that there aren’t eleven targets but twelve. All of the incidents occurring so far have been major attacks although not on the scale of a Hiroshima. I am given to understand that the twelfth attack may be nuclear and that the target may be Israel,’ responded Stephen.
‘Jesus! Where? Why?’ asked the President.
‘Tel Megiddo—the Bible had prophesied that the final military showdown of the world would happen in Megiddo . . . these guys want to prove the point that Armageddon is finally here. It’s Islam vs the non-believers.’
‘And do we know who these people are?’
‘Ghalib-bin-Isar is head of the group. He takes his instructions from someone they call the Sheikh. He, in turn, seems to take instructions from Osama. It is the Crux Decussata Permuta connection that is confusing. We have never heard of these guys. What are they doing dealing with Islamic terrorists?’
‘Who is this Ghalib chap?’
‘He definitely trained under Osama. He has a tightly-knit pack of twelve stationed all over the world—India, the United States, England, Australia, France, South America, Malaysia, Indonesia, Russia, Iraq and China. They call themselves the “Lashkar-e-Talatashar”. Translated into English, it means the “Army of Thirteen”.’
‘Do we have anyone inside?’
‘Nope. We don’t have a Judas as yet.’
The President was silent. The National Security Advisor thought for a moment and then asked Stephen rather crossly, ‘Why don’t we have human intelligence? I thought this was meant to be the highest priority at the agency!’
The Rozabal Line Page 23
