Tree of Life

by J. F. Penn

  “Thinking they’re safe,” Attercop finished for him. “But the danger is inside all along.” He nodded. “That is a definite possibility. I’ll take several batches of both.” He wrote something in his notebook and then looked up with expectation.

  Guram led him over to a freestanding timber frame wound through with a woody vine with thick stems and wide glossy leaves. “Chondrodendron tomentosum, commonly known as curare. Often used for hunting by native tribes, its muscle relaxant properties paralyze prey when it enters the bloodstream.”

  Attercop snorted a little. “I’m hardly going to shoot the old woman with a poisoned dart, am I?”

  Guram gave a half-smile. “In the late 1800s and early twentieth century, doctors used it to keep a patient still during surgery. With artificial respiration to keep them alive, they would feel every cut, every slice, while unable to move or scream. I thought it might be useful to you.”

  Attercop looked intently at the vine, his eyes seeing beyond it to some dark future. “Hmm, you’re right. That could be interesting for a different project. I’ll take some of that, too.”

  In his head, Guram calculated the potential value of the transaction. Although their ultimate treasure was in Heaven, it was still important to show dedication by bringing in money to the Order. He would be doubly blessed if he could show the Abbot evidence of his singular devotion.

  Guram led the man over to a shrub around five feet high with round black berries. “This is coyotillo, Karwinskia humboldtiana. It causes paralysis and death, but not straight away. The weakness starts in the feet and legs and slowly brings the respiratory system to a halt.”

  “I’ll definitely take some of that.”

  As Attercop wrote more notes, Guram noticed the Abbot beckoning from a shaded area in the far corner of the garden. His heart beat faster as he considered the possibility of what he might be called for. Peddling the poisons of Nature was satisfying but ultimately beneath him, and he longed for a mission worthy of his true potential.

  He quickly showed Attercop the last samples and then left the man in the capable hands of one of the other Brothers who would finalize the details of invoicing and delivery.

  Once the English assassin was out of sight, Guram hurried over to the arbor where the Abbot sat on a carved wooden bench.

  “It is time, my son.” The old man’s expression was grim, and the shadows under his eyes had deepened with the burden he clearly carried. The Abbot touched the cord around his neck, his fingers running down to cup the silver pendant at its base. “You must go out into the world and walk amongst the fallen. The fragments are in danger of being gathered together, and there is a woman, a professor, who might be able to discern the meaning of it. She must not be allowed to see the map.”

  Guram found it hard to control his disgust as the Abbot spoke of such a creature. The woman Eve had been responsible for sin in the Garden, and even though all men were born from women, he wished it did not have to be so. The Garden caused the sin of Eve, and it had turned a sacred place of God into wild Nature that the Brothers now battled daily to keep in check.

  He pointed to the beds of virulent poisonous plants. “Shall I use something that cannot be traced?”

  The Abbot shook his head. “Don’t kill her. Not yet. I must understand what she knows first, and then we will offer her to the Garden. It is only fitting for one with such knowledge. Bring her to me at Eden.”

  Guram nodded. “Where is she?”

  The Abbot shook his head, melancholy shrouding his expression. “I’m sorry, my son, but you must go to a city of great sin. You must go to Paris.”

  10

  Frik Versfeld stormed out of the terminal building at Goa International Airport, India, his fists clenched in annoyance at the barely tolerable flight. There were many things he hated about long-distance travel, but at least he might be able to work out his frustration on Jake Timber’s face soon enough.

  Aurelia’s team of hackers had found evidence of multiple bookings for the pair of ARKANE agents out of Macau, an obvious attempt to throw him off their trail. But one route had been booked under fake names and Frik had decided that Goa was their most likely destination since it also fit with the history of the Portuguese in this area of the world.

  The other options were Jamaica in the Caribbean, which seemed ridiculous as it wasn’t even a former Portuguese territory — and Luanda in Angola, which Frik remembered with some fondness.

  His bank account had been nicely padded while working there during the last years of the civil war, which stretched on for 27 years after the country’s independence from Portugal. The lack of oversight from his oil company employers allowed Frik the freedom to experiment with new methods of torture, and the women were desperate enough for his dollars that they endured his particular brand of pleasure.

  Luanda was one of the most expensive cities in the world, but there was a stark division between the rich in their luxury gated compounds and the poor in the stinking slums. The place was still chaotic in the wake of the conflict and Frik could see no reason why a relic of the Jews would be kept somewhere so desperate. Goa had to be the place. He jumped in a taxi and headed for Goa Velha, the old city and former capital of Portuguese India.

  Frik emerged in front of the extravagant Baroque-style facade of the Basilica of Bom Jesus with its four towering levels in red brick and white marble. Two smaller entrances flanked an enormous door, thronged by the faithful who gathered to see the patron saint of Goa, St Francis Xavier. His mortal remains rested within, apparently still incorrupt after five hundred years, and his tomb seemed like a reasonable place to keep a relic — or the fragment of an ancient map.

  Frik steeled himself against the mass of humanity around him as he strode toward the entrance. Indians had no sense of personal space, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from shouting at the bastards to get out of his way. He kept an eye out for the figures of Jake and Morgan, but they were nowhere to be seen. He must have beaten them here.

  The spacious interior of the basilica had high ceilings, wide windows and cream walls with an extravagant altar of gold with paintings of angels singing Gloria to God. Frik had to hand it to the Catholics. They really did have some impressive architecture.

  Tourists crowded around a side altar where a gigantic Florentine mausoleum stood, covered with ornate carvings of stars and cherubs. The body of St Francis lay inside a casket within. The faithful here honored the saint, but many others considered him responsible for the torture and death of thousands as he had requested the Inquisition come to India in 1545. The records had been conveniently lost over time, but many died here, burned alive in the fires of the auto-da-fé.

  Frik had no personal faith in God, but he did have an appreciation for the various branches of the Inquisition. They had perfected the art of torture and the merciless killing of those they considered less than true believers, and they were certainly right to consider women inferior beings. Frik sometimes grated at working for Aurelia, but she had starved herself into looking nothing like a real woman, and she was as ruthless as a man on behalf of her cause. She might even have made a good Inquisitor. Frik smiled at the image of the gaunt heiress with a red-hot poker in her hand, advancing on those she wished to wipe off the face of the Earth — and there were many of those, that was certain.

  He also had great respect for the Portuguese explorers who headed out to conquer foreign lands, who had reshaped the world in their own image, transforming the territories they possessed and whose heritage still resounded in the modern world. Frik rejected those bed-wetting commentators who thought that reparations should be paid for past atrocities. Couldn’t they see how much the Europeans had done for these cesspools of humanity?

  He finally made it to the front of the pack of believers and stared at the ridiculously ornate casket containing the remains of the saint. Frik realized that there was no way he was getting into that thing without a serious amount of explosive. As much as he enjoyed b
lowing things up, there was something not quite right about the situation.

  As he walked away from the basilica, Frik wondered where the hell the ARKANE agents could be. There were few other places that made sense here in Goa. Perhaps he had made the wrong choice after all?

  No matter. Aurelia would find out where they were soon enough, and he would go beat the hell out of the smug bastard who had scarred him. Jake Timber would leave the world looking a lot less pretty than he did now.

  As the cargo plane banked over the azure waves of the Caribbean, Morgan considered how small the world felt when you could cross it in a day. The Portuguese explorers on their ships would not have been able to travel both east and west from their home ports as she did so easily. Most of them died far from their homelands in countries they claimed for their king, disregarding the people who already lived in the lands they conquered.

  There were so many incredible things about the modern world, so much to discover and experience. Some thought there was little mystery left, that everything could be found through the portal of an internet search, online video and social media, but that was merely a curated and edited version of the real world. To understand a place or a people, you had to walk the streets. If you wanted to know the truth behind the facade, you had to dig much deeper than what could be found through a screen. Morgan was grateful for this because, let’s face it, if Martin and his vast digital power could solve all ARKANE’s problems, then she and Jake would be out of a job. Then what would she do with her life?

  The shores of Jamaica came into view, the green mountainous regions of the inner island visible across white sand beaches and the modern city of Kingston. The plane flew in over Port Royal and bumped a little on landing. As the roar of the engines fell silent, Morgan sighed with relief. Cargo planes were the most efficient way of getting from Macau to Jamaica, but they were not designed for a pleasant flight. The luxurious memory of the MGM Cotai had faded with the first few hours of flying, and now she was desperate to get off.

  Jake unfolded himself from a padded bench, yawning as he sat up and unstrapped the various loops he’d constructed to keep himself in place during the flight. He moved with some residual discomfort and gently touched his ribs.

  “How are you feeling?” Morgan asked.

  Jake took a deep breath and then coughed a little as the pain clearly intensified. “Not quite one hundred percent, but getting there. The long sleep helped. Did you get some rest?”

  She shrugged. “A little, but I did a lot of reading.”

  Jake smiled. “Excellent, but we need coffee before we tackle the library.”

  Morgan smiled at the thought. Jamaica was famous for its Blue Mountain blends. “Definitely.”

  They emerged from the plane into a different kind of heat than Macau, with a stiff ocean breeze blowing clouds across the sky and refreshing the surrounding air. Airports were similar all over the world, but the faces here were different and the atmosphere was more relaxed. Macau had a frenzied underlying sense of commerce. If you didn’t hustle, you wouldn’t make it to the end of the day. Kingston seemed more about just letting the day happen around you, and as they walked through the terminal, Morgan relaxed a little. This wasn’t such a bad place to investigate where the next piece of the map might be.

  They jumped in a taxi and headed around the bay into the city, stopping at a coffee shop near the Kingston library. Morgan sat at a table outside in the early morning sun while Jake ordered the local brew. A little further down the street, a man cooked on half a metal drum while local workers gathered around, enticed by the sweet smell of fried plantain and johnny cakes, little fried dumplings served alongside akee fruit and salt-fish.

  Jake emerged from the shop with an easy smile on his face and steaming cups of coffee in his hands. “This is more like home for me, more like Africa. I love it already.”

  Morgan took a sip of the black coffee and allowed her body to loosen up in the sun. The city was not quite as she had expected. There were modern office buildings next to tin shacks, tiny stores selling different goods with makeshift tarpaulins as shade, a juxtaposition of wealth and poverty. The culture was a world away from Macau, but the disparity between rich and poor was just as evident.

  “There doesn’t seem to be much here of the Portuguese?” Jake noted as he stretched out his legs.

  “That’s because the Spanish were here, not the Portuguese,” Morgan said, recalling the information Martin had sent. “They arrived in 1494 when Christopher Columbus claimed this area, and most of the indigenous people died of diseases brought by the sailors. The Spanish brought many thousands of African slaves to the island to work the fields, and the population grew. The British conquered it in 1655 and expanded the sugar plantations. After slaves were emancipated in 1838, many of the freedmen continued to work on subsistence farms. Jamaica became independent from the United Kingdom in 1962 but is still part of the Commonwealth.”

  Jake looked confused. “So why are we here then?”

  Morgan gave a broad smile. “Jewish pirates of the Caribbean.”

  11

  Paris, France

  The crisp air had a bite from the easterly wind that swept the first fallen leaves from the ground and whirled them in the air as Martin and Sebastian hurried along the Rue de Richelieu toward the Bibliothèque Nationale, the national library of France. They had taken the earliest Eurostar, just two-and-a-half hours from London, arriving in time for coffee and pain au chocolat before heading out into the bustling city.

  Sebastian’s silver-topped cane clicked rhythmically on the flagstones as they passed the thriving local shops. He didn’t need it for leaning on; the man was fit as a fiddle, but Martin suspected the cane held some hidden weapon or other unusual feature that made it indispensable on such a journey.

  Although he usually preferred to stay away from so many people, Martin loved Paris. There was something about the language that made his mind turn in a different way, and he loved to sound out the words in his head as they passed shop signs: numismatique, laverie, laboratoire d’analyses medicales. The syllables were pleasing in their difference to English and, even though his French was passable, Martin found that he didn’t tune in so much to the rest of the world when people spoke an unfamiliar language around him. He could relax and walk and experience the morning. Bells ringing on bikes and scooters rushing by with a muted roar. The smell of freshly baked baguettes and sugar-topped pastries wafting from a boulangerie underneath apartments with filigree balconies. It was good to walk in a city that was so close to London and yet so distant in terms of culture. Martin regretted the choice of the British people to exit Europe in a practical sense, but he would never leave it in his heart.

  Sebastian was quieter than his usual ebullient self, and his fingers clutched the top of his cane with white knuckles. He hadn’t said much about who they were visiting, just that she was a preeminent biblical scholar, someone he had known many years ago and whose career he had followed from afar. As they approached the entrance to the Bibliothèque Nationale, his usually pale skin flushed a little in expectation. Martin grew increasingly curious, but he would not ask about it. The ways of people were endlessly varied, and he had learned over many years of puzzlement to wait and watch and observe.

  The sound of laughter and lively chatter came from a leafy park opposite the entrance to the library. Groups of students sat on the grass around an ornate fountain, making the most of the autumn sun as they relaxed next to an immense oak tree that could have been planted back when the library was established at this site in the seventeenth century.

  Martin had done his research on the place, preferring to know exactly what he was walking into. He had studied the history of the library and the physical layout of the Richelieu site, as well as hacking into its security to check for any issues. He found their system to be adequate for a place of learning, but while he was in there, he added various things that would help the French if someone other than a white hat hacker
came their way.

  The National Library of France traced its beginnings to the books collected by King Charles V in 1368 and originally held at the Louvre Palace. Known as the Bibliothèque du Roi, the library of the King, the collection grew over generations as it moved to various locations. It opened to the public in 1692 and expanded under the French Revolution when private collections of aristocrats were seized, and it became known as the Bibliothèque Nationale, the property of the French people rather than the crown. Napoleon increased its holdings and by 1896, it was the world’s largest repository of books. The ravages of the Second World War laid waste to its collection, but the library expanded after liberation, and in the 1980s it became one of the largest and most modern libraries in the world.

  Despite its modernity and France’s rejection of its regal beginnings, Martin couldn’t help but be glad of the library’s aristocratic heritage, for without the empire of the rich, it would not be housed in the gorgeous Richelieu building which had only recently reopened in full after several years of restoration.

  The tricolor flag of the French Republic flew above the oversized doorway next to the blue standard of the European Union with its twelve gold stars representing unity, solidarity and harmony. Sebastian led the way into a large courtyard beyond, with Martin following close behind.

  Guram stood under the oak tree, watching as the two men entered the library. One was old and thin, the other bespectacled, both built for desk work. Neither would be a problem.

  He leaned back against the trunk and used the wood to press his clothes against his skin. Under his modern t-shirt and jeans, he wore a thin forest green vest woven through with thorns to remind him of his purpose. As the tiny hooks cut into his flesh, he relished the task ahead. He had never witnessed a woman given to the Garden before, but he heard from one Brother that it would be worth the wait. The screams from a daughter of Eve refreshed the soul in a way that no other sacrifice could. Nature devouring what She had created in a perfect circle. Guram sighed in anticipation as he texted Brother Hadiq who waited around the block with a van ready for transport.