THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1)

by Duncan Simpson

  ‘Very well, very well. I have taken the liberty of laying them out on a table in the reading room. The room has been reserved for your private use for the day, so you won’t be disturbed.’

  Unlike the rest of the library, which reflected the relative age of the original building, the reading room was of a thoroughly modern design. Measuring some twenty metres square, the light open-plan workspace looked like the sleek offices of an advertising company. A small plaque positioned over the large glass doors leading to the room detailed that the facility had opened the previous year and that its construction was funded by the donations of a syndicate of wealthy sponsors.

  On seeing the large table in the centre of the room, Sabatini let out an excited gasp. The surface of the table was covered by a patchwork of paper. Essays of many pages were laid out next to single sheets of numerous different sizes and conditions.

  ‘Nathan, this is wonderful, truly wonderful. Wait, I almost forgot. I’ve got something to show you.’

  From the inside pocket of her jacket, Sabatini produced a small blue paper pamphlet, which she unfolded carefully and handed to her host.

  ‘This is a copy of the original auction catalogue.’

  Brother Nathan looked down at the pale blue cover page of the guide.

  Sotheby’s & Co.

  34 & 35 New Bond Street, London, W(1)

  CATALOGUE OF THE NEWTON PAPERS

  Sold by Order of the Viscount Lymington

  Days of Sale

  First Day. Monday 14 July. Lots 1 to 174

  Second Day. Tuesday 15 July. Lots 175 to 331

  1936

  Illustrated Copy: Seven shillings and sixpence

  ‘If you go to page 27, there’s a brief description of Lot 249.’ Brother Nathan followed his friend’s instructions and read the entry out loud.

  ‘Lot 249. Subject Area: Religion: Miscellaneous unpublished papers, including a large collection of drafts and fair copies of various sections, considerable portions, being more or less complete in themselves. Also including a large number of loose un-numbered sheets and notes on scraps.

  Topics include:

  •The Theology of the Heathens, Cabbalists and Ancient Hereticks

  •The Abomination of Desolation

  •Of the Christian Religion and its Corruption in its Morals

  •Of the Rise and Dominion of the Roman Catholick Church

  •Of the Revelation of the Man of Sin

  Lot also includes an illuminated volume of the works of Gérard de Ridefort, Grand Master of the Knights Templar. Part of Newton’s personal library, Medieval French.’

  Chapter 18

  Brother Nathan had left his old friend alone in the reading room for several hours, when he reappeared with a tray of sandwiches, a small carafe of red wine, and a jug of iced water. Sabatini wore a wide smile.

  ‘Nathan, this is a wonderful discovery.’

  She beckoned Brother Nathan over to the table and gestured to the single sheet of paper stationed on the table in front of her. She handed the priest a large magnifying glass and moved her seat slightly to one side to allow him to examine the yellowing folio.

  ‘See the forward tilt in the loop of the letters, the execution of the number four? It’s Newton’s handwriting for sure.’

  Sabatini rose from her seat in obvious satisfaction and headed for the food. Once she was a safe distance from the table, she took a large bite from a ham and cheese sandwich.

  ‘Nathan, if you don’t mind, I would like to make a proper study of this material in the New Year. There may be something here of great academic interest.’ She took another bite. ‘There is one thing that has confused me.’

  ‘What’s that, my child?’ The priest began to pour the wine.

  ‘The auction catalogue is an exact match to the papers on the table, except for the Gérard de Ridefort volume. I can’t see anything that fits that description here. Is it somewhere else in the library?’

  Brother Nathan felt a cold shudder and slowly shook his head. His right hand started to tremble slightly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Carla, but these are the complete contents of the box that was transported here from the Vatican’s manuscript storage facility in Rome. I guess the book could still be there. I can contact Cardinal Dradi at the Vatican archives. Perhaps he might be able to track it down.’

  ‘Not to worry, Nathan. I was just curious.’

  A pause followed as the two friends helped themselves to the simple meal.

  Brother Nathan toyed with the sandwich balanced at the side of his plate, trying to sense the right moment to deliver the question that had been churning over and over in his head ever since he had read Gérard de Ridefort’s crimson book.

  ‘Carla, it’s a silly thing, but let me show you something.’

  The priest reached up high to the bookshelf that ran the entire length of the reading room and quickly selected a contemporary looking volume from the hundreds of carefully catalogued books lining the shelves. As he brought the book down from case, he grimaced visibly at the effort of the movement. He rested for a moment, touching his chest lightly with his right hand. Sabatini winced in sympathy for her old friend. All of a sudden he looked tired and worn-out. Perhaps his angina was giving him trouble, she thought.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  Brother Nathan found the relevant page and opened it up on the table next to the half-empty tray of sandwiches.

  Sabatini recognised the page instantly. It was a modern facsimile of Newton’s Principia Mathematica. Often described as the most important science book ever written, it described for the first time the mathematical laws surrounding the force of gravity. The selected page displayed a neatly tabulated grid of results describing the recorded flight times of a weighted object dropped from varying distances above the ground.

  Sabatini stared at her friend quizzically.

  Brother Nathan pointed to the top row of the table.

  ‘Look at the timings. They are measured to a tenth of a second.’

  Sabatini shrugged her shoulders, still not following her friend’s train of thought.

  ‘It’s amazing to think that clocks and watches were in their infancy when Newton recorded these results, and yet he was measuring timings to a tenth of a second. Truly remarkable.’

  Not looking up from the book, he asked his question.

  ‘To produce this level of accuracy, Newton must have possessed a particularly fine timepiece. I am curious. Do you know anything about it?’ Brother Nathan could feel sweat forming on his top lip. He wiped it away with his finger.

  Laughing, Sabatini returned her wine glass to the table and picked up the pale blue Sotheby’s auction pamphlet that she had brought from London.

  ‘Nathan, I can do much better than that. Look at Lot 22, which ended up in Trinity College, Cambridge.’

  Peering through his glasses, the priest quickly found the entry and read it aloud.

  ‘Lot 22’

  ‘Subject Area: Natural Philosophy (Physics)’

  ‘Contents of the lot include: Newton’s personal copy of the Principia (volume includes numerous notes in Newton’s own handwriting), several notebooks, and correspondence to Robert Hooke regarding the orbital movement of objects around the earth.’

  ‘Lot also contains several items of personal property. Items inherited by Catherine Conduitt, Viscountess Lymington, Grand Niece of Sir Isaac Newton, including his walking stick, a lock of hair and pocket watch (still in good working order).’

  The priest stared at the last entry and felt a shot of adrenalin surge through his bloodstream. The words seemed locked in position on the page, whilst those surrounding it appeared to fall out of focus. Suddenly he became aware that his friend was staring directly at him. By her concerned facial expression, he guessed that she must have had said something to h
im and was now expecting a response.

  ‘Nathan, you’re bleeding!’

  ‘Bleeding?’

  Nathan looked down at his white shirt. A small crimson arrowhead of blood several centimetres in length had appeared above the breast pocket. He quickly grabbed the gingham napkin from his plate and placed it over the bloodstain. The priest began to feel breathless, as if a dark weight were pressing against his lungs.

  ‘Nathan, are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine. Honestly, I’m fine. I had a fall yesterday by the lake, and cut myself on a branch. Tell me again about the pocket watch. It’s in Trinity College you say?’

  She nodded.

  The priest took Sabatini’s hand.

  ‘Carla, I need you to arrange for us to go and see it.’

  Chapter 19

  Monday 23 November

  The immigration officer took the French passport and scanned it mechanically through the electronic reader. The ball of his foot bounced impatiently for the result. The system had been slow for most of the day. It wasn’t unusual for the cross-referencing of a passport against the UK Border Agency’s ‘watcher’ databases to take several seconds. The final boat for the day had just disembarked at Dover Ferry Port, and from the size of the queue zigzagging its way across the arrivals hall, it would be another twenty minutes before the line of passengers would be fully processed.

  The immigration officer quickly clocked the small red rectangle flashing in the top left-hand corner of his screen. Just below the triangle was a small alphanumeric string of characters indicating the nature of the alert. His heart sank. Alert code thirty-two signified a passport that had been reported stolen. The immigration official let out an inaudible sigh. This was the fifth code-thirty-two alert he had been presented with today, and being so close to the end of his shift meant he would inevitably be late getting home … again.

  Since its launch several months earlier, the linking of European stolen passport databases had been nothing but trouble. The problem lay not in its ambition but in its execution. The concept was simple: Each participating country would send twice-daily updates of passports reported stolen across the European Union to a secure server based in Ghent, Belgium. Immigration officers at national points of entry would cross-reference against this master file to ensure that passengers were travelling on legitimate documentation. However, before long, a hitch to the plan became apparent whenever a passport previously reported as stolen was subsequently found again. The data concerning the found passport was seldom updated on the master file. This situation occurred more frequently than the architects of the system had ever expected. As a result, there was only a limited chance that a code thirty-two alert was legitimate. The previous alerts that day had been a waste of time, but protocol was protocol.

  The immigration officer looked up at the passenger staring back at him. He was tall and had the physique of an Olympic rower, his wide shoulders stretching taut the fine merino wool of his suit jacket.

  ‘Sir, are you travelling alone?’

  The passenger stood impassively, his head bent forward, his eyes slightly raised to meet the gaze of the immigration official. After a drawn-out second, he nodded.

  ‘Calais was your port of embarkation?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Can you please tell me the purpose of your visit?’

  ‘Business.’ The accent sounded Eastern European or Russian.

  By the time the immigration officer had finished asking his next question, his foot had activated the concealed security button in the floor of his control booth. Protocol was protocol, after all. Almost immediately, a member of the staff security team appeared behind the booth, ready to do his job.

  ‘What is the nature of your business?’

  A pause. The immigration officer thought he could detect an almost imperceptible tightening in the passenger’s face.

  ‘A sales conference.’

  ‘In London?’

  Another pause.

  ‘Sir, I will have to ask you to answer a few questions. Would you please follow me?’

  The immigration officer rose to his feet, and as he did so the security officer took several steps forward to make sure the passenger was aware of his physical presence.

  Detective Milton looked up from his workstation, obviously annoyed by the interruption.

  ‘Boss, just got an alert from Passport Control at Dover. A man using a passport belonging to François Pineau triggered a code-thirty-two alert ten minutes ago.’ The uniformed police officer tried to catch his breath. ‘I’ve just come off the phone to them. They’ve got him in an interview room!’

  ‘Who?’ Detective Milton shrugged his shoulders, his brain struggling to make a connection.

  ‘Pineau! The name Dr Blake gave us regarding the Newton case.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Milton, pinching the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat.

  The uniformed police officer gulped down breaths.

  ‘Sir, it’s the name on the passport Eight Ball sold to Vinka.’

  The penny dropped. Milton was now on the edge of his seat.

  ‘So, who the hell is travelling on the passport? And who the hell is in an interview room in Dover?’ Detective Milton was already on his feet, his hands frantically searching for his car keys in his pocket.

  ‘Get on the phone.’ Milton was now roaring commands. ‘Tell them on no circumstances to let that guy go. He’s dangerous, extremely dangerous. You understand me?’ His voice reverberated around the open office. ‘We’ve got one of the bastards at last!’

  ‘You think it might be the Drakon?’

  ‘Who knows, but we’re going to nail him. Get your coat. Tell the passport boys we’ll be in Dover in two hours.’

  Chapter 20

  Denic sat perfectly still in the interview room, his head bowed to minimise his exposure to the CCTV camera secured high on the wall. The security guard by the door looked out of shape, and his ill-fitting uniform seemed two sizes too small. Denic could see that his left shoelace had come undone.

  The handle of the door jolted downwards and in stepped the immigration officer who had just escorted him from the passport hall. The officer pushed the door shut with the edge of his clipboard. Without acknowledging the presence of the security guard, he quickly delivered the piping hot cup of coffee onto the table at the centre of the room and took a seat.

  He checked the time on his watch and made a couple of attempts to record it on the interview sheet, but the ink in his pen stubbornly refused to flow. After scribbling unsuccessfully on the top corner of the paper, he abandoned the pen next to the coffee cup and searched for a substitute amongst the others standing to attention in the breast pocket of his shirt. He looked up at the detainee and started the usual interview procedure that he had carried out hundreds of times before.

  ‘Mr Pineau, I need to verify some details on your passport with you. Can you please tell me your date of birth?’

  The detainee sat motionless.

  He tried again. ‘Date of birth?’

  Still no response.

  ‘You speak English?’ said the immigration officer. He stared at the man, whose head was bowed as if in prayer.

  ‘Sir, I’m asking you to cooperate. What is your date of birth?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Okay then. What is your address? Sir, I must warn you, if you do not answer my questions satisfactorily, I will have to hand you over to the police.’

  Denic’s body appeared motionless to his captors, but his brain was working overtime. Thoughts ricocheted around his mind to assess his options. Then, without warning, he exploded forwards from his seat.

  In a single orchestrated movement, Denic’s left hand launched the scalding contents of the coffee cup into the face of the immigration officer, whilst his right grabbed the abandoned pen
from the table in his fist. The officer, now debilitated by searing pain from the burning liquid, sat bolt upright and began to scream.

  After throwing the table aside, Denic rushed forward and with a massive force slammed the barrel of the pen through the sinews of the man’s neck. Denic’s forward motion was only temporarily curtailed by a sharp tug of the pen as he pulled it free from its target. A geyser of blood erupted from the pen’s exit wound.

  Denic continued his charge, accelerating in the direction of the security guard, who was now fumbling for the door handle. In a fraction of a second, Denic’s hand was around the guard’s throat, driving his body backwards. The guard’s head slammed against the wall. Dazed, he tried to push back against his attacker, but his body was driven upwards against the wall by an unrelenting force. As Denic pressed his fingers hard into the guard’s voice box, he quickly pulled back his fist and drove the pen upwards through the guard’s trousers. The steel tip skewered the guard’s left testicle and passed through his rectum, only coming to rest as it was met by the hard bone of the man’s pelvis.

  The man’s body convulsed in Denic’s grip, as if it were shocked by a massive electric current, and then it slumped forward. Denic released his hold, and the guard’s limp body dropped to the floor. The frozen eyes stared back in an expression of sheer terror, and an ever-increasing pool of blood oozed from the body’s backside.

  Pausing only to remove the security badge from the guard’s uniform, Denic opened the door to the interview room and stepped quickly into the empty corridor.

  ‘Hold on, I can’t hear myself think in here.’ Detective Milton looked at the driver of the squad car with obvious frustration.

  ‘Can you please turn that bloody radio off!’

  The driver pressed a control on the steering wheel and the music station was silenced, leaving only the sound of the sirens above. The detective returned his mobile phone to his ear.

  ‘Say again.’

  Milton closed his eyes and processed the information being relayed to him by the port police sergeant. Without acknowledging the end of the conversation, and with the sergeant still talking on the other end of the line, he dropped the phone into his lap and looked out at the lights of the speeding motorway traffic outside. His fist lashed out at the glove compartment.