Goddesses Never Die

by George B Mair

  ‘He has never been afraid to fight for his principles and for those eternal truths which matter to the progress of man.’ She paused and her voice was suddenly raised. ‘Can you say that this is a bad man? Can you say that because he broke ten Mosaic laws that he is anti-God? Can you say that he is one of the beasts who now try to destroy civilisation and replace it with drugs, sodomy, perversions and anarchy?’

  Mehmet raised his arms and the crowd broke into one loud shout which told Grant that somehow he had made the grade. Not only the Mother Goddess, but most of the crowd was now on his side, and he sighed as tension subsided. The past ten minutes would remain as among the worst in his life.

  And then a figure was escorted to stand beside the Goddess but between two Nubians armed with short stabbing swords and traditional shields covered with lion skin. The man glanced towards Grant, raised his eyes in surprise and was about to speak when the old woman put her fingers to his lips. Her voice was again very gentle while she returned to the microphone. ‘This gentleman is called Frederick Alexander. He is also called “Lofty” and he arrived last evening.’ She opened a second parchment handed over by Mehmet and repeated that this time she would read only headlines from his dossier.

  ‘He attends chapel regularly and shares communion at least once per month as a member of the Old Church.

  ‘He is happily married with nine children and has never been known to have any affair with any other woman.

  ‘He organises and controls a society called the Mafia, but his instructions are passed from himself through intermediaries to juniors who obey his commands, and he has never personally killed a living creature.

  ‘He forwards, monthly, a cheque to elderly parents who are not wealthy, and he visits them at least every three months. He has stolen nothing, so far as my investigators can prove, and he is known to dislike both blasphemy and what some people call “standard” swearing.

  ‘His material needs are quite modest and he lives in a small hotel suite which shows little taste in furnishings or decoration.’ She smiled slightly. ‘It seems that he is a “good” man. But there are a few other facts which may interest everyone here.

  ‘First he is the genius which guides and controls almost the whole world drug traffic, and he has perverted many people in many countries by tricking them into addiction to evil medicines.’ She paused and her voice became oddly neutral. ‘Ladies and gentlemen: he even attempted to deceive me.’

  Grant heard a gasp of surprise break the silence which seemed to have gripped the crowd and there was a ripple of motion as some men began to move towards the staircase until the old woman held up her hand and they stepped back into place. ‘Peace,’ she said softly. ‘Meanwhile let us read more of his life story.

  ‘He is one of the seven men who plan to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem. But more . . . it is he who hopes, one day, to sit inside it as ruler of all the world.

  ‘It is his signature which ordered stone from the quarries of America.

  ‘It is his signature below the order sent to a Brazilian architect commissioned to plan the greatest temple in all history.’

  ‘It is he who directed political forces from far behind the scenes, but which led to one Arab-Israeli war, to Vietnam and to the murder of at least three world leaders dedicated to breaking down racial barriers, promoting international understanding and removing tensions within American cities.

  ‘It was his people who promoted student riots over the past five years and conditioned the so-called “workers” to unite with the so-called “intellectuals”.

  ‘It was he who enabled at least two experts in nuclear physics to work for both Peking and France and enabled China to have the bomb ahead of even Mao’s anticipated schedule.

  ‘It was he, with his society, who corrupted youth throughout the world and formed that permissive society which rebels against established decencies without contributing anything to replace them.’

  Her face suddenly stiffened with anger and her hands dropped helplessly by her sides when she asked one more question. ‘Is this person fit to live?’

  Grant was studying Lofty’s every flickering change of expression and half-admiring the deadpan way in which he had listened to an indictment which would have scared a lesser man. But as the crowd roared a vicious ‘No’ his eyes suddenly narrowed and Grant saw his jaw muscles tense as he turned to the old woman. ‘Suppose you tell me what this means,’ he said curtly. ‘I arrived last night and was received as usual. Yet I waken during the late forenoon, having, I suppose, been doped, and to find that I can’t even leave my room or talk to my staff. Why?’

  The Goddess nodded towards Mehmet, who raised his hands expressively. ‘You were kept in your room for your own good. As for your friends. Just watch.’ He struck a bell hanging close by his side and as a sonorous echo vibrated across the valley eleven men were marched in file towards the Goddess, each escorted by two men carrying knives. They were halted by a sharp word of command and drawn up in line facing the old woman, who was now staring at them with a weird contempt which made even Grant tense with anticipation.

  She spoke through the microphone, but while she spoke she stared at each in turn and her message was final. ‘My information about each of you is complete. You have all worked for a chief in order to destroy what people call civilisation. Your chief may or may not die, according to the will of God. But as the Mother Goddess of the great and only God I condemn you not only to death but to extinction. And that—now.’

  Grant was astounded by the production genius behind the spectacle. Everyone seemed to operate on cue, and as the Goddess spoke each man’s throat was suddenly cut by one executioner while the other held the victim’s head forward so that the great veins and arteries were severed by one expert sweep. The motions of all eleven teams were almost synchronous and as the bodies of their victims fell on the dust the Goddess stared at Lofty. ‘You should be glad for their sake that I was merciful. Only time will tell what lies ahead for you. But if the will of heaven is what I suspect it to be your fate will be less easy.’

  Chapter Nine – ‘Death is the only thing so common as birth’

  Mehmet Ali looked first towards Grant and then nodded in the direction of Lofty. ‘The Goddess feels that you should have a lot to say to one another, so she is going to allow you some time together. Though, of course, you will talk under guard and after an hour or so you may see Miss Dove if you wish.’

  Neither man was given a chance to protest as they rose almost automatically and walked behind Mehmet to a small air conditioned house enclosed by walls but with a small patio in one of the further corners of the courtyard. ‘A sort of school for learning,’ explained the Turk as he motioned them towards basket chairs and watched a bamboo table spread with small chow plus two decanters of crushed orange on the rocks. ‘The Goddess believes that one of you two men will destroy the other,’ he said slowly. ‘But it may help you to know that you will talk in private. The conversation of course must be taped for future consideration, but your guards understand no English and have only one order. To kill the first person who starts trouble. Understood?’

  The two men nodded curtly, yet relaxed when Mehmet walked out and closed a heavy wooden door behind him. Somehow, in spite of his gentle voice, the man’s personality radiated menace. By comparison the guards left in charge seemed almost comic opera figures with their African costume and stabbing knives, but both men knew that their lives depended on behaving normally.

  Grant slowly drew a Burma cheroot from his crocodile leather case, and confirmed that every movement was being studied by men trained to act first and talk afterwards. One of them unexpectedly stepped forward to flash a lighter, and as Grant watched the end glow into an orange circle Lofty broke the silence. ‘What did they do to you?’ he said dryly.

  ‘They asked questions and told the crowd what sort of person they thought I was,’ said Grant briefly.

  Lofty stared at him curiously. ‘I heard about you a long ti
me ago, Grant. And for seven years I’ve made it part of my business to collect every possible fact bearing on you. One deal with China covered part payment in kind. And the kind was a copy of Peking’s own dossier. So you can guess I haven’t missed much. Another deal with a bloke from Russia filled in some gaps about your Kremlin dustup and a few of my men got on to your woman in Brazil while she was still doped by Ferguson’s mob.[7] Which gave us a treble check. You specialise in bluff, bugging gadgets, nerve gas and a quick draw. Though you sure slipped up in trying to pass yourself off as Coia. However, you tried and lost, and now you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.’

  Grant slowly blew a smoke ring. ‘What, for example?’

  Lofty smiled amiably, though Grant knew that it was only for the benefit of the guards. ‘This time you can figure whether or not somebody else is bluffing. But before you start let me give you some facts. That old tart struck oil when she said I was Mafia’s top man. But the great thing about Mafia top men is that they are all what a Sunday Times article once described as “honourable”. And I’m more honourable than any, and more above suspicion than any. Though you know the set-up as well as me. We run groups called “families”. Each family has a capo or chief who is advised by a clever dick called a counsellor. Almost all other ranks are junior to that shower, but the capos are untouchable by police because cusdinettos or buffers take any risk that comes from carrying the can and it’s they who transmit orders from capos. The guys who play buffer for Lofty are with it from crown to ankle. They are really switched on and no living man could put a finger on me.’

  ‘Maybe the Goddess has,’ said Grant dryly.

  Lofty drank half a glass of juice. ‘That old has-been is slushed on heroin. The worst that can have happened is that some guy pumped her full of antidote or some damn thing to fix her up for the big moment. The truth behind this little interlude, Grant, is really to give her some more shots and keep her ticking what you would call normally. Because left to herself that woman is a physical, mental, moral and emotionally dissipated wreck. And I know since my own bods made her that way, and that’s the way she’ll stay. Savvy?’

  Grant switched tactics. ‘You figure on world government with a Mafia cabinet and you as the big white chief?’

  Lofty whistled softly. ‘I’ll admit it. We’ve got the kids in five continents conditioned—or at least that five per cent which matters—and for sure we’ve got enough disgruntled politicals from Kluxy right-wing Southerners to dead-beat left-wing nuts in Eastern Europe to start the ball rolling.’

  ‘And the religious angle?’ said Grant curiously.

  The Australian laughed. ‘Know why hippies and head-case beatniks are sold on both Nepal and the Ganges?’ He paused to light a curving briar pipe and then became serious. ‘Believe it or not, millions of people figure that either some suicidal psycho or a genuine calculation error is going to blow enough bombs to eliminate the entire population. Nevil Shute greased the trap when he killed the world through radiation. Mair scared the pants off the United Kingdom when he gave anti-matter a write-up. The thalidamide mess showed people what could happen when drugs went wrong. Telly-panellists in every continent did their nut about fall-out from dirty bombs blown in inner space, while a few killings like John F., Robert and King, not forgetting what happened to Ben Bella and that coon Tshombe, proved that nobody is really safe from a bullet if somebody finally decides to get them. So all in all we’ve had a lot of indirect help from commercial writers and telly sensationalists, not forgetting the reputation for sheer stupidity or lying which almost every living politician has managed to build up by the time he has hit the high spots and got into the news. So public confidence has been destroyed on just about every level on just about everything. Tell me, Grant,’ he added quietly and with unexpected emphasis. ‘Can you give me the names of two world leaders from whom you would buy a second-hand car or offer an unsecured loan? Yet they live the life of Larry while they tax the bleeding daylights out of all the half-witted nits who put them into office. Agreed?’

  Grant smiled faintly. ‘You’ve made a point. But where does this religious angle figure?’

  The Australian blew a cloud of thick smoke. ‘The telly has brought politicians right down to earth, so that now even the dimmest bastards with eyes to see know that each and every one of them is just another guy who needs a woman to sew buttons on to his shirt. Their mystique has gone. Commissars in the communist bloc need to shave or else they look like hell. They sometimes even need to get an ordinary type like you to snatch their appendix. They fly to conferences of world leaders and get diarrhoea from dirty food. Most of them daren’t even let a picture be taken beside a swimming pool because they’ve bandy legs or pimples on their backsides. Every Western viewer knows that some Harley Street toothy has been busy with porcelain bridges or caps to make the glossy phoney smile which is supposed to prove that some dirty chiseller is the sort of leader who can bring salvation. And viewers know how make-up popsies pad out wrinkles and darken bald spots before cabinet ministers do party political broadcasts. Even the dumbest char in Limehouse knows that it takes a Dover Street cutter to make a suit which can help the average political to look even subhuman, while telly panels have proven to millions that most of the so-called ‘leaders’ in any damn racket you like to name are bone from the neck up.’ He hesitated. ‘Though a few do qualify. Ustinov is a genius. And a civilised educated human animal. Fontein is an artiste and with a damn sight more intelligence than your playmate from Russia. Robin Day, David Frost, Julian Pettifer and Chapman Pincher know what’s cooking and could crucify a phoney upside down if they felt like it: which they seldom do, because they know how to save their fire for things that matter. George Brown or Sir Alec have more sincerity in their index fingers than most of an average cabinet. John F. and Robert got it because they were switched on just a fraction too much to suit some people who can be nameless.

  ‘Mohammed Ali Shah Pahlevi is another who knows what ticks and why, but there aren’t many guys like him, though your Windsor crowd aren’t dumb either and both Philip and Snowdon, not forgetting Angus Ogilvy, have got most things in focus and try to do something about it within the limitations fixed by an establishment where left-wing labourites are more conservative than home-county Tories. While your Queen has my total respect. And some of these Tuesday lunches with Prime Ministers who were hellbent on selling up the empire to chiselling coons who handed out death and torture to every opposition leader must have made her sick.’

  Grant was becoming impatient. ‘How about this religious angle? Where does it figure?’

  ‘Everywhere.’ Lofty relit his pipe and marshalled his thoughts. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you that people—and I mean people everywhere—want more than guys with corns or a known mistress in Putney to lead them to salvation. They are fed up with excuses, manipulation of the news and the load of lies which is pumped out in every pre-election manifesto.’

  He paused to much a sandwich. ‘You’re choosing to play this dumb, Grant, but you know as well as I do where religion comes in. Rome takes steps against all reason and ignoring the population explosion.’ He smiled slightly. ‘And sure. My own family is big enough, but I still say that Rome went wrong in material terms at least, and that 1968 lost it millions throughout South America and elsewhere.

  ‘Then your own reformed set-up is good for a laugh any day. Look at apartheid in Africa. A fine Christian example of tolerance, justice, loving your neighbour and all the rest of it. One day—and that probably sooner than most people think, and even leaving my people out of it—black Africa will rub out three million whites.

  ‘And a word about Western Europe. Spain with a leader still to establish himself after Franco! France ripe for a second 1789 while the General becomes the new Napoleon—in memory at least. But with one big, beautiful void waiting to be filled by six or seven poker experts playing for high stakes.

  ‘Which leads to Britain, emasculated and with no empire, up to the e
ars in debt, conditioned to laziness, with its traditional values of thrift or pride in a decent job all gone. Destroyed by two or three leaders set on pleasing the other side to catch votes. Your country is washed up, Grant. And you know it. A rebellious student body and an influx of colour will change it into a sort of European Carribbean within four generations.

  ‘As for the Carribbean! Who took the slaves there? Britain. Who exploited them? Holland, Spain, Denmark, the States and U.K. And even if that is old hat, memory lingers on. But I’ll tell you something else.’ He pointed a finger and Grant saw that he was dead serious. ‘Social anthropologists say that with modern communications another hundred years or so will see the whole world tinted brown. Because coloured women knock Caucasians into a cocked hat, while coloured men have a sense of humour and a kinda light-hearted personality which makes them attractive to white bedmates who’ve learned that they aren’t maybe so inhibited or shy in getting off the mark as their black-panted, striped-suited mates with clipped moustaches and horn-rim specs. Sex, Grant, is at the bottom of most of this colour prejudice, because Caucasians are physically less attractive than the blacks or browns. And not even the telly has gotten around to plugging that kind of Freudian argument. But . . . it . . . is . . . true. So help me God.

  ‘And talking of God, hippies, yippies, beatniks and so forth come here because Buddha hung around these parts and they feel that something of his memory continues. So Buddhism’s going to be the backbone of our new religious set-up.

  ‘Which will be, as you’ve discovered, in Jerusalem. Because that lovely old city may not be as old as Ur but it’s got what it takes. And so we’ve chosen it as future world capital. Our new temple should be a kind of new United Nations H.Q. plus an overlay of ecumenical religion and philosophy. But since we’re going to return to the idea of sacred tarts the outcome should, one day, be a population all more or less the same shade with an end to the colour bar. In fact that’s the only solution. And there will be a temple in every city in the world, but all tied up with Jerusalem and operating under a new law.