After all introductions were made, the new arrivals ordered their drinks and each finally made their dinner selections. Turner ordered the Sama frita con mojo Verde, a local fresh, fried fish served in a light sauce consisting of oil, coriander and garlic. It was topped with papas’ arrugades, small tender cooked potatoes. The rest of the party ordered the house special that evening: carne de cabra en salsa, a dish of seared goat’s meat swimming in wine-based gravy with seasonings.
After enjoying a wonderful meal, they all decided on gofio de almendras, a rich dessert made with almonds, and then finished off with a round of espresso. It was at that point that the conversation went from pleasantries to the business at hand.
“So Maria, did you have any success with Professor Aguirre from the university in deciphering the parchment you and Samuel discovered?” Eli asked, sipping his espresso.
“Yes, Dr. Turner, he was still working on it after we left for our meeting here, and promised to email the results to me when he was finished. That’s why I brought the laptop. They have Wi-Fi at this restaurant.”
“Well, if anything, I feel we should commence work on protecting the Guanche artifacts immediately to keep the site safe from looters, no matter what the results are from the translation,” Carlos said stroking his goatee. “The equipment, tents, and manpower can easily be transferred from the pyramid site within a day’s time.”
“What about the permits, Carlos?” Turner asked, knowing the excessive waiting periods for archeology permits.
“That won’t be a problem, Josh. I have already received a verbal from the assistant to Tenerife Administrator Fuentes to commence work. He was hesitant when I told him the location of the find, and he kept repeating something about staying clear of the Japanese research facility nearby.”
“So, the neighbors aren’t friendly I take it?” Turner asked.
“Not friendly at all, Josh,” Carlos said flatly.
“This will be much more exciting than our current project,” Maria said as she opened her laptop.
As the waiter cleared away the last vestiges of dinnerware from the table, she started the computer and opened her email program.
“Great! It looks like Professor Aguirre came through with something,” Maria said excitedly as the download began. Upon completing the download, she opened the document, and proceeded to read with all eyes at the table fixed on her. After a minute, they saw her eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, and then promptly turned the laptop to face Turner, who read aloud the two emails sent by Professor Aguirre.
‘“Maria,
Attached below is the best translation I could procure for you in such a short period of time. This comes from Dr. Rabib of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem to whom I sent an enhanced facsimile of the parchment. Had I known the subject matter of what this document consisted of, I would have been more prudent and not have sent it at all.
If this discovery is valid, it could be a major find, but I fear word will get out quickly due to my carelessness in letting others read the translation. For that, I deeply apologize. Do not delay in getting the site secure as soon as possible, for I fear looting will be imminent. Contact me if I can be of any further assistance. Good luck, and give my regards to your father.
Alberto Aguirre.”’
Turner looked up at Maria with a quizzical look, and then continued reading.
‘“Dr. Hiram Rabib
To: Professor Aguirre
My Dear Dr. Aguirre,
Please find below the best translation I could make of your facsimile with my staff. Many parts of the document are missing, or illegible, but if this is not a hoax, it is an astounding find. Translation as follows:
Peace be unto you my Brethren in Thera.
…send to you my brother Simon, a disciple of our Lord. Safeguard the Cup of the slain Lamb, and His testament.
…Aide him in protecting the Master’s.…
Safe passage to.…
Joseph of Ramleh.”’
“Interesting stuff,” said Samuel, fighting a yawn, “but who in the world is Joseph of Ramleh?”
“If I recall correctly, Ramleh was a town in ancient Judea, but studies now show that the ancient maps of the first century don’t show what it is called today,” Maria stated as she turned the laptop back to face her.
“It’s called…Arimathea.” Turner whispered staring at the candle left burning on the table, “Joseph of Arimathea.”
The table fell silent for what seemed like minutes until Maria broke the spell.
“We must start work right away. The word will be out quickly, and I dare not think what would happen if looters get there before we do,” she said shutting down the computer and closing the lid.
“Do you really think it is possible after centuries of wondering and speculation that we may have stumbled on, by accident, a clue to the whereabouts of the Holy Grail?” Eli asked.
“Many hypotheses have been put out about its whereabouts or who had possession of it, or even if it actually existed at all. But if the carbon dating comes back close to the first century, we may have finally come very close to finding an important clue,” Maria said excitedly. “Imagine, even the remote possibility of verifying the existence of the cup that Jesus Christ reportedly shared with his disciples during the last supper. What a historical discovery that would be!”
“Even if it did exist, Maria, which I truly doubt, what a firestorm it would create,” Turner said. “Could you imagine the debate as to its authenticity? A theological war of words would rage for years between believers and non-believers.”
“That is not up to us to decide, Josh,” Carlos said rising from his chair. “It’s our duty to bring artifacts to light, no matter what the controversy. I’ll make a few calls and start the transfer of manpower and equipment to the site right away, then see about arranging for some type of security. I would suggest all of you begin packing your field gear, and start as soon as possible.”
“Maria and I can be ready to head up tomorrow,” Eli said.
“Same here,” Turner added.
“Sorry, Josh,” his father said. “I would like you to take the permit applications to the Canary Islands Administrator’s Office in Las Palmas on Grand Canaria Island right away, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Great, Dad. I’m starting to feel more like an errand boy than an archaeologist,” Turner replied in protest. “Alright, I’ll leave first thing in the morning and will hopefully be back in a few days; that’s if I don’t get hung up with the red tape. Last time it took me almost five days to get the permits in order. I’ll take Samuel with me. That way he won’t break anything when you start on the new site.”
“I guess that means my days off are canceled,” Samuel moaned in mock protest. “The things I do for you guys; I‘m so unappreciated.”
“One more thing, Eli,” Carlos said in a serious tone to the elder Turner as they proceeded out of the restaurant and into the cool night air. “Do me a favor and stay clear of the Japanese satellite facility that Fuentes’ assistant spoke of. There are rumors going around that some of the island people who have gone there have disappeared.”
“Do you actually believe that, Carlos?” Eli asked, as Paulo headed off to get the Land Rover.
“Not really, but you never know about rumors. And one can’t be too careful,” the professor responded. “Just be careful, okay?”
“You worry too much, Carlos,” Turner said as he, Maria and Samuel followed the two professors toward their vehicles. “What could someone want to hide on an old, dried up volcano?”
3
Tokyo, Japan
Four days after the discovery on Tenerife, a lone American strolled down Tokyo’s bustling Ginza entertainment district. The streets were ablaze with the city’s bright neon lights, and throngs of people out enjoying the Tokyo nightlife. They paid little attention to the pale, slightly balding, five foot seven inch American as he made his way through the crowds
, holding on to his briefcase with a vise-like grip.
If these people only knew what was in my possession, Robert Pencor thought with arrogant amusement as he rounded the corner, then walked up Yomati Street toward the Masari Club.
The Masari was a two-story private club catering to the more affluent residents of Japan. It offered food, drinks, card playing, and, the national craze, Pachinko; a slot machine basically set on end, but a mere third the size, which dropped tiny chrome balls down a vertical maze to the bottom.
Robert Pencor was what one could easily and quickly label as brilliant, yet disturbing. A graduate of Harvard Business School, he had a knack for profit. He quickly climbed to the pinnacle of success, leaving a trail of broken lives and shattered competitors along his path. His ‘take no prisoners’ business ethic made him feared by most competitors. Pencor’s drive left his personal life devoid of relationships other than the few escorts he paid for when the physical need arose. Some of these women, hardened by a life of prostitution, had left him at the end of an evening utterly shaken and afraid. Adding to these qualities the merciless drive he possessed to achieve power, he had become what colleagues and enemies alike had termed, a textbook megalomaniac.
Pencor had achieved his wealth through shady business dealings and cut-throat tactics early in his career. He had discovered early on that his future lay in the oil business and quickly climbed his way to the top. During his rapid ascent in the business world, he managed to secure many domestic and foreign oil companies by way of hostile takeovers, or strong-arm tactics of which he was not above doing in order to achieve his goals.
By the year 2000, he had risen to CEO of his newly formed Pencor Oil Corporation, which employed thousands of people. He reaped vast profits amounting to millions in assets with worldwide holdings of production and refinement facilities.
None of this was enough for Pencor. He soon began channeling funds from research and development along with employee pension funds to his private accounts overseas. He had become quite accustomed to the many bribes and kickbacks procured from corrupt foreign business executives and leaders, who continually lined his pockets for exclusive refinery and drilling contracts.
His desire for money, along with the power it wielded, became an all-consuming obsession. Pencor would not settle for just enough. He wanted it all; at any cost, even if it meant eliminating anyone who got in his way. His cut-throat tactics ultimately gained him many enemies along the way, and those enemies would play a major role in his personal and financial undoing in 2005.
The high oil prices of the mid-decade had produced an outcry from the public. Fueled by the media, politicians tried to appease their base and divert attention from the crisis. They skirted the truth by holding what Pencor deemed ‘useless’ Congressional hearings on Capitol Hill, hoping to inflame the public with the tried and true tactic of crying corporate greed.
Given the recent memory of events in 2002 that led to the downfall of the leadership of Enron, it had garnered good press and a guarantee of votes from a public easily misled. Pencor blamed the public, whom he felt was too quick to believe anything they heard from the media.
Those especially motivated in this witch hunt were the career politicians, Republican and Democrat, who were more concerned about their political tenure than America as a whole. Pencor had been furious knowing that many of these politicians were the same ones taking his contributions.
He knew the real truth that the media had failed to report, and what politicians didn’t want America to know. The worldwide demand for oil was far out stripping the supply. As he had predicted, China now surpassed the U.S. in oil consumption, and the world would never know low oil prices again as they continued to rise to their current level of one hundred twenty-five dollars a barrel.
He also knew career politicians had to appease their base and environmental lobbyists by voting against any new drilling or refineries in the continental United States. This self-imposed ban had been going on in Washington for the last thirty-eight years, which resulted in United States’ domestic oil production becoming almost non-existent.
To complicate matters, politicians over the years continued side-stepping any oil exploration or production in Alaska and the lower forty-eight states, which held more than a thirty-year supply of crude, plus the added benefit of thousands of jobs.
Pencor knew it was a no-win situation for the American people and utter hypocrisy, as both Republicans and Democrats feared rocking the boat because hefty donations continued to flow into their war chests. Those fools deserve what they get by continually re-electing bigger fools, he thought as he continued up the narrow sidewalk.
It was during a series of Congressional hearings in 2005 that Robert Pencor found himself subpoenaed to testify. That was when the opportunity to exact vengeance upon him by the victims of his ruthless past came into play.
A plant in his organization by a competitor had been able to procure documents linking Pencor to kickbacks and pension grabbing. Add to that a few forged documents, they now had a treasure trove of trumped up evidence to hand over to friendly politicians and a salivating media. The vultures circled, waiting for the kill.
Pencor had been totally blindsided by the testimony and revelations directed against him, but knew right away that he was being set up as the scapegoat for the public and for the media to crucify. The tactics used against him were well-planned and flawless. Thus, Robert Pencor and Pencor Oil made the Enron scandal look like a Girl Scout cookie sale.
To save face with the stockholders, the board of directors of Pencor Oil had him stripped of all duties and froze all of his assets, with the help of the Justice Department.
Robert Pencor had become a pariah: a man hated by America and a victim of his own ruthless greed. So, at the end of 2005, he fled the country to avoid prosecution, taking advantage of Morocco’s no extradition agreement with the United States, and where he had secretly invested much of his ill-begotten treasure over the years. In his rage and growing madness, he vowed that one day he would seek retribution on those who had ruined him; an obsession he still held to this day.
As it was with most Americans, he knew their memory would be short-lived and the media would find something else to focus on, thus diverting attention from the Pencor Oil scandal. Life went on, with Pencor slipping beneath the radar. He slowly drew his plans of revenge against the people and nation that tried to destroy him.
Yes, it will be soon, he thought, smiling a grin that usually frightened anyone who gazed upon it. “The fools will pay dearly for their stupidity and short-sightedness,” he said, laughing aloud as he came to the entrance of the brightly lit Masari Club.
Once inside, Pencor was greeted by the constant whirring sounds and clanging of the first floor’s Pachinko parlor with its endless rows of machines. He walked through the din to the back, and then to the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. He noted, with amusement, the groups of businessmen sitting at tables talking quietly while the comfort women, as they were labeled, stood about waiting for a signal to attend their respective table.
Pencor walked briskly up the flight of stairs to the upper level, leaving the smoke filled parlor behind. He entered the swinging doors into the second floor containing a small bar and restaurant. As he walked across the floor, he could hear the soft, melodic sounds of traditional Japanese music played on the Koto; a banjo like instrument, and a wooden flute.
Pencor sat down at an empty table and noticed a group of Japanese men wearing dark suits sitting in the back of the room, who regarded him suspiciously. He also noted the surveillance camera in the corner ceiling. One of the men stood and proceeded to walk over to the door labeled ‘office’ in Japanese, then knocked on the door. Pencor watched the man enter the room as a waiter briskly came over to him and took his order of deep fried prawns and gyoza, little dumplings of deep fried octopus, along with a glass of sake.
Pencor’s order was delivered to him shortly afterwards, and, as he s
avored the tasty meal, he warily kept his eyes on the men seated at the table. He trusted no one and could plainly see that the men were armed, judging from the bulges in the sides of their dark suits.
As he sipped the last of his sake, the man who had retreated into the rear office appeared once again from the room and approached his table. Pencor could not help but notice the missing pinky finger on the man’s left hand, and wondered what the poor fellow had done to deserve his ritual penitence.
“Good evening, Pencor-san,” the man said with a polite bow. It never ceased to amuse Pencor how formal protocol and honor ruled the lives of the Japanese. Even the most blood-thirsty criminal held to this code and time-honored tradition.
“Mr. Osama is ready to see you now. I do hope your meal was satisfactory,” he said politely as Pencor rose to follow him across the room to the door. As they passed the other three men, their steady gaze continued.
“Yes, thank you, the meal was fine,” Pencor replied flatly as the man knocked on the door to the office.
“Enter,” a voice from within boomed. The large man opened the door and motioned Pencor inside.
“Mr. Pencor is here to see you, Oyabun.” Pencor knew the term Oyabun meant father, the formal title given to leaders of the Japanese Yakuza clan. The man then closed the door behind Pencor, and went back to his friends seated at the table.
“Hello, Robert,” said a voice from a large high-backed swivel chair.
With the Yakuza leader’s back still facing him, Pencor gazed about the room, taking in the elegance of the lavish office. It was impeccably furnished, adorned with bright flowers, native plants, and a myriad of paintings hanging tastefully on the wall.
The swivel chair slowly turned around to face him, revealing a well-dressed middle-aged Japanese man. He had short black hair and wore a black patch over his left eye, a commemorative injury from his violent early years.
Zero Point Page 4
