Indisputable Proof

by Gary Williams

  Diaz spoke with a mouth half filled with food, “So this roll you found in the jar is referring to the sixty-fourth, and last, item listed in the Copper Scroll? How does that help you determine the location of the next jar?” He raised his wineglass and took a healthy gulp of Sangria. “We’re wasting time.” Diaz waved his hand dismissively then stabbed his fork at the meat.

  “You believe that the clue we found is leading to the duplicate of the Copper Scroll,” Tolen nodded his understanding.

  “Possibly,” Jade stood again and walked the room. She reached one wall, turned, reached the next wall, and stopped. “Could it be?” she said to herself, in a whisper. She went to the keyboard and brought up the image of the Copper Scroll. “Even though Cherrigan and I were able to break a code embedded within the Copper Scroll, which started our pursuit of the stone sphere, we were never able to solve one riddle. In the scroll, following a handful of listed locations of treasure are groupings of two to three Greek letters. They have been well documented and studied. To date, their meaning is a complete mystery. The letters do not form any words. More intriguing is why they are written in Greek when the rest of the scroll is in Hebrew. Behind the sixty-fourth listing, there are three Greek letters. See, here they are,” Jade pointed to the screen.

  “Eta, Sigma, Iota,” Tolen read them aloud. “You’re right. It doesn’t spell a Greek word.”

  “No, but I had a chance to examine the actual Copper Scroll on display at the Archaeological Museum in Amman, Jordan. I believe there is a fourth Greek letter which preceded the other three. It’s very faint. Remember that the letters had to be chiseled into the Copper Scroll, and it appears this one was done so lightly it’s almost imperceptible. I believe it’s the Greek letter Nu. When you add Nu before Eta, Sigma, and Iota you do get the Greek word: νησι. Translated, it means isle.”

  Jade returned to the laptop keyboard, pecking in a search on a web browser. “I’m typing in the words ‘petra’ and ‘banishment’ from the tiny parchment roll, combined with the words, ‘Isle’ and ‘Greek’.” As she did, the assembled words rang vaguely familiar.

  Jade hit enter to run the search. Jade skimmed the search results and could barely withhold her excitement. She flapped her hands excitedly and was almost bouncing where she sat.

  Tolen’s eyebrows elevated slightly as he looked at her. He spoke before she could get the words out. “The Apostle John. He was the only Apostle not to be executed. He died of old age.”

  “John wrote Revelations when Jesus returned and spoke to him in a cave,” Diaz added, wiping his mouth with a napkin and leaning back in his chair. “What about him?”

  “The clue is referring to John!” Jade exclaimed.

  “John wrote the Book of Revelations while he was on the Greek Isle of Patmos where he had been banished,” Tolen added.

  “And guess what, gentlemen?” Jade began, still focusing on the laptop screen. There was a slight tremble in her voice. “I know what Petra is referring to.” She paused for a moment to compose herself. She looked up, her face beaming, her hazel eyes swimming. “Tolen, as you said, petra is Greek for rock. Well, there’s a famous petra on the Isle of Patmos. It’s called Kalikatsou. It’s a massive natural rock formation perched at the head of a barren mudflat at Grikos Bay at the southern end of the island. Because of its peculiar shape, it’s tied to numerous myths. More importantly, throughout recorded history, it has been a refuge for many hermits, one being the Apostle John when he was exiled on Patmos where he wrote the Book of Revelations!” She paused. “Gentlemen, ‘The path to the sixty-fourth goes through the petra in banishment’ is referring to Kalikatsou on the Greek Isle of Patmos!”

  CHAPTER 25

  September 12. Wednesday – 4:47 a.m. Dietikon, Switzerland

  So far, so good, Nicklaus Kappel thought as he sat at his desk in the dark study. The only light in the room came from his computer screen and bathed his face in a blue wash. The Bai Hao Yin Zhen tea had just kicked in, and he felt the first caffeine rush of the new day. The warm air passing through the ductwork above created a subtle, tranquil hum.

  With any luck, in a few more days he could catch up on his sleep. For now, there was work to be done.

  He ran a hand over his head feeling a slight tingle. The chase was proving to be interesting. While he was banking on the existence of the cache, common sense told him it was a long shot. Now he was forced to reconsider.

  Kappel, dressed in shorts and a tank top, stood and walked to the window, silently moving across the wooden floor in bare feet. The curtains were closed, and he pulled them open with a quick tug of the drawstring. He looked out the double-paned window down onto the well-lit grounds where the pristine gardens spread out below, buffered by a rise which flattened before reaching the iron fence somewhere beyond in the blackness. Already, the colder weather was starting to take its toll. Soon, the snowfall would blanket the rolling landscape for months and the opulent plants and fragrant rose bushes would die, only to be dug up and replaced again next spring. Life and death, over and over: how many times had he witnessed it now? Twelve? Thirteen years? Whatever the answer, it was too many.

  He found himself unconsciously rubbing his hands together, then one hand massaging the top of the other where circular welts rose permanently. Painful memories returned, and in turn brought the hatred and bitterness that regularly festered within him these days. It was getting harder and harder to continue in his role, yet he knew his time was limited. It would serve him well to remain in his station a few more days. Besides, there were worse circumstances in which a person could find himself: jail, for example, like his sister, Cecily.

  He stared out the window at the lavish grounds and, for the hundredth time, vowed to free Cecily very soon.

  He returned to his chair before the computer monitor and clicked on the icon for his email application. It opened smartly with a chime to reveal one unread message in his inbox.

  “Ah ha,” Kappel said upon seeing the sender’s name. He opened the communication and read it. Then he pulled a printout from the desk drawer and laid it to the side of his keyboard. One at a time, he typed each recipient on the list an individual email containing an identical message:

  Those on the trail of the cache are going to the Greek Isle of Patmos. You will find them at the petra at Petra Beach. Same prize awaits the victor as long as you play by the rules.

  Thirty minutes later he keyed in the final name from the list and sent the last email. Kappel locked his fingers from both hands, turned them out, and cracked his knuckles. The hideous rings on his hand momentarily faced him. Then he closed the email application. Kappel pushed his chair from the desk, rose, and again walked to the window. Outside, it was still dark in the distance, but below the grounds remained brilliantly lit by a multitude of incandescent lamps perched along the knoll. He felt a vile hatred rankling his soul. He willed himself to remain patient. He could make it. He had to make it. Then he would see Cecily again and get her out of that hellish nightmare. His dear, sweet Cecily; the only woman he had ever known.

  Together, they would leave Europe forever.

  CHAPTER 26

  September 11. Tuesday – 11:00 p.m. Murciélago, Costa Rica

  The stone jar with its tiny roll containing the Hebrew text and the small bag of myrrh was secured in a compartment in the plane’s cabin. They departed Costa Rica with 16 hours of flying time ahead of them. Traveling east, they were going to lose another eight hours, which meant they would reach the Isle of Patmos sometime after 11 p.m. Wednesday night; a loss of one full day. It had taken Tolen considerable effort to convince Diaz that it was their best course of action. The members of the “True Sons of Light” would consider them even more a liability now and undoubtedly were preparing another attack. They desperately needed to capture one of the cult members alive. The incident at Formacion Descartes Santa Elena
had nearly been disastrous. Tolen realized that even he had been so swept up in the thrill of discovering Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb that he had let his guard down.

  While his rationale to Diaz seemed prudent, he wondered if his personal desire to find the cache of Jesus’ possessions was overruling his efforts to locate the Sudarium. He had convinced himself the Sudarium had never left Europe, which meant, sooner or later, they were going to have to make the trip overseas. Still, he harbored secret doubts about the course of action he was endorsing. He felt the ultimate truth tugging at him, and he could not deny the grip it had.

  Two hours into the flight, Tolen excused himself.

  “I’m going to check on Reba Zee and offer her some company,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt. Tolen rose and reached the cockpit door. He knocked four times, entered, and closed the door behind him.

  “Well, hey there, Tolen!” Reba Zee said spinning her head to greet him. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “We have a long flight ahead of us. Just checking in to see how you’re doing.”

  “You know I make these types of trips all the time. Piece of cake,” she said with a short snort. Then she watched Tolen as he sat in the chair beside her, and a smile spread across her face. “I know you. You wanted privacy from those two.”

  “I need to speak with Vakind.”

  “Funny you mentioned him. He called just before you walked in. He’s on channel eight waiting to talk to you.”

  Tolen picked up the receiver and punched the number. “Vakind?”

  “Tolen, I’m here with Sheila Shaw and Tiffany Bar. I have to answer to both the Spanish president and President Fane again in several hours. Ms. Zee tells me you’re en route to Europe. What’s the latest?”

  “We still have no hard leads on Boyd Ramsey. We’re pursuing a historical artifact which constitutes a prime target for the ‘True Sons of Light,’ thereby making ourselves a target. We were attacked in Costa Rica. Like Boston, it was a single assailant, but he died before we could extract any information,” Tolen paused. “Morris, nothing about this feels right. Neither assailant was a trained killer or had past affiliations with religious sects or fundamental terrorist groups. Richard Mox was 72 years old; not the age of a typical fanatic.”

  “I saw their bios, and I agree,” Vakind acknowledged. “I’ve asked Bar to search for any links between Richard Mox, Gordon Nunnery, Boyd Ramsey, and Aaron Conin, the laboratory technician in Vinton, Virginia. Other than the one cell phone call, we still can’t tie Ramsey to Conin. Bar has also been in contact with Canadian law enforcement regarding a search of Gordon Nunnery’s house.”

  Bar added, “Just like Mox’s house, Nunnery’s was clean, although one thing unusual turned up: a cigar found in an ashtray on his desk.”

  “Why is that unusual?” Tolen heard Sheila Shaw ask.

  “According to friends, family, and his ex-employer TRIUMF, the man wasn’t known to be a smoker; not even in recreational situations.”

  “Closet smoker?” Sheila offered.

  “If so, he has one expensive closet,” Bar replied. “The cigar we found was a Gurkha Black Dragon. It wasn’t the discounted version released in 2007. This was one of the 2006 originals. The blend included extremely old and rare tobaccos collected from all corners of the world. At $1,150 per cigar, it’s the most expensive cigar ever made, and get this: they were only sold by the 100-count box. That’s a tidy sum of $115,000 per box. Only five hand-carved, camel-bone boxes were ever produced. I’ve contacted the company in Honduras that makes them and have requested a customer list. So far, they’re not cooperating, but we’re trying to apply pressure.”

  “The Honduras government generally supports U.S. initiatives and is considered an ally,” Vakind added. “We’ll get the list.”

  “Only one of these cigars was found at Nunnery’s place?” Tolen asked.

  “Yes,” Bar responded.

  “Which seems to indicate it wasn’t his,” Vakind commented. “Our initial assumption was that he must have had a visitor who left it behind.”

  “The problem is,” Bar continued, “when we performed iodine fuming, the only prints we found on the cigar were Nunnery’s. Oh, and that Swiss dry-cleaning receipt you found in his wallet appears to be from a trip last year to Europe. I’m still digging to try to find his reason for going there. It doesn’t appear to have been for any company business. Flight records show he was only in Switzerland a day before returning to the States. He has no friends or family there either.”

  “Did you find out why he no longer worked at TRIUMF?” Tolen asked, hoping for some association between his motive and his prior employer.

  Vakind answered, “His employment was terminated six months ago. He began running unsanctioned particle physics experiments. He did so under the guise of a project he was working on, but once it was discovered he was using TRIUMF resources for tests outside his project’s parameters, he was summarily dismissed.”

  “What kind of experiments was he conducting?” Tolen asked.

  “No one’s really sure,” Bar replied. “Even as he was being let go, he never divulged what his unsanctioned tests were. As I told you before, he was a proponent of String Theory, or, as it’s commonly called, the theory of everything.”

  “Which is what?” Tolen heard Vakind ask.

  Tolen answered for her. “It’s a theorized manner of describing the known fundamental forces and matter in a complete system. Tiffany, are you suggesting he was trying to prove String Theory with those unauthorized experiments?”

  “Purely speculation on my part, but get this: his boss told me he had an unusual hobby: paranormal investigation.”

  “You mean like what they do on those television shows where they go to houses and try to capture evidence of apparitions? Ghost hunting?” Shaw asked in a tone that implied incredulity.

  “Yes.”

  A particle physicist who believes in ghosts. That’s an unlikely combination, Tolen thought. He switched subjects. “Bar, please find out which of Boyd Ramsey’s fingers left prints at the murder scenes in Oviedo, Spain, and Palmar Sur, Costa Rica, as well as on the communiqué to the Spanish press.”

  “What are you looking for?” Vakind asked.

  “Just a hunch. Morris, do the Spanish authorities have any leads on how the information of Boyd Ramsey’s fingerprints leaked to the press after the communiqué was received?”

  “None they’ve shared.”

  “Bar,” Tolen continued, “I’d like the police report on Dr. Jade Mollur’s accident when her car was run off the road in New Jersey.”

  “I’ll forward it to your phone as soon as the call’s over.”

  It was Vakind’s turn to speak. “Do you have reservations about Dr. Mollur?”

  “Morris, I had to tell her about the Sudarium’s theft. The situation warranted it. She understands it’s confidential, and since she’s in my company, there’s no danger she’ll tell anyone else.”

  Tolen heard Vakind exhale. He knew the director was not thrilled with the news.

  “I’ll trust your judgment, Tolen. You’ve earned that much.”

  “Ms. Bar, I’d like you to make a trip to the Roanoke Laboratory where Aaron Conin worked,” Tolen said. “Find out what you can about him from his boss and search his PC.”

  “Will do.”

  “Tolen,” Vakind’s voice slowed, “we’ve received a report that a fanatical religious group called the Flagellants, based in Italy but with members representing many European, South American, and yes, even North American countries, has planned an attack on the United States the moment the Sudarium is confirmed missing. While we’ve been unable to confirm any background regarding the ‘True Sons of Light,’ we know for a fact the Flagellants existed in history.”

  “They were a
medieval religious sect, if I recall,” Tolen said.

  “Correct,” Bar replied. “Their devotional practice included public disciplinary beatings. They started in northern Italy and gained a large following during the 14th century when the Black Plague ravaged Europe. They’ve existed in one form or another since then. Our intel tells us their popularity and membership experienced a huge upturn at the new millennium, and they’re quite capable of—and in fact welcome—violence as a means to prove their religious point.”

  “Too bad we can’t place the two opposing radical groups—the ‘True Sons of Light’ and the Flagellants—in a locked room and let them fight it out,” Shaw remarked.

  “We have strong reason to believe the Flagellants will carry out their threat,” Vakind continued. There was a slight hesitation, and Tolen sensed the acting director had more unfavorable news. His next words were measured. “President Fane has decided to make an announcement on Thursday morning, 24 hours in advance of the start of the Feast of the Cross, to warn U.S. citizens at home and abroad of a possible terrorist attack. She’s going to blame some paramilitary radical group in North Africa.”

  “Why a day before the Sudarium will be displayed?” Tolen asked in surprise. “We’ll be tipping our hand. We might as well admit that the U.S. is, in fact, responsible for stealing the Sudarium. There’s a high probability it will prompt the Flagellants to strike earlier than planned.”

  “I made the same argument, but the president is sympathetic to the risks of Americans everywhere, as she should be. It’s a calculated gamble. I do have an idea which may help circumvent a premature attack, but it’s going to take some political finagling.”

  Tolen had great respect for President Fane. In her shoes, he would do the same thing. “Morris, I need every minute I can get. Can you try and convince President Fane to delay issuing the terror alert until 12 hours before the Sudarium goes on display Friday morning?”