Indisputable Proof

by Gary Williams

  Simon Anat’s sprawling estate was sequestered upon a rolling, tree-covered landscape. Tolen knew from the information Bar had provided that the mansion dated back to 1682 and was originally the location of a winery. The opulent grounds were a conglomerate of beautiful meadows with acres of old grape vines and lavish gardens. There were no less than six ornamental stone wells spread out on the property. High quarry stone walls ran horizontally from either end of the dwelling, obscuring the view of the back. The entire complex was guarded by a high, pronged iron fence, with signs bearing strong warnings that it was electrified.

  With an inward shudder, Tolen reflected that electrocution was not something he ever wanted to experience again.

  As they approached, Tolen admired the edifice. A proud contribution to Swiss architectural eloquence, the main structure of the estate was white stone with a brown tiled roof. From the road, the dwelling appeared to be as long as a football field with more windows than Tolen could count, each double glazed and fitted with a decorative awning. Spires loomed into the sky at each end, with another pair in the middle. A long, single-lane driveway ran from the road to the wrought-iron security gate and beyond, stretching to the house after a series of unnecessary curves.

  Anat was a known art connoisseur. Although never confirmed, it was rumored he had a large temperature-controlled room on the second floor which contained over four billion dollars in paintings from such masters as Donatello, Giotto, Cimabue, and Raphael. Some conspiracy theorists suggested the Hungarian billionaire had somehow recovered stolen artwork from the World War II “Gold Train,” the infamous 42-car freight train Nazis had loaded with gold, jewelry, gems, paintings, and an assortment of other valuables in 1944, all of which had been taken from Jews as the Soviet army advanced on Budapest, Hungary. Much of the stolen loot was never recovered. The fate of approximately 200 paintings seized from the train has never been determined, but U.S. restitution policy officially considered them “cultural assets” which should have been returned to their country of origin: Hungary. Some even contended Anat had the original of Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man, created circa 1515, which was speculated to be worth well over $100 million today.

  Tolen had the taxi driver pull into the driveway but stop well before the security gate. He paid the driver and requested he wait, tipping the man handsomely. A guard in a sentry box regarded Tolen as he approached on foot.

  “No one is allowed entry, sir,” the guard, a burly man in his mid-thirties clad in a brown uniform, said in German.

  Tolen arrived at the sentry box and responded in kind. “Tell Mr. Anat these two words: Gurkha and Sudarium.”

  “No, sir,” the man responded brusquely. “Leave the property immediately.” The guard stepped out from the box and laid a threatening hand on the pistol holstered at his right hip. With a flick, he undid the holster strap.

  “I believe you’ll find Mr. Anat wishes to speak with me,” Tolen said calmly.

  The guard drew his gun. In a flash, Tolen swung his arm up, knocking the weapon from the man’s hand. At the same time, he withdrew his Springfield .45 and pressed it to the man’s forehead. The guard’s pistol clanged to the pavement a dozen feet away.

  “Let’s start again,” Tolen said sedately. “I have a proposition for you. You get on the phone and tell Anat what I said, and I won’t shoot you.”

  The German grumbled, but Tolen was certain he would comply. Few people have the courage to fight once the barrel of a pistol touches their head. The guard suddenly batted Tolen’s arm away and grabbed him in a crushing bear hug, easily lifting Tolen’s 225-pound frame off the ground. His gun also rattled on the driveway. Tolen’s ribs were close to snapping when he raised both hands above his head and to the side, and boxed the other man’s ears as hard as he could. The guard let out a feral yelp, dropped Tolen, and clutched at his ears in agony. Tolen took the opportunity to drive a fist into the bulky man’s face. It only took one shot. The guard dropped his hands, staggered, and collapsed to the ground. Blood rolled from his broken nose as he lay groaning weakly.

  Tolen stood, then stepped inside the sentry box and found the telephone.

  “Tell Mr. Anat, Gurkha and Sudarium,” he said to the male voice who answered in German at the other end.

  The line went dead without a response. Tolen wondered if he might have to find his way inside the grounds by alternative methods. A minute later there was an electronic beep and the joined gates opened inward.

  Tolen left the still-slumped guard and proceeded on foot up the driveway, turning once to ensure the taxi remained by the road. He passed between the spires and through an elaborate trellis onto a large portico. He approached a high, arched entryway with two massive oak doors. Before he had a chance to ring the bell, the doors parted.

  Before him stood a man with deepset eyes, high cheekbones, and dirty-blonde hair. His age was difficult to determine. Tolen placed him somewhere between his early thirties to mid-forties. He had a sullen expression, as if his responsibilities were so oppressive that they caused his face to droop. “Who are you?” the man asked sourly in German.

  Tolen responded in English, “My name is Samuel Tolen. I’m an American CIA agent, and I have business with Simon Anat.”

  The man cocked his head arrogantly and spoke in English with a heavy German accent, “Not according to Mr. Anat.”

  Tolen stared at the man wordlessly.

  “He has, however, consented to allow you an audience. I am Nicklaus Kappel, Mr. Anat’s personal assistant.” He did not offer a handshake. “Please follow me.” Kappel stepped far back, allowing Tolen ample room to enter. He led Tolen through the vestibule, where Doric columns sailed up to the high ceiling and colorful tapestries draped the walls. A huge, elaborate Tiffany chandelier hung high overhead. The vestibule emptied into a long corridor where artwork adorned every wall. They passed statues of the Roman figures Romulus and Remus at the end of the hallway before it spilled into a copious living room with a box-beam ceiling. A fruity fragrance filled the air as they approached a deep kitchen with built-in cupboards and modern stainless steel appliances which seemed woefully out of place in the antiquated space.

  Kappel opened a door in a sidewall. He led Tolen down a stony staircase. They arrived at a dark corridor with a stone floor and low ceiling. If not for the light somewhere ahead in the distance, they would have been immersed in complete darkness. The air was cool and dry with a musty, oaken smell. Tolen recognized the place as a wine cellar. They took the hallway a short distance to where it opened into a large, arched cellar with wooden wine racks crawling up every wall.

  Sitting behind a quaint, wooden desk in the middle of the room was a clean-shaven, frail man with gaunt eyes and short, unruly silver hair. He wore a light-blue collared shirt buttoned up to his neck. The man silently watched them approach with searching brown eyes. He had a look of frustration, as if he might know Tolen, yet something was interfering with his recollection.

  It took a moment for Tolen to realize the man was Simon Anat. The man’s appearance had changed to the point where he was almost unrecognizable. Just like Howard Hughes, Tolen thought, he’s gone over the edge.

  There was a nondescript wooden chair before the desk. Kappel motioned for Tolen to take a seat then backed behind him a dozen feet where he stood quietly.

  Tolen looked at Anat. The man was a weary shell of his former self. Tolen prepared himself, certain he was about to engage in a conversation with a man disconnected from reality. Who else would set up a desk in a wine cellar?

  “And how is it that I know you, Mr. Tolen with the American CIA? Surely I would remember a man who is so fashionably dressed and handles himself with such bravado.” Anat’s voice was clear, his words thoughtful and concise, spoken in perfect English. Anat already knew who he was, but that was not what surprised Tolen. It was Anat’s lucidity that was completely
unexpected.

  Tolen chose not to mince his words. He leaned back in the chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Gordon Nunnery recently died. How do you know the man?”

  “I don’t believe I do,” Anat said with a subtle smile. He looked over Tolen’s shoulder at his assistant. “Do I, Mr. Kappel?”

  There was a hesitation. “He was...on the guest list for last year’s event.”

  “So you do know him,” Tolen pushed.

  “I would venture to say we’ve met, but I don’t really know the man. He was at the mansion once.”

  “What were the circumstances of his visit?”

  Anat leaned in. His expression turned defensive. “What is your interest? You disable my guard and then call in using the words Gurkha and Sodarian. Speaking of Gurkha,” Anat sat back and opened a desk drawer to the side. He retrieved a box, which he laid on top of the desk. “Best cigar ever made, in my opinion. Sadly, I find after 10 or 12 puffs, the flavor wanes. I recommend anyone who smokes a Gurkha stop at that point.” He smiled. “I never smoke alone. I see so few visitors these days, and it’s been a while since I’ve indulged. Will you join me?”

  Tolen saw the hand-carved, camel bone box was, in fact, a box of Gurkha Black Dragons. Ten or twelve puffs. That explains why the cigar found in Nunnery’s house was only partially smoked. “Thank you, but I respectfully decline.”

  Anat looked momentarily hurt. “Ah well, they’re bad for the health anyway.” He loosed a strained chuckle. Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression solidified. “Again, I ask: what is your interest in this Gordon Nunnery and what is a Sodarian?”

  “Sudarium,” Tolen corrected him. “It’s a relic held in a church in Oviedo, Spain. It’s purported to be a cloth that wrapped the face of Jesus Christ immediately following his crucifixion.”

  “You’re not talking about the Shroud of Turin, are you?”

  Tolen shook his head, no.

  “Then I’ve never even heard of this Sudarium. As for Gordon Nunnery,” Anat paused as if tentative about saying more, “he was part of an assembled group that was here for one day last year.”

  “Did this group also include Boyd Ramsey and Richard Mox?”

  Anat again looked over Tolen’s shoulder, obviously to get confirmation from Kappel. “Yes, they were here.”

  “There have been two recent murders,” Tolen continued. “One was an archaeologist in Costa Rica, and the other a church security guard in Spain. A radical group calling themselves the ‘True Sons of Light’ claims responsibility for both deaths. This group has a self-prescribed charter of destroying relics supposedly tied to Christ. They contend His existence is a fable, and they wish to stop the charade by eliminating false artifacts. Gordon Nunnery and Richard Mox were somehow involved. The only connection between Nunnery, Mox, and Ramsey is that they were all in Switzerland for one day last year, and you’ve just confirmed all three were here at the mansion for some ‘event.’ I need to know the circumstances of this gathering.”

  Anat’s eyes hardened. “You realize I’ve answered your questions so far because, frankly, I have nothing to hide. I’ve barely met these men and know nothing of a radical group or these two murders. I could easily send you on your way. We’ve already alerted the local authorities, and the guard you temporarily disabled is waiting upstairs in the kitchen heavily armed in case our conversation becomes uncivilized.”

  Tolen spoke in a low voice holding Anat’s gaze. “Given the international flavor of these murders, Interpol is involved. If needed, I’ll return with a search warrant and a squad of agents to go through your mansion. Or, you can give me the information I need, and I’ll be on my way. I’m not here to disrupt your life, Mr. Anat. I’m simply gathering facts to enhance our investigation. I have no illusions that you would knowingly support the activities of a radical group, but I believe you unknowingly brought people together which may have spawned their activity.”

  Anat seemed to digest Tolen’s words for a moment.

  He watched Anat’s body language carefully.

  Anat relaxed and sat back in his chair. His next words surprised Tolen.

  “Are you a religious man, Mr. Tolen?”

  “Each man searches for his own truth.”

  “Yes, well put,” Anat reached into the desk drawer again, this time fishing out a bottle of Bowmore Scotch and a small glass. The label was dried and peeling. It was apparently well aged.

  “An 1850 bottle of Bowmore sold for 29,400 pounds at an auction about five years ago,” Tolen commented after seeing the label.

  Anat forced an impish smile. “I know.”

  Even Tolen was somewhat taken aback. This was a man of sublime taste who went after whatever he wanted.

  Anat looked to Tolen. “I assume since you’re on duty...”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Tolen waved a hand.

  Anat continued. “Like most, my faith had been ingrained since childhood. Yet there comes a point in a man’s life when he’s faced with his own mortality,” Anat paused, brushing the tip of his nose as if a stray hair had fallen across it. “Almost two years ago, I was diagnosed with a most unpleasant disease; a form of terminal cancer. I won’t go into the particulars, but I was given roughly 18 months to two years to live. You can do the math. I’m already inside death’s window,” he said somberly. He paused and poured himself two fingers of Scotch. Without hesitation, he slammed back the liquid and returned the glass to the table.

  Anat’s words brought a chilling image of Tolen’s own father lying in a coma at the Florida hospital.

  “I spend a great amount of time in this wine cellar as a doctor has told me that the cool conditions may slow the growth of the cancer. Is it the truth? Who knows? But what have I got to lose?

  “Several months after receiving the grim news, I made a decision. You see, there is one great mystery that science universally accepts we will never be able to solve: the age-old question of whether there is life after death. Religions tell you there is. Many believe the soul continues after death, but they have the same great crutch: belief. There is life after death because they believe there is. Yet there has never been one bit of evidence to prove our soul continues on in an afterlife.

  “They point to the Bible as their proof, but the Bible is a book; a book whose chapters were assembled by men. It contains no more proof than the Egyptian Book of the Dead contains proof to assist the departed in the afterlife. These are texts contrived by man, not by gods.”

  Anat spoke faster now. “I want evidence: cold, hard, indisputable proof that there is, in fact, life after death. I want peace of mind when my time comes. I do not want some religious pundit telling me that my soul will go to heaven if I believe. I want to know my being will continue in the afterlife. I have to know.” A passionate glow blazed in the man’s eyes.

  “Given my time constraint and my need for understanding, I decided to engage some of the world’s finest professionals in their field. I assembled a group of archaeologists, mathematicians, philosophers, biologists, physicists, and men and women of various other disciplines at my estate last year and made them an offer. They had one task: prove the existence of an afterlife. I did not care how they did it, or who did it, but someone had to be prepared to show me conclusive evidence.” His eyes saddened somewhat. His voice pleaded. “I want to know the truth, Mr. Tolen. I want to know what will happen to my soul when I leave this body.”

  “And you thought a philosopher might hold the key?” Tolen asked.

  “Why not? It’s a riddle mankind has been trying to solve since the beginning of time. If the biologists and physicists cannot, perhaps some of the deepest thinkers can. There is an answer. I know it. There has to be a way to prove it.”

  “What was the offer?” Tolen asked, his mind reeling.

  “The one who could provide proof wo
uld get everything I own; approximately $30 billion, less a few million for me to live the rest of my days. Discretion was paramount. I was not looking for publicity, so one leak to the press, and the entire deal was off for everyone.”

  “How many were privy to this offer?”

  “I solicited 500 people from around the globe. One hundred attended the gathering I held here at the mansion, and they learned my true intent as well as the rules of engagement at the meeting. This estate has 122 rooms, and they were put up for the night after I provided dinner and made the offer. They were sent on their way the next day. Each received one of my Gurkha Black Dragon cigars. I assume that is how you tied me to these people.”

  That explained why Bar had not discovered where Ramsey, Mox, and Nunnery had stayed in Switzerland. “You created a competition, pitting the participants against each other.”

  “I didn’t care how they did it or what alliances they formed.”

  Thirty billion dollars was enough motivation to make even a passive archaeologist commit murder, Tolen thought. He took a moment to assimilate this new information before asking, “Surely, you must have known the temptation of such a huge reward would drive people to extremes…even murder. Don’t you feel any responsibility for the mayhem which was sure to ensue?”

  “What mayhem?” Anat looked genuinely surprised. “I never endorsed their actions; just offered the prize.”

  “And allowed them to make the decision of how the end justifies the means.”

  Anat’s words turned malevolent. “You are not going to dirty my hands with your sanctimonious assertion I had something to do with the deaths of those people. Besides, CIA Agent Samuel Tolen, I certainly would not support a radical cause which tries to destroy artifacts. Quite the contrary, I am looking for proof of an afterlife, nothing more.” He paused, biting his bottom lip. “This concludes our conversation. Good day, Agent Tolen.”