The sinking sun was replaced on the opposite horizon by a mammoth pale moon. It rose over the distant mountains, a glorious monolith, and Monique imagined a dramatic symphony ushering it into the heavens.
As the first star twinkled to accompany it through the night sky, Martin Zambeel inhaled deeply then breathed his last.
61
The second Jupiter letter arrived at the White House from Tanzania, the FBI now duly concerned, since the mention of Jefferson Ashby in the first letter preceded his unexpected death.
The actor’s autopsy was conclusive. An undetected aneurysm below the coronary artery stent had ruptured, killing him instantly. But how anyone might have known in advance remained a mystery.
The latest letter was simple and direct.
ENJOY THE OSCARS?
NO SIGN OF THE HOMECOMING
COCA COLA IS POISON
PUBLISH FORMULA
SHUT GLOBAL PRODUCTION
BY 8PM FRIDAY 12TH MARCH
IGNORE AND CEO DIES 7AM SUNDAY 14TH MARCH
JUPITER
The threat was too specific for the FBI to ignore. They must talk to Michael Chandler, since every precaution had not saved Jefferson Ashby.
‘Welcome, gentlemen. Please take a seat. How can I help?’
Two black-suited agents sat down in leather chairs opposite a wall of windows high above the city landscape.
‘Mr Chandler, we have reason to believe your life is in imminent danger.’
Michael Chandler fidgeted in his chair.
‘How is that?’ he said.
‘Through the offices of the President of the United States we received a threat foretelling your death at 7 a.m. this Sunday unless you publish the Coca Cola formula and cease its production. Both conditions must be met by 8 p.m. this Friday.’
‘The company receives hundreds of threats each year, and these, too, are totally unreasonable.’
‘Mr Chandler, we received a similar threat several weeks ago, in relation to the actor Jefferson Ashby. Despite our best security efforts, he died during the Oscar ceremony, as you know. That warning and the subsequent information relating to you appears to be part of a broader national security risk.’
‘Can I see the letter?’
The other agent straightened in his chair. ‘No, sir, it contains classified information but if you decide to ignore the demands, we will provide you with round-the-clock surveillance until the deadline passes.’
A forty-eight-year-old Michael Chandler had nothing to fear.
‘I will not be blackmailed but I appreciate your concern, gentlemen.’
‘Thank you, Mr Chandler. We will make the necessary arrangements. Good luck, sir.’
The agents left the palatial suite as Michael Chandler gazed over the city and poured himself an ice-cold Coke. He let the bubbles tickle his nose then drained the glass, burping with satisfaction as he swung his feet up onto the desk.
62
Without a male heir to the empire but instead blessed with four beautiful daughters, I bequest the entire hundred thousand hectares of land, including the buildings and profits derived from the orchards and vineyards, to the daughter to conceive my first grandson within the bond of matrimony. He in turn will inherit the property on attaining the age of twenty-one. If no grandson is born to my daughters, or if he fails to reach majority, ownership will revert to the eldest surviving sibling at a point in time when it is agreed the fruitful age of child bearing is beyond you all. Until the fulfilment of these conditions the property will remain in trust under the direction of my beloved wife, Giselle. In the event of her death the trust will be managed by a pre-elected board of directors until the said conditions are met. So concludes my final will and testament.
Martin Zambeel.
The executrix folded the letter and pushed it across the table for Giselle Zambeel to re-read. Monique Zambeel’s mind raced. No daughter was married, with only Raquel engaged to be wed in the spring. Even with all the money in the world, Monique would not give up her chance to retain the chateau for herself. As first-born, she firmly considered generational transition of ownership her right. The Chateau and the land it sat on was the largest asset in the Zambeel Empire, and she was dammed if it would become the domain of a boy, born of greed.
Monique knew her sisters were salivating, and sensed their sudden focus on the prospects of marriage and children. The Zambeel jewel held all the memories of childhood. Skiing, lavish parties, the Tour de France, the annual grape press and timeless walks through the fields and wooded forests were the essence of her upbringing. She would not relinquish it. She alone sought total control.
Monique’s doctor had pronounced her barren. Now, with so much at stake she would also ensure her sisters never experienced the joys of motherhood. She had a plan, and a most selfish one at that.
63
Toby Bell had an hour’s notice. The donor heart was on route to John Hopkins Hospital. He pulled into his private parking bay beneath the cardio-thoracic wing and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. The young patient was already under anaesthetic, her enlarged heart to be replaced with a healthy one from a road fatality. A life lost to get one back.
Before the ten-hour operation, Toby Bell performed an important task that nearly slipped his mind. He took the phone off his hip, entered the twenty-digit code and checked his watch - 06:58 – two minutes early. He sent the code and hardly gave it another thought.
64
Michael Chandler rose at 6 a.m. on Sunday. Coca Cola’s mega-factories continued to pump out millions of gallons of black champagne, its formula safe. He let his wife sleep. She knew nothing of the threat to his life. He carefully parted a curtain to the garden. The sodium street lamps were losing their effect as the horizon lightened. The morning was as normal. The man walking his dog, and the cars slotted against the kerb were familiar to him but he knew the FBI was out there somewhere.
He decided on his routine. To be engaged in some form of reverence at 7 a.m. must surely guarantee his survival. He stayed away from any windows. His study had none. He had time for a shower, shave and breakfast. He relaxed under the hot steaming water, carving his foamed-up jaw free of stubble as the shower jets massaged his back. He towelled-off in front of a mirror, happy with his condition, the scar down the middle of his chest barely noticeable through a mat of dark curls.
At 06:20 he made a cup of coffee and read the previous day’s paper. The rolled-up Sunday edition on the lawn out front could wait till later.
At 06:40 he phoned his mother. She welcomed his calls at any time of day. She’d tie him up for at least an hour, fine in the current circumstances.
Michael Chandler was edgy, shivering in a flu-like sweat. He pulled on a thick blue sweater but it made little difference. At 06:50 he tried his mother again with no answer - most likely at the bottom of her garden tending her roses.
At 06:54 he took his coffee cup to the study, closed the door, sat at his desk and turned on the computer. He took a set of rosary beads from a drawer, to pray to his oft-neglected God, and made a silent vow to never again miss Sunday Mass. He had not been to confession for ten years – 06:57.
‘Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with Thee...’ it felt uncomfortable but somehow more fulfilling to pray aloud. His fear manifested in a strong, evangelical tone. His wife would be surprised at his born-again fervour, ‘... blessed art Thou among women and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus...’ he wished he was not so superstitious. Faith should be sustaining him in his time of need. ‘... Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our dea...’
A sharp pop inside his chest drove pain through to his spine. The shock of adrenalin did nothing for his heart, for it had suddenly stopped beating. He had just enough time to register disbelief.
Michael Chandler’s cell phone rang.
At 07:13 Grace Chandler found her husband slumped over his desk with blood seeping from his mouth. Frantically she dialled 911 but Michael
Chandler was already fifteen minutes into his eternal destiny, whatever it might be. She stared in puzzlement at the ivory rosary beads wrapped around his right hand.
65
When the coroner examined Michael Chandler’s artificial aortic valve he was incredulous. The fine Teflon ring had a tiny section missing that could easily have gone unnoticed. The single moving part was jammed, rendered useless; the fleshy branch of the aorta connected to it was ripped. Such a catastrophic cardiac event was unimaginable.
He cut the valve free and put it in a jar for analysis.
A technician ran the sample through a mass spectrometer for a second time. The chemical fingerprint on the valve indicated the presence of trinitrotoluene. Michael Chandler died by dynamite. Microscopic traces of gold and silver, elements used in bio-nanotechnology switches, were clues to the detonation mechanism.
‘Yes, it is possible we missed it. Jefferson Ashby had narrowing of at least one coronary artery, hence the stent. Without a thought for anything untoward, it appeared to be a weakness in the vessel wall that burst. Is there a link between the deaths of Ashby and Chandler?’ the doctor said.
‘We’re investigating. Thank you for your help,’ was the dismissive reply.
The agent departed into the linoleum corridor, asked directions to the medical records department, and on arrival was given access to the files he requested. In a study booth, he read Jefferson Ashby’s file, finding the damning evidence. For his heart, the best actor winner was under the specialist care of Toby Bell who’d fitted him with a coronary stent three years prior.
Michael Chandler’s file was marginally thicker. The agent’s suspicions were again confirmed. Toby Bell had replaced the Coke executive’s floppy aortic valve with an artificial model designed to last a lifetime.
66
A third Jupiter letter arrived at the White House from Chile, one week after Michael Chandler’s death.
NO MORE TIME
BEWARE THE PALE HORSE
THE MEETING OF FOOLS
65810163.
JUPITER
The FBI analysed the note.
When agents attended John Hopkins Hospital, Toby Bell was unavailable with no appointments or surgery scheduled for the foreseeable future. His whereabouts was unknown, his cell phone switched off. Flashing identification, the agents were begrudgingly given access to Toby Bell’s patient database. They spent the entire afternoon compiling a list of every man, woman and child who had benefitted at the hands of the world’s leading heart surgeon. Since heading the department at Hopkins, he’d performed three hundred and eleven open-heart surgeries and thirty-seven less invasive procedures. Many of the names on the list were instantly recognisable. His clients had money, fame or both. The mere thought of him holding the scales of life and death was sobering. Now time was running out to find the good doctor.
67
‘It’s time to begin a life outside America.’
‘And the list?’ Joan said.
‘If there is no satisfactory response to our threat, we must act. Continue the killings or break open the tabernacle and see if the Cardinal’s claims are true,’ Toby Bell said.
‘It seems no one has yet connected the deaths of Ashby and Chandler. If your patients become aware they are in danger there’ll be pandemonium, with the government coming under extreme pressure. To protect his citizens, the President must recall his military forces from foreign soil,’ Lord Jensen said.
‘A letter to the Washington Post outlining our plans, and the onus on the government to avert further deaths will ignite a beautiful hysteria. The war in Afghanistan is more unpopular than ever and the President will effectively be held to ransom,’ Toby Bell said.
‘Let me hold the tabernacle,’ Monique Zambeel said. ‘How was it chipped?
Lord Jensen handed it to her.
‘Hit by the first musket ball aimed at Sir Timothy Sivewright,’ Venti said. ‘Fate is a mysterious thing.’
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ Toby Bell said, noting the dour expression on Jonathon Brown’s face.
‘To date we have killed two men with little to show for it. Ending wars and destroying the Coke brand are piecemeal attempts at control that will in all probability never realise true change in this complicated world of ours. How will you determine the order in which the codes are activated?’
‘I ask a question in return, Jonathon. Who among you would push the buttons?’ Toby Bell said.
Cardinal Venti cleared his throat. ‘I am willing to control the codes if the Vatican becomes the repository for the tabernacle. The deep crypts beneath Saint Peters are the perfect hiding place.’
Bianca listened, the excitement that drove her brother filling her being. She masked her true thoughts by offering some dissent at the proposal.
‘Is it wise, Michael, to usurp such power under the veil of your Cardinalship? The office and the sanctity of your vows must surely deride such an unholy action.’
‘Fear not, Bianca, I have aligned my conscience with the greater good. The governments of those under threat of sudden death will successfully petition the President of the United States to intercede for their lives. Then I will destroy the codes.’
‘But Cardinal, what if you’re wrong?’ Norman said.
‘With due respect, Norman, I am responsible for the position of power for which it seems your enthusiasm is fast waning. Where is your faith? God will provide in the hour of need. Remember, the tabernacle is His doing, and He alone will guide the course of events.’
Joan rolled her eyes at Venti’s delusional tirade.
‘Cardinal Venti is right. There seems no better place to purge us of our sinful tools than within the Holy City,’ Toby Bell said.
68
Sonja Zambeel’s course of action on Wednesday evening was entirely out of character. Earlier that afternoon she withdrew one hundred thousand Euros in notes from her personal bank account. After buying Japanese takeout, she returned to her apartment and ate in front of the television. Later she showered, dressed in a smart evening suit and drove into central Paris to trawl the city’s night clubs. She abstained from alcohol to stay sharp and healthy.
Sonja spotted him leaning against the bar. He was handsome and appeared unaffected by drugs. Techno music throbbed away for the dozen people on the dance floor.
She bought a soda and lime with ice, and from the corner of her eye saw the man admiring her. She acknowledged him with a flirtatious smile and continued watching the manic dancers gyrate beneath a dizzying strobe light. He approached her across the dance floor. She summed him up in an instant.
‘I’m Sonja.’ She extended her hand.
‘Julian.’
His grip was firm.
‘Let’s find a quiet place,’ Sonja said.
His pupils dilated with expectation as he followed her out of the club and down the sidewalk. They entered a secluded espresso bar and sat without ordering.
‘Julian, I have an offer you must consider and decide on immediately.’
He leant forward attentively.
‘Marriage, consummation and divorce in quick succession, after which there will be no further contact between us, and you will be free to resume your usual life. You must not disclose our arrangement to anyone. The deal is non-negotiable. For your part, one hundred thousand Euros in cash, no strings attached.’
‘I have many questions.’
‘In thirty seconds, I will leave with or without you.’
Julian eyed her carefully. Sonja slipped off her stool and left the cafe. Rounding the corner at the end of the block a hand touched her gently on the elbow. She slipped her arm in his and they crossed the cobbled street to her car.
69
‘Mr President, there is a problem.’
‘Concerning?’
Both agents glanced at each other.
‘Your health, sir,’ one agent said.
‘I’d rather hear that news from my doctor than from the FBI.’
‘T
here is a threat to your life, sir.’
‘That’s five this week. What’s special about this one?’
‘There is a chance we cannot prevent it, Mr President. You will recall the deaths of Jefferson Ashby and Michael Chandler. There were referenced threats on their lives and we took every precaution to protect both men.’
‘They died of heart attacks. The FBI could not have prevented that.’
‘Yes, sir, heart attack caused the deaths, but the triggers are more alarming. Michael Chandler’s heart attack was pre-empted by a minute but deadly detonation in his chest of trinitrotoluene, better known as TNT. Although the autopsy on Jefferson Ashby failed to investigate a similar possibility, we believe his death happened the same way.’
‘How is this linked to me?’
‘Mr President, we initially received what the FBI perceived as a false threat, an outlandish claim of an element capable of destroying humanity. As you understand, sir, your office receives many such threats. Jefferson Ashby’s death was unexpected but Michael Chandler’s letter gave the exact time of his death if the demands were ignored. He refused to be blackmailed, confident his life could not be compromised under our security net. Here are copies of the first two letters.’
The other agent handed over the loose sheets.
‘Why wasn’t I informed?’
‘Mr President, on first impressions we thought it could be dealt with without the need to bring it to your attention. In hindsight, we were wrong. Your office received this letter yesterday evening.’
The President read it, baffled by the cryptogram.
‘Sir, we think it refers directly to you.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘No more time is a reiteration of the demand for troop withdrawal. Beware the pale horse describes the fourth horseman of the apocalypse, symbolizing death. The meeting of fools refers to the Presidential debate scheduled for April first. The line of numbers can be broken down into a series of four dates. Put a space after every two numbers to separate out the last digits of the years in which the four Presidential assassinations occurred. Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley and Kennedy died in 1865, 1881, 1901 and 1963 respectively.’
The Jesus Germ Page 29
