by Yasmin Esack
As he got up to get a glass of water, his right hand touched the button of his sensitive TV remote. LaPlotte was stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the image of Foster surrounded by a barrage of reporters on CNN. Not far from him, KD stood handcuffed.
“General Foster, did you order the killing of Thomas Hart?” a reporter shouted at the top her voice.
Dressed in a dark suit and silk tie, Foster glared at her. “I did not!”
“Kevin Drake has given testimony to that effect. Are you saying he’s lying?’
“He is and I have nothing further to say to anyone at this point and I won’t until I speak to my attorneys.”
He could see Foster moving towards the exit of the FDI headquarters. He heard another reporter shout out.
“Is there a French connection to this whole affair? Is Mr. Michel LaPlotte, curator of the Louvre, involved?”
Foster walked out the building looking straight ahead. LaPlotte was glad Foster ignored the question. He switched the television off. As he turned to get the glass of water, he saw a police car approaching his wrought iron gate.
Chapter 61
“We’re almost there,” the Peruvian driver said. The man’s voice pulled Hart from his thoughts. How far was he from getting the missing pages, he wondered. Had Cathy succeeded in cornering the Frenchman? Laplotte was no fool. He was undeniably a man of a thousand faces. He could slip out of anything. Still, Cathy was a fox, a trap-setter, wise to the world of men. She was bold, yet graceful and charming. She had started to get that look in her eyes, he noted, and he didn’t mind at all. He was soft-hearted when it came to women and had a great fear of misleading them. But, this time it seemed real. He was drawn to Cathy in ways he never before experienced. Maybe the chemistry was right or maybe it was in her easy manner. He found himself thinking of her. A strange occurrence for him. He would bet on her capabilities any day. Laplotte would not escape this time. He was sure. His anxious thoughts didn’t last long. His phone beeped. It was Cathy.
“Laplotte is dead, Tom.”
“Dead?“
“He shot himself in his bedroom.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“I didn’t quite expect this, Tom. Laplotte had used a room in the Louvre with an old safe. I’m sure the pages are in there.”
Hart felt as if thunder rolled in his head. Could the realm truly be the portal to another world? He would know soon. He collected himself as Cathy’s voice poured through the line again.
“Listen, Terrance Nash of the Federal Department of Investigations is on his way. He’s investigating LaPlotte’s role in the attempt to assassinate you and the murder of Angela Keller, the woman who died when you were shot. Foster is out on bail. The keys to LaPlotte’s safe are in the hands of the French police. Nash will get them.”
“I hope so, Cathy.”
“Be calm. You’re almost there.” She ended the call.
Sitting in the back of the car, he moved through the town of Trujillo. The town was the first to be captured by the Spanish. He saw the Moche motifs that typified the town as he headed to the ancient Peruvian city of Chan Chan. He figured that, within the confines of the ancient city, he would find proof of supernatural matter.
He would leave no stone untouched in his quest for unearthing the mysteries of life. Gods had come to earth and walked among common people speaking of their worlds and teaching them of their path. This was the land of the Sun God, Inti.
His excitement teemed as he drew closer to the city. Ten minutes later, he walked along Chan Chan’s citadel where Renaldo Villando stood waiting for him. Renaldo came from a shamanic lineage. He was dressed in jeans and a green poncho. A red chullo covered his head. His attractive smile shone from a distance as did his eyes that were dark and alert.
“Mr. Hart?” he called out. It wasn’t difficult to find Hart with his blonde hair blowing in the wind. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Renaldo held his hand out.
“Same here,” Hart replied.
“We have to sit on the ground.” The thirty-five year old chuckled. “There are no seats around.”
Hart sat and pulled his knees close to his chest, as he liked doing. He felt the warmth of sun on his face. A peaceful aura encircled him. Above, ospreys flew high in the sky and chameleons slithered though sparse bush. A few feet away, an Australian couple was admiring the Chimor artefacts in the Tschudi complex of Chan Chan.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Hart?”
“I’m interested in your culture.”
“You mean healing?” Renaldo pressed. “I’m not a curandero yet. It takes years to become one. You need a curandero shaman for healing and medicines from the Amazon jungle, like Ayahuasca and San Pedro cactus.”
“No, I’m not here about healing, Renaldo. I came to get information.”
“About?”
“Let’s begin with the Inca prophecy. I know you’re Q’ero.”
“The world would change, Mr. Hart.”
There was no mistaking it, Renaldo was certain.
“Who was Inti, then?”
Renaldo removed his hat to reveal a head of thick, black hair. As he looked over the ruins of the Chimor Empire, it seemed like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find words.
“Just give me your thoughts,” Hart prodded.
“I’m thinking of how best to answer you. Our culture is different from yours. This life is but a moment in time. We think more of the great beyond. That’s why you see so many sacred places. It is said Inti stepped into our time.”
“Stepped in from where?”
“He was sent to earth by Viracocha. He arrived at a cave in Pacaritambo carrying a golden staff. We don’t know how he got here.”
“What did he do with the staff?”
“He created the Temple of the Sun.”
“Tell me about the staff, Renaldo. I want you to think carefully.”
“It was golden. The Temple of the Sun wasn’t built by humans because it’s was an observatory to observe Pleiades, the constellation of stars.”
“Are there other examples of staff gods?”
“There are lots, Mr. Hart.”
Hart felt encouraged. Amid the sultry stillness, he wanted to stay long, sitting as he did hearing insects call. For a moment, he wondered if there was a connection between the Hindu age of Satya Yuga and the prophecy of Inti. It was ambitious to think there was, even though Olsen had given it thought and said it wasn’t impossible. Bentley did identify images common to Indian culture and ancient America, like the lotus flower. A depiction of an Asian elephant was found in Central America.
The gods would come back to show the way as they had done before, Olsen had said. Yet, it was incredible to him. The world was not what it had been many years ago. It was a hostile place of skin peeling weaponry. Renaldo’s pitched voice shook him from his reprieve.
“Viracocha, our supreme god, rebuilt the earth after the great flood. He walked among the people and showed them how to live and he will return. Come, let’s go into Chan Chan.”
He followed Renaldo into the high-walled citadel that housed burial chambers, temples and residences.
“The Inca people learnt how to communicate with the universe here, way back when they had conquered the Chimor.”
Hart stared at seventeen statues embedded in the wall.
“They pay homage to Ayapec, the deity of the all-knowing. His temple is the Huaca Del Luna. It’s not far from here.”
“It didn’t survive the ages because of the mud used in its construction, Renaldo.”
“No, it didn’t.”
It was eerie, staring at the praying figurines. Were they evidence of a world unknown? Hart had spent long nights tracing the alignment of structures like pyramids to constellations. It was a task. The mathematical skills of the ancients never ceased to amaze him.
He followed Renaldo deeper into the citadel. It was an elemental experience. The ancient Chimor took pride in nature. It was from it many of their gods arose.
They worshipped the sea and the rivers along with the air and the sun.
“Mr. Hart,” Renaldo pointed. “Come and see this.”
Hart stared at a figure with a pail in its hand. Its right arm was pointing to the sky. He wondered who the figure was.
“Who this?” he asked.
“Quetzalcoatl,” Renaldo rendered.
“Chan Chan is the largest pre-Colombian city but there’s no evidence of a staff god here, Renaldo. Why’s that?”
“Chan-Chan was not a religious centre. It was just a society that bloomed from the Moche civilization. Staff gods are known from depictions on ceramic but not many have survived.”
“I really need to know more of them.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Two hours later they were on a flight headed south. It wasn’t long before they stood on the stones of Caral, an ancient city two hundred miles from Lima. The site was as much a mystery or even more so than Chan Chan. It was the home of the Norte Chico, the oldest civilization in the Americas. Caral Supe, its scared city, had remnants of pyramids and massive stone mounds. Evidence showed the Norte Chico had used Quipus to record data and had been avid agriculturalists, weavers and drug users, traits that were probably copied later by the Inca.
As he looked at the remains of the pyramids on the dust-bowled land, Hart wondered about its inhabitants. The pyramid constructions consisted of flattened tops and the layout suggested the site was once part of a highly organized society.
“These pyramids are older than the pyramids of Egypt, aren’t they Renaldo?”
“They are, Mr. Hart. The design of the central plaza is like that of Teotihuacan, the City of Gods in Mex ico. This is a religious centre. The Norte Chico embraced a staff god. These structures were built by that god.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He created a strong supernatural presence here. He did away with bad things, in much the same way Inti did. He promoted the ideals of a common good. On the north-eastern slope of Peru, there once lived a group called the Chavins who built a temple called Chavin de Huantar, out of stone and clay. They also had a staff god and, like the Norte Chico, they ascribed power to those connected to the divine.”
“Staff gods are really common in these parts.”
“They’re the major deities in Andean cultures. The oldest image of a staff god was found right here. Did you know that? In fact, it dates to 2250BC.”
“That’s before the biblical flood.”
“The image was found on gourd, a plant extract.” Renaldo looked toward the horizon with an expression of concern. “It is getting dark, Mr. Hart. I think we should go.”
The approaching darkness cast eerie silhouettes in the distance. The sunset was now a slit of light on the horizon when they walked away from the mounds of baked earth. Clearly, drought had come to Caral in its five thousand year history. Now, barren and dusty, it was still a majestic place, one of untold mystery. Hart felt the greatness of the continent in the air, the landscape and the sounds of nocturnal creatures stirring. The more he thought of everything, the more the secrets of life revealed itself. While the natural world was wondrous, the supernatural world was amazing.
The rustic scene of llamas and the vastness of the land thrilled him as they travelled to the town of Cuzco next day. From there, they rode a train through terraced mountains and descended to the town of Agua Calientes, or hot springs. A narrow road led to the ruins of Machu Picchu. From a distance, they could see temples, storehouses and dwellings. Cobbled pathways that were narrower led to Pachacuti’s palatial home, consisting of courtyards, bath houses and private rooms.
“Pachacuti lived here and had built all that you see before you.”
“He built it with a staff?”
“No, Pachacuti was not a god but a conqueror. He conquered many lands.”
“Why did he build this, Renaldo?”
“We have to begin with the place. Machu Picchu was never a city but a sacred place from which food and clothing were distributed to many in need. Many were also healed. Pachacuti united our people. The Spanish knew nothing of this place.”
Ahead Hart could see a chiselled structure sitting atop a large terrace. “What’s that?”
“That’s the Intihuatana or time machine.”
He frowned.
“It was used to follow the movement of the sun over time, like a sun dial. I have to tell you this is what everybody sees but, there’re lots more that’s hidden and unexplored, Mr. Hart.”
Hart gazed up at the Huayna Picchu, a peak that stood over Machu Picchu. Leading up to it where granite steps that were hidden by Yucca plants and other shrubs.
“Have you been up there?”
“Yes. It’s closed now. The site which housed the sacred meeting places of priests were up there but are now no more. From there, they studied the stars. You will find the remains of the scared Temple of the Moon and the Temple of the Condor. On the vertical side, lie the remains of fountains and ceremonial sites.”
It was dead quiet on Machu Picchu except for a few middling tourists. Hart pulled his jacket around his neck as a cold wind blew. Many spoke of the spiritual transformation they felt from being there. He certainly did too. It was as if the past wanted to chat with him. It was an invigorating and supremely mystical experience.
“What evidence exists to show that the Inca priests were healers?” he asked.
“There’re etchings on the Huayna Picchu. The priests performed amputations, even transplants. Many survived. Today, shamans can give people Mosoq Karpay, the power of their ancestors. It allows an individual to travel beyond time. They can perform the Kawaq rite. The energy stimulates the brain, allowing an individual to become a seer with ability to perceive the future, what you would describe a third eye. All these things came from Inti, the sun god.”
Hart looked at his watch. It was approaching evening and he needed to start thinking about leaving. At 11PM, he boarded a Continental flight bound for New York.
Chapter 62
Back at home, he picked up his phone. “Hello?”
“Tom?” Cathy called.
“Yeah, Cat?” he answered.
“KD finally admitted to the shootings.”
“Bastard.”
“Said he took orders from Foster and LaPlotte. Foster thinks Nash will get them off.”
“I hope not.”
“From what I hear, Nash is no push over.”
“How long again, Cat?”
“Be patient. It’s a matter of time now before you have those pages. You’ll hear from Nash soon. He’s still in Paris.”
“Thanks Cat.”
Outside his home, a light rain fell. The sun was going down in the sky. A beep on his phone pulled him out of his deep thoughts.
“Hello,” he answered. The crackle on the line told him the call was coming from far.
“Dr. Hart, I’m Terrance Nash of the FDI. I managed to get hold of the pages you want, those of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.”
His heart leapt. He was on his way to unravelling the secrets of matter and of worlds beyond. It was all he could ever wish for.
“Can you get here, Dr. Hart?”
“I’m on my way.”
PART 4: A New Dawn
Chapter 63
Oxford, England,
July 20th
The first lecture given at the University of Oxford was a theological one back in 1193. The Faculty of Theology had grown immensely since that time. Seated in front of Hart, reclined at his desk was Professor John Donnelly. Donnelly was an Englishman and an Old Testament scholar. He was fortyish, young for his accomplishments. He was quite obviously amazed by Hart’s claim to have found the pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.
Next to him sat the Oriel and Laing Professor of Holy Scripture, Reverend Christopher Bartow. Bartow was a man of few words. Both waited to hear what Hart had to say concerning the missing pages of the gospel.
“The pages were sent to the Br
itish Museum, to the Department of Palaeography and Manuscript Research for authentication.”
“Anyone in particular, Dr. Hart?” Bartow asked.
“Yes.” Hart scrambled for a slip of paper from his pocket. “Mr. Lengard, Avery Lengard.”
“Very well, I’m familiar with his work. He spent years at the National Archives before pursuing research on Coptic translations. A very handy person I might add, and, skilled in the art of ancient writing.”
“Dr. Hart?” the lanky John Donnelly came forward. “You’re saying you found the missing pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, am I right?”
Hart felt a tinge of nerves. He was in front of two of the world’s best theological minds and it dawned on him that he wasn’t absolutely certain of his find.
“I believe so, Professor.”
“I’m intrigued by this claim. You’re claiming too that you found them in the possession of the curator of the Louvre, Michelle LaPlotte.”
“It’s sad about LaPlotte.” Bartow was referring to the note found near LaPlotte’s body at his home on Avenue Du General de Gaulle in Paris.
“Yes,” Hart said to Donnelly. He was unconcerned about LaPlotte’s demise.
“But, LaPlotte could not have ever had those pages, Dr. Hart!” Donnelly’s voice rose, incensed by the claim.
“Now, John, don’t be rude,” Bartow pleaded. “What Dr. Donnelly is trying to say, Dr. Hart, is that the manuscript that was taken to Berlin and translated by Carl Schmidt was all that ever existed of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene. The pages weren’t in that manuscript or anywhere for that matter. Now, would you care for a glass of wine, or, perhaps a sherry?”
“Eh…no thanks.” Hart was really struggling with all the negative emotions in the room. He turned to Donnelly. “Why’re so doubtful, Professor?”
“The missing pages don’t exist. Laplotte could not have assembled this entire gospel. Never!”
“But, wouldn’t LaPlotte have known?”
“LaPlotte paid for forged pages, Dr. Hart.”
“But, what if they weren’t?” Hart looked Bartow’s way hoping for a promising answer but the man’s gaze was low. Bartow soon lifted his head and spoke.
