Codex

by Adrian Dawson

  Until recently.

  “And he is?”

  “One of the foremost bomb making experts in the world, believed to have been involved in Swissair 281 back in seventy-two. He’s a nasty piece of work; and one who’s stayed alive for way too long in my opinion.”

  “And he showed up to see Dalkamouni?”

  Andy nodded. “Came and stayed. By this time the surveillance teams in four German cities had identified and photographed fourteen people who were closely linked with Libya and specifically Mil’el. There was even a note in the operations log of the Bundeskriminalamt, their federal police agency, that stated:” he stressed every syllable, “Mil’el’s cell are involved in activities which are becoming increasingly unclear and frighteningly uncontrollable.”

  “And they still did nothing?” His words were etched with disbelief. He looked up to the screen, his daughter still speaking with him. To him.

  “Oh no, they pounced,” Andy explained. “The BfV were positively shitting themselves by this time as to what ball might get fumbled on their turf. So, September 15th last year, they swooped five apartments and two businesses in Frankfurt, Berlin, Hamburg and Neuss. Twelve were arrested and Dalkamouni and Mal-Makhoub were picked up outside the Kaufhalle Mall where they’d gone to use a public telephone. In their car they found six blank passports, 3.6 pounds of explosives, a number of detonators and... a Matsutritsu model 2110 radio cassette player.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jack sighed, tipping his head backward with disbelief. Like the bronze Samsonite, it was the same make and model as had been used to house the explosives on his daughter’s flight.

  “Yeah,” Andy said, apologetically. “Especially as it was rigged with fourteen ounces of Semtex-H and a barometric trigger. You and I both know that barometrics are used for one thing and one thing only, and that’s blowing up a plane.”

  “So what happened then? They go to court?”

  Andy was mid-puff on the cigar. He blew the smoke upward, nodding as he did. “They go to court,” he paused and slowed his tone. “And Mitgleid lets them go. He says, and I’m quoting here: ‘According to the facts known so far the accused are certainly suspected of the alleged charge. The evidence of actual crime necessary for a warrant of arrest is, however, lacking’. In other words he let them go because of what he wanted the world to think that he didn’t believe there was a compelling enough case.”

  “Bull...shit!” Jack snarled. “How much more compelling does it get?”

  “Well, I don’t know Jack, but you have a think about this.... September 22nd Dalkamouni and his cohorts go free. September 22nd three German hostages held in Libya go free. That say anything to you?”

  Jack shook his head in dismay. “The lousy bastards. They traded three lives for two hundred and sixty one. How in God’s name could anyone have allowed them to do that?”

  “Welcome to the dirty world of international bureaucracy,” Andy said. “Stinks like a rat’s ass from the bottom to the very top.”

  For at least five minutes Lara’s voice, reiterating that she was going to Europe with friends and that she would be in touch, was the only sound to break the silence. Eventually, with the clock at the base of the movie file reading ‘00:10:11:06’, even that came to a halt; her face frozen in time yet again. Andy wondered whether to stay or just slip away as quietly as possible. Jack inhaled swiftly and then relaxed, a clear sign to his friend that he had been going to say something but had simply thought better of it.

  “Let’s have it, Jack.” He wasn’t altogether sure that he wanted it, but what the hell?

  Jack continued to look at his daughter’s frozen face as he spoke, his gaze never leaving the beauty of something he now knew with an agonising certainty would never see in the flesh again. “I want you to make me a solemn promise, Andy.”

  Andy pursed his lower lip. “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Now that they have them again, the Germans, I want you to make damn sure these...” - he could barely say the words so he spat them instead - “Dalkamouni and Mal-Makhoub people, don’t slip through any more bullshit bureaucracy. I don’t want them getting away with this. Whatever it takes, you make sure we nail these bastards. Really, really good.”

  “Oh, we’ll nail ’em, Jack,” Andy said, rising to his feet and resting his hand once more on his friend’s shoulder. It seemed like a salient point to leave, before he had to answer even more awkward questions. “You can bet your ass we’ll nail these guys; zinc coated.”

  The kind they use in coffins.

  After a respectful pause Andy was gone and Jack was left alone with his daughter and his thoughts. He knew from the bags under the senator’s eyes that Andy wasn’t sleeping any better than he. So, while Jack would spend the rest of the night watching whatever fragments of his daughter’s life he had been left with, his well-connected, thick-of-the-inquiry friend would probably be spending it plugging any bullshit loopholes the Libyans tried in vain to throw at him.

  He would watch the second movie now, though he knew that one by heart also. Every twinge of the eye, every nuance of the mouth. What he would not do, however, was watch the third and final movie file. No matter how many times he watched the first two movies, he never again wanted to watch the third. He had seen it once, on the day that Lara had sent it he had opened it up with hope and expectation and felt both desert him like shrinking cowards as her words took hold. They slid like dark molasses under his skin. He had not watched the movie since, and was as sure as he could ever be that he never would again.

  Once was most definitely enough.

  the congregation of jacob

  Deuteronomy 33:4

  If it is ever possible for a place to be too quiet; for it to cross the boundary we humans place between ‘tranquil’ and ‘eerie’ then Jerusalem, the furthest sector of the Eternity encampment, was just such a place. What set it apart as such was the perception that it possessed all the accoutrements of a place that should be inhabited and lacked only one - the inhabitants themselves. Buildings of coarse stone rose from ground still littered with basic tools. There were numerous footprints in the soft earth - enough to suggest a healthy population - and small fires still burned in the central square. Controlled fires; undoubtedly lit by the only mammal to have tamed such a thing. And yet the entire site, over four hectares in total, was completely deserted. There was not even birdsong, distant or otherwise, which should have added music to the forest gallery which encircled the site; only a solemn stillness, randomly disturbed by a gentle breeze which blew waves of dust in silent east-west races.

  When sound did finally choose to make an appearance, it was not that of nature. Or, indeed, of the nature one would expect. A low rumble carved away at the air, building in intensity until the lower frequencies were saturated with sound. Within that rumble; a pattern, a steady thumping of air with a regularity that declared its origins as nothing less than mechanical; nothing less than modern. Certainly too modern to be seen in a settlement which seemingly prided itself on a carefully structured reintroduction of a baser way of life.

  Which was why this visit, and the thunder it carried in its arms, had been carefully scheduled to occur whilst every one of Eternity’s disciples were attending the daybreak supper. This they did at six o’clock each and every morning in a subterranean refectory; a vast underground hall carved into the earth which they were unaware was, in addition to being substantially cooler and considerably more hygienic than the upper levels, almost totally soundproof.

  As the darkness of night settled over Jack Bernstein’s California, ‘Jerusalem’ was being illuminated by a dawn sun. It cast disproportionate shadows through the wild grasses as it rose from behind the cradling mountains, that of the arriving helicopter growing smaller and smaller until it ultimately embraced itself. From the passenger seat emerged a well-built man, bald and tanned, who straightened his tie to ensure that it fell symmetrically within his jacket. It was a warm morning and, forbidden to wear deodorants or afters
haves lest their smell linger in the air after he was gone, his skin was glistening gently and he carried with him the smell of fresh sweat. Through the swirling dust he glanced sceptically around the settlement, his eyes narrowed, then back through the window, nodding to the pilot who immediately commenced his ascent. It had been almost twelve months since Zebulun had visited this, his most sacred corner of the globe, but his arrival had been timed to perfection. As his transport disappeared back into the morning sky, he shielded his face from the spray and, though the subtle limp was impossible to fully disguise, walked purposefully up the steps to the Temple of the Father.

  Inside the temple the crisp rays of morning sun were obscured and replaced by air held in the cooler arms of stone. As he walked to the farthest reaches of the entrance chamber his shoes, uniquely Italian and of classico-modern design, clicked his uneven pace along the polished stone floor. It seemed to him now that even the sound of their echo was the building itself offering an acceptance of his hierarchical position. It was rare for Zebulun to feel emotion of any kind, but not on visits like this, and certainly not today; he felt privileged.

  Set deep into the farthest wall was a high door, carved from solid oak and flanked by shining ebony pillars. Two of the more trusted and informed disciples stood to either side, their heads bowed not only in respect of Zebulun’s position, but also of his reputation, something which had landed a great many months prior to the helicopter. Both knew that only two traits were imperative when it came to dealing with Zebulun; subservience and subordination. As he approached the door, one of these men; his shaven-head still lowered and wearing traditional middle-class robes, dutifully opened it wide to reveal a long narrow corridor intermittently illuminated by the flickering orange light of hanging torches. Zebulun coasted through the opening without acknowledgement, walked its full length and descended a stone staircase as the sound of the heavy oak being replaced echoed further acceptance behind him.

  At the base of the stairs he passed beneath a stone archway, intricate symbolism carved into its face, and entered the Great Hall. It was here that the Ministers of the Fellowship of Eternity periodically received their instructions. Each had already been forewarned that today was to be their finest day. Today they would not only receive instructions; they would receive their final instructions, the tasks that would, after the lengthy road they had prepared, lay palm fronds along the last stretch of path to be walked by the Child of God.

  Unlike the smooth-hewn entrance corridor above, the walls of the subterranean hall were roughly chiselled and decorated alternately with tapestries and torches whose light gave the stone the appearance of beaten copper. Small wooden shelves held a variety of ancient artefacts; seemingly dirty and forgotten. Only those gathered here today realised that the dust which resided on them remained because it was the same dust which had fallen thousands of years previously. The same dust which had clouded the air when the First Christ had journeyed to this hidden corner of the globe.

  The simple grandeur of the room was further accentuated by an intricate mosaic floor. Marbled pillars cloaked with crimson velvet reached up and held the heavy floor above. In the centre of the room was a dark wooden table, four metres square, carved by third century disciples and heavily scratched across its surface. It was bordered by four matching chairs, one to each side. Three of those chairs belonged to the Ministers themselves, two of whom were already seated. At the remaining side of the table the fourth as yet unoccupied seat was reserved for Ephraim; the Jacob.

  Zebulun took his seat facing Benjamin, Eternity’s Business and Finance Minister.

  At thirty four, Benjamin was by far the youngest of the Ministers within Eternity. He was not a man known to still exist in this world and yet he controlled many of its smaller corporations as shrewdly and ruthlessly as those who regularly dominated the covers of Forbes. His control spanned one hundred and twenty-seven global businesses funded by the Fellowship. From banking to insurance; games to genetics. In all aspects of his organisations, Benjamin was revered for demanding perfection, loyalty and consistently excessive results from his workforce.

  Facing Ephraim’s still vacant chair was Simeon, Eternity’s Agricultural and Environmental Minister. The interests with which he was charged included worldwide arable and livestock businesses as well as surreptitiously presiding over a few of the better known global protection charities. At fifty-three, Simeon was the eldest of the four but still possessed a full head of flowing blonde hair, indicative of his Nordic descent. Whilst not as shrewd as his colleague, he was nevertheless a highly effective operator; renowned for his ability to calmly utilise propaganda and the media to direct surplus and shortage around the globe, often with catastrophic effect. At the very least with effects described by a baying media as such.

  Zebulun, as Justice Minister, held Eternity’s most darkly covert role. As well as controlling the legitimate Military and Armaments operations worldwide, he was also charged with the responsibility of utilising the products they traded or manufactured for precision removal of any obstacles which might appear in Eternity’s path. With a long and distinguished fighting career during which he had served with the infamous ‘Children of Israel’ terrorist group, he was more than suited to the task of killing. It was that qualification alone, delivered with an admirable degree of ruthless passion, which had made The Abraham decide to bring him into the fold on the day when his predecessor had been killed.

  More specifically, on the day that Zebulun had killed his predecessor.

  Behind Ephraim’s empty chair was a second doorway; the only other route into or out of the Great Hall. Each of the Ministers were acutely aware that this door shielded a further stone corridor which led directly to the Chamber of Abraham. Only Ephraim, as Jacob to the Abraham, was allowed to venture into this most hallowed of places. He did so only that he might receive the instructions which he was then charged with delivering to the other Ministers.

  It was for this reason that, of the four men who would break bread today, only Ephraim had ever broken it with The Abraham and only Ephraim truly knew his face.

  After a few minutes in which the men remained reverently silent and expectant, the old man’s distinctively laboured footsteps could be heard shuffling along the corridor beyond the door and Zebulun joined his two colleagues in rising to his feet, head bowed with the same subservient respect that the guardians at the doorway had bequeathed him moments earlier. The door opened slowly and Ephraim’s frail shape appeared, framed in the copper glow. He stepped inside.

  When the door had closed and he had taken his place at the table Ephraim; Jacob to the Abraham, in a calm, clear voice, offered his guests the most important revelation they - and the world to follow - would ever be offered:

  “Two months have passed since the child was delivered to us,” he began, “but today I have witnessed that He is truth.” He looked up, surveying the expectant faces before him.

  “Gentlemen,” he smiled. His eyes, creasing like chamois and gnarled at every edge, smiled with him. “A Saviour is born.”

  went out to meet him

  Genesis 14:17

  Three long and painful weeks had dragged themselves by since the bombing of Flight 320, but the story was still dominating front pages the world over. Jack was fighting a rain-soaked London, visiting one of the many companies in which IntelliSoft had acquired a financial interest, and the local tabloids were now leading with ‘Gaddafi Man was Frankfurt Handler’ and variants thereof. Jack knew that this revelation would become the final nail in the cheap coffin of those being held in Germany. Whilst eight of the men initially arrested had been released through lack of direct evidence, the details that the FBI and NTSB were passing through to Andy made an astonishingly clear-cut case against the remaining six, Dalkamouni and Mal-Makhoub included.

  He felt desperately tired. Weary, and not just from jetlag or physical stresses. He wished that he had been able to sleep on the plane, then cursed himself for wishing for the impossib
le. True sleep in any form was yet another loved one that was lost to him forever. What was it Elizabeth had always said, every time he had pitched his latest idea across the breakfast table, the smell of fresh bread wafting up his nose? You always want the impossible, Jackie.

  Elizabeth had always called him Jackie. The only person who could do so and keep their full contingent of teeth. Impossible.

  They all said that Quotient was impossible. Even Elizabeth.

  Liz.

  Aim high, he always reminded her. Aim high, get close.

  He did not want to close his eyes; fearful of what images might colour his darkness, and yet neither did he wish to have them quite as open as they were right now. When Jack Bernstein had founded IntelliSoft, he had done it with two clear intentions; to dominate the market and to earn millions of dollars. The latter had only ever been for one purpose - to give his family a better standard of living. What he had never envisaged was that not one among them would live to see it. Everyone that he cared about was dead, and he included himself to some degree. All the money in the world, all the technological advances it consistently threw forward and all the combinations of the two on which his company prided itself counted for little against his new dream - his impossible one - of somehow bringing them back.

  Throughout the flight, as now, Jack had thought back to the highly detailed NTSB files that he had studied with Andy for two full days following the funeral. These details, painful as it had been to see them cast into print, had included a full description of the plane being pieced back together and had served to confirm many details of which he had already been made aware. In all, due in no small part to a reward per pound offered for bags of wreckage, more than four million fragments of debris had been recovered. This had included almost ninety-three percent of the 747 which, when laid out in a two dimensional reconstruction in a Hangar seven miles outside Amsterdam, revealed that the initial explosion had punctured the fuselage just under five feet in front of the left wing.