by Steve Alten
Used by permission of the Disclosure Project
21
Eleven Years Later …
SANTANDER, SPAIN
AUGUST 19, 2001
The Magdalena Peninsula is located along the northern coastline of Spain, bordered by the deep blue waters of the North Atlantic and the silt-tinged outflow from the Gulf of Biscay. Tucked inside this estuary is Santander, the capital of Cantabria, a city bordered by beaches and fishing villages, towering cliffs and rolling hills, its maritime streets laced with gritty taverns and five-star restaurants. More than a quarter million people inhabit the area, making it one of Spain’s more densely populated centers.
Somo Beach, located by the seaside city of Ribamontán al Mar, is a thin expanse of golden sand that runs four miles to the east of the Bay of Santander. Windswept and crowded, its ocean view features an island of flat rock known as Santa Maira. With year long swells of eight to twenty feet, the area is a hotbed for surfers.
The narrow arena of seascape is no place for beginners. Waves are powerful, fueled by a heavy surf break, and the locals do not take kindly to visitors.
There are nine surfers vying for a wave—eight males ages nineteen to thirty—and the girl. Nine years old and barely sixty pounds, she is dwarfed by her fellow surfers—the runt of the litter.
To the crowd’s delight, the runt is dominating her competition.
First up on every wave, balancing on surprisingly muscular legs, she attacks each curl as if it were her last, often zigzagging around any surfer in her path before going airborne, flying heels over head as she exits the dying swell as if launched from a catapult.
If her peers have any problems with the child’s lack of surfer etiquette, they don’t show it. Many have been watching her shred waves since she was old enough to walk. She is the pack’s mascot and their identity, and they are as protective of her as is her imposing father, who is watching from his chaise lounge chair on the beach.
To the researchers and curators at the Regional Museum of Prehistory and Archaeology of Cantabria, she is known as the granddaughter of director Marcus Salesa. To the women’s Olympic gymnastics team, she is coach Raul Gallon’s best hope for a gold medal in the 2004 games in Athens, Greece.
To the surfers of Somo Beach, she is known simply as Sophia.
The setting sun turns the cliffs of Santa Maira to gold, the diminishing day accompanied by a noticeable chill in the air. Sophia’s father signals to his daughter to come in.
Sophia pretends not to see him.
A few of her male companions chide her, knowing better than to be on Samuel Agler’s bad side.
“Sophia, regresa! Your padre, he is growing impatient.”
The girl ignores them, paddling out to greet the next series of swells rolling in on the horizon.
The first wave rises majestically before her, a wall of water far more powerful than any of the swells in the previous sets.
Her surrogate brothers warn her off.
She hesitates, then decides to ride it in, her tenacious ego refusing to back down.
The swell plucks her from the ocean and tosses her upon its back, the shoal cresting behind her at thirty-three feet. Her heart flutters in her chest as the angle suddenly steepens and she registers the wave’s unbridled fury.
Fear shatters cockiness seconds before the tip of her board catches the monster’s face, vaulting her head-first into the path of the roaring locomotive.
The initial blow blasts the air from her lungs even as it swallows her deep inside its churning mouth, knocking her senseless. For twelve long disorienting seconds she is a human doll in a clothes washer’s spin cycle until the wave passes over her, punching her to the bottom.
The second blow is her skull meeting rock.
Samuel Agler is in the water before the crest collapses into a burst of foam. Each powerful crawl stroke sends him knifing through water that glides over his sizzling flesh like heavy motor oil. Somehow he is moving incredibly fast—
—and somehow everything around him appears to have slowed.
The sound of the ocean is a deep throttle in his ears.
The blur in his vision magnifies, allowing him to see.
The air in his lungs remains a steady source. Without another breath he surface-dives beneath the wave and torpedoes to the sea floor, plucking his unconscious child from the expanse of rock and sand.
Then, before even he realizes what is happening, he is back on the beach, hovering over her frail figure.
Sound is muted, save for the erratic timbre of Sophia’s pulse beneath his fingers. Her complexion is pale, her lips blue. She is not breathing. He repositions her head and expels a breath into her collapsed lungs. Her inflating chest matches the pace of the converging mob, which moves through the gelid surroundings in slow motion.
The sea spills out from between her lips as her lungs expel the suffocating liquid.
He rolls her on her side and palms her shoulder blades with a heavy cadence.
Sophia Agler vomits up the sea. Coughs … and breathes.
Samuel Agler exhales—his being flung free of the bizarre corridor of time and space.
“I don’t know what it was, Laura. One moment I was watching our daughter falling into a churning wall of water, then next thing I know I’m underwater, swimming like a fish, able to see as clearly as I’m looking at you now. A blink and we’re on the beach and I’m giving her mouth to mouth, only it’s as if I can feel every vital sign in her body and the signals are directing me what to do. Maybe you can explain it, ’cause I sure can’t.”
Laura Agler watches her husband pace the open central courtyard that divides the two-story living room from the rest of the beach house. “Sam, honey, what you experienced was a rush of adrenaline. For thirty seconds you became Superman,” she smiles, “or at least Aquaman.”
“You think this is funny?”
“Sophie’s fine.”
“But I’m not. And this wasn’t adrenaline. Maybe the rush of adrenaline caused it, but this was something else entirely … an altered state of reality where everything slowed down—everything except for me.”
“Do you want me to call Ben Kucmierz?”
“I don’t need a psychiatrist, Laura.”
“What do you need?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I just need time to think.” Exiting the courtyard, he enters the primary living space of their four-thousand-square-foot dwelling. A dramatic pair of matching staircases lined with bookcases frame a corridor leading into the dining room and kitchen. Ascending the left stairwell, he bypasses the master suite and enters his office, a small chamber that looks out to a front-yard garden.
Opening a file cabinet, he pushes aside a stack of folders, fishing out the half-empty bottle of bourbon. He fills a paper cup and drains it, then pours himself a second round and sits behind his desk in the high-backed leather chair.
He is surrounded by framed photos of loved ones. Lauren and Sophia at the junior Olympics. The three of them at a ski lodge taken two Christmases ago. A shot of Julius and Michael at Chichen Itza. Laura’s parents at their fiftieth wedding anniversary, the party held at their house.
A ten-year marriage. A wonderful daughter, the apple of his eye. A successful career as an architect, each beach home a unique pocket of zen and creativity tucked within Santander’s urban sprawl.
Eleven years of living, the previous thirty-five sealed within a cocoon of darkness.
A man with no past is like a home built upon a foundation of sand—sooner or later, the house topples beneath its own weight.
Samuel Agler is crumbling inside a leased identity that he can never own. For the better part of a decade he has chosen to ignore this reality, preferring simply to enjoy his furlough from his true destiny, existing on borrowed time.
His daughter’s near-death experience has been a sobering wake-up call, a reminder of how precious life can be. At the same time, it has also forced him to experience something from his past—an abi
lity he had been unaware of, yet one he instinctively knows he could master over time, should he ever so desire and dare.
And that is why he is so upset; that is why he is drinking again after seven years of sobriety. Today, an eleven-year foundation has slipped, exposing the underlying bedrock of a former life and with it an underlying truth that he can no longer ignore—
—that his life is intended for far greater things.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Your life was intended for far greater things, son. Not that working with my brother hasn’t opened up channels to the private sector.” Congressman Robert Borgia drains his shot of bourbon, pouring himself another. “Joseph and I have finally managed to corral Wolfowitz; he’s been tied up on some secret Middle East project. Anyway, he anticipates a high-level position opening up and the job will be yours: deputy under secretary of defense. You’ll be the director of the task force for business and stability operations.”
Pierre Borgia exhales. “What happened to our plans to run for your seat in 2002? A future shot at the Oval Office?”
“I’m not ready to step down. Besides, your uncle and I both agree this will be a quicker route to the White House. As deputy under secretary, you’ll be inside the Pentagon and among the first in line for future openings in the cabinet. Trust me, with your name and looks, a military resume, and a quarter billion in private funding, we’ll have the inside track for the White House in 2008.”
The hookers are gone. So are the remains of the bottle of tequila.
Pierre Borgia slumps in the suede recliner in his bedroom suite as night bleeds into day and gazes in a semiconscious stupor at his reflection in the mirror.
Your life was intended for far greater things …
“Huh?”
Pay attention! Open your eyes, Pierre!
The voice snaps him into sobriety. “Who said that?”
You’re going to lose it all, my friend. The presidency, the power, the influence, the women—all because of him.
Pierre looks around, the graying darkness spinning in his vision, forcing him to lie back again. “I’m calling security.”
We don’t have much time, I need you to focus. Look at me, savant!
The image in the mirror changes, the slumped figure morphing into that of a bare-chested Mesoamerican Indian.
“I am so wasted.” Pierre chokes out a laugh, which becomes a cough and gag reflex, forcing him out of the chair and into the bathroom where he vomits the liquor-doused extract into the sink.
Leaning his forearms on the porcelain, he moans as he scoops water into his mouth and rinses. Finally, he looks up at his reflection in the bathroom mirror—
—staring eyeball to eyeball with the chastising Mayan priest.
“You’re not real.”
Search your heart, Pierre. I am the cold lust that burns inside the vessel, the lineage of your shared soul. I was you before you were you.
“This is insane. I’m going to bed.”
Fool! I am here to guide you before he destroys our legacy again.
“What are you talking about? Who’s he?”
The son of your enemy. The man who stole your intended soul mate and your legacy with it.
“You mean Julius?”
Had you remained with the female Hunahpu as I intended, you would have sired kings. Instead, you allowed your enemy to best you. Then you invited him into your camp. Now his son shall destroy you, and our shared vessel in the process.
“Michael Gabriel? He’s nothing. How could he possibly destroy me?”
The day you take down the father, make sure the son is not among the spectators. Heed my warning, Pierre, for I am Seven Macaw, and our shared destiny in the physical universe is at stake.
MAJESTIC-12 (S-66) SUBTERRANEAN FACILITY
15 MILES SOUTH OF GROOM LAKE AIR FORCE BASE (AREA 51)
NORTH LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
The helicopter descends quickly, causing Marvin Teperman to feel queasy.
Joseph Randolph glances at the short Canadian with the pencil-thin mustache and annoyingly warm smile. “What’s wrong, Teperman? My nephew told me you two had flown together on plenty of field assignments before.”
The exobiologist exhales as the chopper lands on the helipad. “Yes, but I never enjoyed them. Weak stomach for flying.”
“How long have you and Pierre known each other?”
“I’ve only been assigned to the United Nations since January, so I guess about eight months. I understand your nephew is leaving to work at the Pentagon.”
“Which is why you’re here. You’ve reviewed Julius Gabriel’s file?”
“Yes. Very impressive.”
“I don’t trust him. Neither did Pierre. Not since he took over as the team’s primary telepath.”
The two men exit the helicopter, climbing aboard an awaiting military jeep. Randolph slams the vehicle into gear and drives off, following the newly asphalted road to a series of camouflaged bunkers.
Marvin holds on to the edge of his seat, waiting until the elder silver-haired man parks before reengaging him in conversation. “Sir, according to your own report, the volume of information has increased tenfold since Dr. Gabriel took over the project. Why would—”
“Don’t confuse activity with accomplishment, Teperman. We’re not here to psychoanalyze these beings, we’re here to comprehend and engineer their technology.” Randolph pauses to key an entry code into the security pad before submitting to a retinal scan. “Pierre tells me you trained as a telepath. How good are you? Wait, I’ll think of something, an inanimate object. Can you tell me what it is?”
“It doesn’t quite work that way, it’s sort of a rhythm thing.”
“But if Gabriel was concealing information from us, you could tell, right? Our last telepath, just before he hung himself, said emotion played a big part in reading thought energy.”
“Yes … Wait, did you just say he hung himself?”
“Unrelated. Probably an old girlfriend, or some other nonsense. Are you coming?”
Freshly showered and dressed in medical scrubs and sandals, Marvin follows Joseph Randolph down into the pit of the interview suite. The exobiologist has seen taped footage of the frail extraterrestrial with the grayish-brown bulbous skull and huge ebony eyes, but being in the same room with the alien is still startling.
Julius Gabriel looks up wearily from his computer screen as the two men enter. The archaeologist is in his mid-sixties, but he looks far older. His brown hair has grayed and receded noticeably, his posture as slumped as the E.T.’s. To the exobiologist, the two beings seem like bookends from different ends of the same gene pool.
“Julius, this is Dr. Marvin Teperman, the exobiologist I told you about.”
Julius returns his attention to the list of technical questions appearing on his monitor. “Tell me, Dr. Teperman, isn’t exobiology the study of life outside our planet?”
“Yes.”
“And what qualifies you as an expert in these matters? A course you took as an undergrad at the University of Toronto? An encounter with an E.T. when you were a teen?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Wait, I know, you’re a big fan of Steven Spielberg movies and you’ve always had a secret desire to be anally probed?”
Marvin glances at Randolph.
“Play nice, you two.” The CEO leaves.
Julius points to a vacant terminal. “Sit down, say nothing, touch nothing.”
Marvin sits.
“Computer, reduce lighting by forty percent. Play Gabriel concerto tape three, forty decibels. Continuing with interview session three-thirty-seven.”
Julius closes his eyes as the soothing instrumental of Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D major, performed by the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields, plays over several surround-sound speakers. As Marvin watches, both the E.T. and its human companion begin to sway in a syncopated rhythm to the music.
Marvin closes his eyes, attempting to eavesdrop on their communic
ation.
… we were discussing the Hunab K’u. On what is the existence of the cosmic consciousness based?
The extraterrestrial’s thoughts are a melodic whisper, dancing on the chords of Bach’s concerto. The Hunab K’u is based upon an algorithm of measurement and movement, attributed to the mathematical structuring of the universe. The Earth functions as a living entity within this algorithm, the root seed of our existence as well as yours. The act of splitting the atom was felt across the galactic network. The colliding of two proton beams threatens all species.
Your species is farther along than ours. Why can’t you neutralize the threat?
The threat is rooted in a higher dimension. It shall remain inaccessible until it manifests in the physicality of Malchut. By then it will be too late.
But One Hunahpu has the knowledge and the means to destroy the singularity?
Yes.
The rhythm abruptly darkens. Zipil na!
Yes, I nearly forgot. I must give this house of sin its allotment of disinformation. Julius types rapidly on his keyboard, responding to the first series of questions pertaining to a tachyon carrier wave.
Zipil na!
It’s okay, my friend.
No … no … no. The other Homo sapiens … he is listening.
NAZCA, PERU
The earthquake had struck in 1996 on the twelfth day of November at exactly one minute before noon, its epicenter in the sea, its devastation transforming the city of Nazca into rubble. Within a year, a major Canadian gold mining company had taken over the entire area, displacing the indigenous people whose roots traced back two thousand years but who held no legal claim to the land.
The ebony-eyed twenty-five-year-old American with the shoulder-length dark hair and athlete’s physique weaves through the decimated streets of downtown Nazca on his ten-speed bike, heading for the Museum Antonini. The facility’s roof collapsed during the earthquake, crushing artifacts excavated from the gravesite at Cahuachi. Mick has been helping the archaeologist-turned-curator Giuseppe Orefeci, a former colleague and close friend of Julius Gabriel, salvage as many of the damaged mummies, ceramics, and ancient weapons as possible.
