by Yasmin Esack
“The heavens say so and that’s good enough. The age is a quenching of spiritual thirst not just physical change. I assure you, a new dawn awaits us.”
With a tip of his hat, Bentley was gone. The crowds stumbled out as engineers gathered cables and tools. In the dimmed lights of the conference room, five world leaders, an Englishman and an Austrian were left staring at a screen.
It was dark in Paris when Bentley walked along Avenue de Suffren headed to his hotel at Le Place D’Italie. From his room, he stared out at a city that had grown quiet from the ravages of the day’s rains and floods. He could see workers still clearing rubble.
The steeples of the city’s ancient churches stuck out in the distance along with the Pyramid of the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. Bentley’s thoughts ran on Michele Laplotte. LaPlotte was once the Conservateur of the Louvre and then, its Président Général. He recalled LaPlotte had made numerous requests for his Inca artefacts. Now, he was dead. He never imagined LaPlotte could have been so evil. The man seemed so gracious.
He put his feet on his bed hoping to relax but he couldn’t. He thought again of Hart and Olsen. No one had ever found a way to read Quipus and no one had ever attempted to verify the existence of a supernatural realm in humans. He was proud of them but troubled by what was happening. Would they survive, he wondered.
With LaPlotte gone, the Brotherhood would seek revenge. Olsen and Hart had little chance. His heart burned with pain, his mind a blur as he sought answers.
Soon, he drifted off to sleep. He had five hours to catch a flight to his base in Colombia.
Chapter 72
The weather was damp in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta when he walked through the door of SARDS, the South American Research and Development Station, on his way to the third floor.
Outside John Steel’s laboratory, he typed in his pass and waited for the click of the door. Entering, he caught sight of the Steel’s white hair through a glass partition.
The time on the lab’s Westclox read 11.50AM when he turned to TOBI, the Trans-Optic Body Informer.
“Good morning, Dr. Bentley,” the robot said.
TOBI turned and continued its job of maintaining the temperature and moisture content of the air flowing into John Steel’s cloning chambers. Bentley smiled. He knew TOBI well. He waited for the automated robot to speak again.
“Do not enter the chambers now,” TOBI advised. “The chambers are off limits, repeat, the chambers are off limits at this time. Thank you for your co-operation, Dr. Bentley.”
“Sorry I took so long, Arthur.” John Steel opened his office two hours later to find Bentley waiting on him.
“That’s okay. I spent the time sorting my collection. The Quipus are fragile, some are disintegrating. Olsen’s returning the sacred Quipus soon.”
“You should turn the humidifier up?”
“I did.”
Steel looked slightly frazzled, not surprising for a man who had just spent many hours incubating human tissue. Pouring a cup of tea, he sank in a chair and stared at his business partner whom he hadn’t seen for a while.
“So, how are you getting on with Olsen?”
“He’s a remarkable person, Tom as well.”
“I expect they’ll both succeed in their missions. I never imagined we’d get this far, did you?”
Steel and Bentley had been friends for long. Casualties of war, they had grown up in orphanages and by hard work and determination, had made it to the arena of academia. In 1970, while on campus in England and moving with the cries for a better world, they had embarked on a mission to do just that. Thirty years later, their mission was in vivo.
“We’ve gotten far, John, but, honestly I don’t know how much further we will go. SARDS was hit by a US Blackhawk helicopter. It’s a clear warning to us, isn’t it?”
“They can go to hell.”
“Come on, John. How long d’you think you can stay here? You have to start thinking about moving on.”
“I’m not abandoning my work, Arthur!”
“It’s your choice.”
“By the way, Arthur, the plant extract you sent me has astounding properties.”
“The SP 209 you mean?”
“Yes. Anna Grayson is already showing a reversal of her viral load. Many are still at pre-trial stage of treatment.”
“Medical archaeology pays off. I never ever believed this HIV virus is as recent as people think. It’s been around a long time, since the time of pharaohs.”
“I met with Mr. DaCosta earlier today.”
“You did? What did he have to say?”
“He believes SARDS can bring a halt to the drug trade.”
“Of course! All the research that’s going will attract investors. It’s all part of the plan.”
“He also has control of the Militia.”
“That should make the transition easier. I’ve also spoken to Jack Knight.”
“What’s he doing? Sunning his rear on his yacht on La Joya Island?” Steel’s tone was bitter. He didn’t like the man.
“He put his money into SARDS and he expects a good return, John. By the way, where’s your technician?”
“Ernesto you mean? He’s in the Delta Amacuro in the Venezuelan hinterland.”
“Why?”
Well,” Steel pointed to make his point, “we’re looking for the most virulent strain of the HIV. That way we can be sure that the vaccine is effective, as effective as possible.”
“And, how’s your future race shaping up? By now, you must’ve done sufficient in-vitro implants that, even if you’re stopped completely, you can still succeed.”
Steel got up and poured himself another cup of tea, giving some thought to his answer. Outside his room, elevators were moving as researchers, junior doctors, and workers went about their business. SARDS had become entrenched in the wider world and had a voice at seminars and scientific conferences. People were hammering to get in. It was not quite what Steel wanted. He had chosen the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta because of its isolation. Steel had little tolerance for prying eyes and sticky noses.
“You’re right, Arthur. I have accomplished a lot. Soon, there’ll be a new race of men and women who will never succumb to cancer, aids or any of the common conditions that plague us. More than that, the race would find its way to influential international forums and be in positions to make decisions. They’ll fight hard to resolve the problems of poverty, famine, greed and war, show respect for women, children. Murder, rape, crime and violence would be cast to the dustbins of history. The new people of light would dispel the darkness of the Antichrist.”
“A pity about Francis La Croix.”
Steel sighed. “Why are you bringing him up?”
“Because we have a problem to face and you need to be aware of it.”
“Francis was a master artist. He went to Holland and we never saw him again. Someone said he died in a flood but, I don’t know how he died. His work was divine, like Rembrandt’s. He had the same touch and obsession as he.”
“He didn’t die in a flood, John. He was shot by the Brotherhood and I’m scared for Olsen and Hart. We can’t let them harm them! We can’t!”
“But, what can we do?”
“I don’t know, John. The Brotherhood strikes when you least expect it. I can’t believe Laplotte had a hand in Hart’s attempted murder. I trusted him. I gave him many treasured artefacts. I even spoke to him about Hart and Olsen. How could he deceive us? We can’t stop Foster, either. He’s an order unto himself.”
There was a hush in the room. Defeat wasn’t easy for the two men who had sacrificed it all for a better world and, even if all were taken from them, it would never equal the loss of Olsen and Hart. It was unbearable for them to even think of it.
“Well, at least Hart has completed some of his task, hasn’t he?” Steel said, not quite knowing what else to say.
”He has done what no one has ever done before. Hart has transcended the old dogmas of religious beliefs.
He can propel us even further if he survives, John. Right now, Olsen is being followed.”
Steel stared as if the world rested on his sleeves. It was a while before he spoke.
“And, what of Alejandro Ferelli?” he asked with more than a tinge of sadness.
“I haven’t heard anything of him. I just hope he’s doing well.”
Chapter 73
Across the Atlantic Sea, sitting in his cramped office among seismographs and intricate networks, seismologist, Josh Marin, pondered. What if Olsen was right, he thought. What if a new age was coming? With no signs of seismic reversal in his data, the age was nothing but fantasy to him. He couldn’t believe any of it. His cell phone beeped. He grabbed it.
“What’s up?” The call from his friend, Timothy Pearce, who lived on La Joya Island surprised him. Pearce, an ardent disciple of Arthur Bentley, was trying hard to convince him of the age.
“Look, ancients couldn’t read or write like we do but they knew things about the future and they recorded them in their own way.”
Marin sighed. “How come you’re so sure ‘bout this all this?”
“Newton was keen on prophecy. He saw logic in it. Do you know that by using bible codes, he was able to determine that Jews would return to Israel?”
“He did that?”
“Hart’s discovery of a realm shows how people can capture radio waves from the beyond and foretell the future. There’s a date recorded in Inca Quipus, a date for a new beginning. It would signal an end to disasters and strife. I remember Bentley saying all that at a lecture I had attended years ago. I’m sure he was right. By the way, I hacked his email. He got two numbers for the date from Olsen.”
“You hacked his e-mail?”
“Sure did.”
“Whad’you get?”
“One’s seven.”
“Seven?” Marin wondered what the number meant. “We’re getting into deeper and deeper trouble every day. The possibility of a quake hitting a sensitive zone is as real as day.”
“That could change time forever, like the one in Chile almost did.”
“What’s the other number?”
“Nineteen. The last number may take some time.”
“There’re three?”
“Yes. The total is added to the date of the last solar eclipse.”
“That occurred in 1991.” Marin did some counting. Numerology wasn’t his thing. Greeks used symbols and Romans used Vs and Xs. What the hell, the Inca used knots. “Seems to me the date is near.”
“We’ll know soon. I’m going to try to get that third number today. So, sit still. I’ll call you when I do.”
Chapter 74
Placing his phone away, Pearce continued walking through La Joya City. He loved the island that was close to the South American continent. It had much to offer. History, culture, and natural life sprang from every corner of its existence. Quiet days that were hot and windy passed to bright, moonlit nights that were magical and cool and filled with romance. Dotted about the city were the colonial houses of its historic past and quaint taverns where pirates frolicked by lamp light. Looking ahead, he could see the iridescent green-blue colours of birds that flew about and the flaming red blossoms of the majestic Flambouyant trees that stood tall against a blue sky. He wasn’t perturbed by Marin’s doubts about the new age. The wheel of change was turning he said to himself as he passed through Woodford Square with Bentley on his mind.
While studying in Naples Pearce got to know him. He could remember the mouldy smell of the Neapolitan lecture room and the old steps he had skipped up three years ago on his way to Bentley’s lecture. It was the same steps the Catholic philosopher and priest, Saint Thomas Aquinas, passed on centuries before. He had decided to ignore his classes on Bruno and Telosio opting instead for the lecture titled: The celestial world beyond Galileo.
Bentley had been the lecturer at the Museo Archaelogico Nazionale of the University of Naples, built in 1224. What he heard had left him stunned. The archaeologist had spoken of an age, a time when the teachings intended for Mankind would be revealed, and of a world that wasn’t far at all. There was a realm in humans, a path to a glorious afterlife. Of course, Pearce had questioned his claim of a new age. Bentley had been calm and composed in his response.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I must tell you that there was never any evidence in any Mayan account that the world would have ended in 2012. What was found was the ending of a cycle of five thousand one hundred and twenty-five years. The Mayans, however, spoke of an emergence of new consciousness, a fifth era. But, where’s the evidence for it? I say that the answer lies in our planetary alignments. Rest assured, the Age of Aquarius is about stability and people’s consciousness of universal energy, a time when the gods will return.”
Pearce recalled Bentley had been quite concerned about people’s perception of shamanism, dismissing it as an occult. But, the practice was forty thousand years old. It originated with the Tungusic people of Northern Asia, hunters and gatherers in China and Russia. Shamanism existed in Shinto, a Japanese religious practice, and, as ancestral worship in Buddhism. To Bentley, the Inca shamans were skilled in the practice of journeying to other worlds. They often received clear visions.
Pearce’s life had suddenly changed. At the time, he was married to an Italian, Vienna Francola. Her dark hair and red lips had attracted him. Next thing, Pearce was walking up the aisle of St. Giovanni covered in confetti. Vienna wanted a permanent honeymoon, something he couldn’t provide. He had become tired of the jealousy that consumed her. Soon, his restlessness got the better of him. Leaving his wife behind, Pearce had packed up and moved to his native New York. A year later, he was on La Joya Island tracking Bentley, hoping to get the date for the new age.
Now, sweating from the midday heat of an island day, he dialled a number.
“Hello,” Olsen’s ex-wife answered.
“I suppose you’re cleaning up?” His voice didn’t hide his love for her, even with all the petulance he had to endure. The seven-year age gap didn’t matter either. Steffi Larsen was magnetic and dripping with sensuality. The brunette turned heads. Pearce was no womaniser like dozens of men on the island. He was looking for the challenge and she was it.
“I’m almost through. What did the doctor say?” She was referring to his damaged hand, something he didn’t talk about much. Knowing of his belligerence and quick temper, Steffi believed it came from a brawl somewhere.
“It’s just fine. Look, I called to let you know.”
“Know what?”
“Julius Olsen is coming to La Joya. We’ll talk later. Got to run.”
“Tim, wait a minute!”
Her voice dissipated in the air. Pearce had already shut the call.
Chapter 75
“He did it again!” she screamed.
Ending a call abruptly was one of many things Pearce did that annoyed her. She disliked his shaved hair and how he wore caps back to front, not to mention his obsession with strange phenomena. How does he know about Olsen’s visit? Hacking again, she supposed. Pearce was a White Hat hacker who worked for IT companies all over the world testing security systems.
Standing on her patio, she felt the Atlantic wind blow across her face. She had come to the island to put aside the memories of her senseless marriage to Olsen. The quietness had helped her shed her burdens. She was thirty, divorced and disillusioned but had kept herself busy working for The Newscaster and spending her time writing a novel, The Face of a Real Artist, a book inspired by the late artist, Francis La Croix. She hadn’t finished it. La Joya Island was constantly marred by corruption and crime and too much to think about all the time.
She sighed. The last thing she wanted was to have memories of Olsen back. She guessed it was his ginger hair and air of mystery that did it. Her divorce had cost her more than money. It had shattered her. The man she married was eccentric. She could never forget the day he seemed to have no cognizance of her. There were too many instances of silence, with no
warnings.
The neighbourhood on Hillcrest Lane was quiet when she picked up her cup of coffee still thinking of Olsen. La Joya’s beaches and hot sun weren’t the sort of things that interested him, she knew. Olsen was a man of Science, of Astronomy and, a man of conviction. As she placed her cup down, a yellow page caught her eyes. It was stuck between the cushions of her Burlington sofa. A stickler when it came to décor, Steffi grabbed it and started towards the bin.
Three steps later, she stopped. The scribbling’s on the page looked like something from the ancient pen of Pythagoras. The furrows of her brow deepened as she read: Quipus are woven threads with knots. It was the system used to record numerical data by the Inca. It would take a genius to understand how.
“It’s his,” she said, meaning Pearce. On the bottom of the page was a string of numbers. Steffi peered closer at it.
847-937-577-667-847-mn-847-937-577-667-84 7-mn
“Geez, I’m staring at numbers from an Inca artefact, numbers for a date. mn must mean missing number,” she reasoned.
Pearce was quite a secretive bastard, she thought. The clock on her shelf struck twelve when she placed the page away. She looked to the shoreline, catching sight of yachts moored along the pier and then, to the bags of groceries on her kitchen counter waiting to be put away. But, a premonition came as if to warn her. Her mundane life of cooking, writing and potting plants was about to end. Something was happening. Pearce hardly ate dinner and was often edgy in bed. Steffi didn’t want any stress in her life again.
She looked at the island’s captivating façade, the visage that had drawn her there years ago. It would do nothing for her now. Neither the delightful clatter of mockingbirds nor the swashes of lizards among fallen leaves could lift her from the agitated mood that told her that Pearce was about to get tangled in a conspiracy that was ruthless and ugly.
