by Yasmin Esack
She dialled his number.
“Hi. Please, leave a name and number and I’ll get back to you.”
“It’s busy,” she said feeling frustration rising.
Steffi quickly recalled how she had met Pearce. The American had landed in her life with a phone call talking about things she knew nothing about.
He had barged into her office at The Newscaster later that same day, striking a high note with his looks and charm and, a dogged determination to get a date. And, he did. Soon, love flourished and she was sharing her life with him, hiking to the top of El Cerro del Aripo to see the secretive Pawi, surfing the glassy waves of Matelot and dancing to rhythmic music all night long. Now, all Pearce did was hack data, Hart’s, Olsen’s, and Bentley’s.
She dialled again. This time he answered.
Chapter 76
“Hello, Sweetie.”
“I need an answer.”
“Boy, are you wound up.”
“I’m not!”
“Ok. I hope it’s about dinner later.”
“No.”
“Shucks.”
“You left a piece of paper behind, on my sofa. I’m sure it’s yours.”
“Hey, Olsen found the date for Earth’s new age.”
Had he found the missing number?
“Why d’you say that?”
“It’s the reason he’s coming here. I’ve been waiting a looooong time for this.”
“Did he discover anything else?”
“Like what?”
Pearce knew nothing of the controversy brewing over Olsen’s head, it seemed. A lot of people didn’t like what he was doing.
“Anything contentious I mean.”
“For years, Bentley has claimed that an Incan Christian state existed before the invasion of the Americas. It’s actually chronicled in a document.”
“The Naples Document.”
“Now, there’s proof.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Olsen confirmed it.”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what, Steffi?”
“That there’s a mission.”
“A mission? What mission?”
“The one to destroy Olsen.”
“Olsen?” Pearce saw the streets of La Joya City move up and down in his giddiness. He halted his steps, mindless of horns and cars around his feet. “What did you say? Olsen? You’re sure? But…but why?”
“His Inca work.”
“Who told you this?”
“I saw it in a file in Basle, at the headquarters of Crime International where I had worked years ago. The complaint came from a priest called Campelli.”
“Anyone connected to him?”
“Listen to me, stay away from this!”
As the line went dead, Pearce crossed the street and hopped a cab. It wasn’t long before he was at Steffi’s home pounding a keyboard trying to hack net security.
“Who wants Olsen dead, God who?” he cried. He turned to Steffi. “What do you know about Campelli?”
“Not a whole lot. He comes from the Dominican Order, a stern man. He has power which he wields from his cloister in Rome, the Piazza Pietro. I remember he had spoken bitterly about John Steel and SARDS. He’s been trying for years to get it shut but it was Olsen he had no tolerance of. He despised him and his work on Inca Quipus.”
“Olsen’s reference to Andean Christianity must be abhorrent to him. The Inca inherited secrets and beliefs from old civilizations.”
“The Toltec you mean?”
“The Norte Chico of Peru were another.”
“I always thought the Toltec were a myth, as was their leader, Quetzalcoatl.”
“The Aztecs spoke of them. Said they were civilized and their leader, Quetzalcoatl, was a god-like figure.”
“What’re you trying to do?” Steffi asked staring at the strain on Pearce’s face.
“Find the Brotherhood. Campelli may not like what Olsen’s doing but he’s not involved in any plan to get rid of him.”
“The Brotherhood?” Steffi raised a brow.
“A watch group with an aversion to many things, particularly Science. They’re well connected and keep an eye on research and development. They’ve been trying to stop stem cell research and in-vitro fertilization for years. A lot of them oppose abortion.”
“I know who they are, Tim, and I want you to stay out of this. They’re dangerous.”
“They tried to kill Hart. Now they’re targeting Olsen and Bentley.” Pearce was searching for cookies to hack the internet. “Foster’s behind Olsen’s demise. I know he is. He’s big in the Brotherhood and the man behind the destruction of SARDS. I’ve got to get into Foster’s e-mail to find out what his plan is. I’m going to stop this Steffi. I’m telling you, I’m going to stop this.”
Needing a break, Pearce got up and poured himself some coffee. His enthusiasm was steaming more than the cup he held in his hand. The task was going to be tedious he knew as he thought of the intrusion techniques needed to break the Internet’s firewall. Taking a sip and placing the cup down, he began his hacking again.
Chapter 77
In the office of Crime International in Basle, situated off the Spalenvorstadt, known for its medical companies and European Union secretariats, an aged cleric pointed his walking stick in the air as he spoke.
“If I had my way, I’d make Hart and Olsen disappear.”
Monsignor Campelli’s anger grew by seconds when he placed the stick aside and picked up a cup of tea from a table in front of him.
“What’s the problem? What have they done to you?” Hercule Thibault stared at the contempt on the man’s face. It was the same expression he’d seen years ago when the cleric had first paid a visit.
“I told you before and I’ll say it again. Olsen’s agenda is not acceptable. He must be stopped!” He said aloud.
Thibault wasn’t a man to mince words. “I have to say that’s a difficult, Monsignor Campelli, but, believe me, we are willing to look into the matter.”
“That’s not enough!” Campelli replied harshly.
Thibault stared wide-eyed. “So, what do you want us to do exactly?”
“Am I to sit back and let him destroy us? This is his aim!”
“Destroy you? That’s impossible. I believe his work is about a date woven in an Inca artefact, Monsignor. I don’t imagine for a moment you could be right.”
“No? He plans to expose more than that. There are crazy people in this world. I imagine you’ve never heard of the Naples Document, have you?” Campelli’s hand trembled as he took his cup back up.
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“A cleric called Valera claimed Christianity existed in South America before the Spanish conquest. The secrets are supposedly hidden in Inca writings.”
Thibault finally understood what the fuss was all about. “We’ll see what can be done,” he replied using the tactics of diplomacy he had gathered over the years. “But, I still don’t think you need to be bothered by him. People are free to think and often times interpret data in their fashion.”
“You don’t understand anything, you buffoon!” the cleric blasted. Sweat emerged from his blotched face. His hands shook from the affliction of Parkinson’s disease. With a voice gone weak, he asked, “Have you read Dr. Bentley’s papers?”
“He’s the archaeologist Olsen works with, isn’t he?”
”Yes, and he says the Inca were all Christians.”
“Not in the way that you think, Monsignor. Bentley suggested that their religion was similar to Christianity. The Inca religion focused on spiritual realms. They healed the sick and so on. In a mystical sense, maybe there was some similarity. Maybe, the Inca could have taught the Spanish things. There’s no need to be alarmed. There was a lot of animosity when the Spanish conquered the New World. People were angry that their culture was destroyed. They expressed their sentiments in their native language. Olsen simply translated a lot of their writings and spoke of them.�
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“How dare he? And…and, Hart, his friend, says God is in matter!” Spit gathered at the side of Campelli’s mouth. Thibault had never seen anyone so repulsed.
“I urge you to be calm. I assure you will longer be troubled.”
“I hope so.”
Campelli got up. Adjusting his collar, he hobbled his way out of Thibault’s office to a chauffeur driven Fiat parked on a street off the Petersplatz. He got into the back seat and headed off.
As the fiat sped down the road, Thibault moved from his window and sat at his walnut desk. He picked up the phone.
“Marsey, could you try the US Homeland Security line again, please.”
“There’s still no answer from Commander Foster’s office. I’ll try the number again.”
With an uneasy feeling Thibault placed the phone down. An astute and forthright man when dealing with matters, he found Campelli to be outrageous. As he stared at the flag of his native country, he wondered how far the whole matter of Olsen and Hart would go.
He leaned backed, thinking. Monsignor Campelli was eighty-three years old. He was of the old school of theology, one that didn’t welcome change. The aging cleric commanded power from his cloister in Rome. But, Campelli wasn’t the only one bothered by Olsen. The Brotherhood, a force of soldiers who deemed themselves modern Templars probably was to.
The French police was still trying to weed them out since the death of their leader, Michel LaPlotte. Campelli may believe in their righteousness although Thibault did not find any evidence of involvement. His head pained thinking of how defenceless Hart and Olsen were and how little he could do to protect him.
The Brotherhood organization was a modern day Sodality. Sodalities started out as charity organizations in the middle ages. Many sprouted in the fourteen century when the church began to lose power and influence. They began acting on their own without links to any order. They become an order unto themselves. In 1802, Thomas Paine, the British-born American revolutionary, was ostracised for speaking of the existence of extra-terrestrial life. A more recent case was that of the artist, Francis La Croix. Three years ago, he was shot in Holland. La Croix was obsessed with religious art and condemned the great masters for their lack of black faces. He hated Rembrandt for his Baptism of a Eunuch. Did Rembrandt see inside his pants? La Croix went further to condemn the baptism.
The rain started to fall around the market square of Petersplatz when Thibault picked up his phone.
“Good day to you, Mr. Thibault. What can I do for you?” G.W. Foster inquired on his line.
“The matter concerns Mr. Olsen and Mr. Hart. I’ve had a disturbing visit from Monsignor Franco Campelli. I am not in any way suggesting that he is involved but I do fear for the lives of these men. You must be familiar with the Brotherhood organization, I’m sure. I was very pleased to see that you were cleared of all wrongdoings in the matter of Monsieur LaPlotte and the attempted assassination of Mr. Hart. You must do your best to stop this organization from hurting these innocent men.”
“Campelli’s complaints aren’t without validity.”
“Forgive me. What’re you saying?” Thibault wondered if the man had gone senile. Foster was nearing seventy-five. “Olsen and Hart do not fall under the category, terroriste. I insist that you do everything you can to protect them.”
“Maybe you’re not familiar with the case as much as I am.”
“Familiar?” Thibault grew worried. “What I know is that Olsen wants to find a date for the earth’s dawning and Hart is a mathematician.”
Foster laughed. “There’s more to it, I’m afraid.”
“Like what? I thought that Campelli was ridiculously concerned.”
“Hmm,” Foster muttered holding back on the line.
“What is it?” Thibault demanded.
“We don’t know a lot right now. We are looking at the situation. I assure you, we’ll keep you posted.”
“We have managed to keep terrorism at bay but, environmental problems continue. The Inca date may be our last hope.”
“No!”
Thibault was shocked. “No?”
“We must stop to Olsen and Hart at once. Their findings must never be revealed. It is in the interest of state security. It is in the interest of the entire world.”
“Impossible! What are you saying?”
There was a heavy sigh from Foster this time. “Please, leave Olsen and Hart up to me. Goodbye, Mr. Thibault.” Foster hung up.
Thibault placed the phone down quietly.
Chapter 78
“Julius!” Myrtle screamed into her phone. “Where the hell are you?”
“I’m on my way to meet you.”
“Where did you go? You could’ve at least left me a note.” She was angry and it showed.
“I really didn’t mean to leave you in bed like that.”
“Then, why did you?” she demanded.
“Someone is stalking me.”
“Stalking you? Why?”
“I’ll explain everything to you when we meet at the medical centre.”
“I’ll be waiting on you.”
The foggy morn of a Californian day did little to ease her anxiety. Shifting gears as the lights changed, she drove to Strathclyde Court. It was Tuesday, her check-up day. At twenty-two she felt like eighty-one, her flawless life turning into a bizarre dream. She was particularly anxious. The results of her medical tests had finally come back.
She parked her Cadillac in the car park and took a quick look at her face in the rear-view mirror. She patted it with powder before heading up the steps of the All Saints Medical Centre. The door at the end of the hall on read Dr. Louis Barnaby M.D. She knocked on it and waited.
“Come in,” she heard.
Dr. Louis Barnaby looked up and smiled as she entered. “Myrtle, how are you?”
She didn’t reply. She really didn’t know how to. She gazed at what her father owned and thought of what she would do if it were hers. After all, she was the only child of Art and Mara Foster who, twenty-three years ago, had everything a wealthy Californian couple could dream of, but a child. She was everything they wanted and needed.
“I spoke to your parents, Myrtle,” Barnaby began, his tone sombre.
“And?”
“They’re expected shortly.”
“I want them to come now. Call them!”
“They’ll be here soon.” Barnaby picked up his phone. “Kristy, get me the files for Myrtle Foster, please.”
Barnaby was a doctor of Internal Medicine but twenty-five years of commitment to his practice did little to solve the problem before him. He looked up as the slender woman approached.
“Here are you go, Dr. Barnaby.”
“Thanks, Kristy.”
The secretary shut the door leaving Dr. Barnaby with the problem Art and Mara Foster thought he could fix. He looked puzzled as ever rereading the last lines of the report.
Current status: Unidentifiable and untraceable
“Myrtle,” he began but didn’t get very far.
“I want them to be tested! Who gave me this? Was it my mom or dad?” she screamed.
“They don’t want to be tested.”
“How long will I suffer knowing I can die anytime? If they gave it to me, I can give it to my child.”
“Your symptoms are like Huntingtons Disease but, I don’t think that’s what you have.”
“Then…then what?” she cried.
“We’ve checked everything. There’s no history of this disease anywhere and nothing for either of your parents.” He glanced at the files again. “This is only your fourth visit. We need more time.”
“What am I to do?”
Barnaby stared hopelessly. He simply didn’t have answers. He turned, startled by his ringing phone.
“Yes, Kristy?”
“Julius Olsen is here to see Miss Foster. He also needs a check-up, says it’s for his new job.”
“Send him in.” Louis Barnaby hung up. Soon he stared at the tal
l frame of Olsen. “Dr. Olsen?”
“Hello, Dr. Barnaby.” Olsen sat and placed his arm around Myrtle. “We can work this out, Sweetie, okay?” From her forlorn expression, he knew the news about her health wasn’t good.
“You two know each other?” Barnaby looked at them a bit lost.
“He’s my fiancé, Dr. Barnaby.”
“Oh, I see. Can you excuse us for a minute, Myrtle? I will examine Dr. Olsen while you wait for your parents.”
“Sure,” Myrtle replied.
“Come this way,” Barnaby said leading Olsen to his examination room. “Take your shirt off and lie down, please. Now, tell me, have you ever been seriously ill?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had depression, Dr. Olsen?”
“No.”
“Headaches?”
“I’ve never had a health problem, Dr. Barnaby.”
Barnaby’s examination of Olsen’s was swift. “Do you have problems with your vision?”
“No.”
“Hearing?”
“No.”
“Okay, everything looks good. It’ll take a few minutes for the sensors to bring up all your vital data. The nurse will be in shortly to take your blood and urine samples. You can get dressed after that and meet me back in my office.”
Fifteen minutes later, Olsen smiled at a woman who stood at Barnaby’s door. She was short and thin but her face bore the remnants of a once stunning lady. The dark circles under her eyes exposed her addictions.
“Mom, this is Julius,” he heard Myrtle say, “and, we’re getting married soon.”
Mara Foster stared at the smiling face of the tall Olsen. She felt her head spin. He was awesome, she thought, with an aura that could conquer the world. She stared harder as he held his hand out.
“Hello, Mrs. Foster.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, finally. Myrtle speaks a lot about you.”
“Have a seat, Mara,” Barnaby said as he walked in.
Mara Foster took a seat next to Myrtle. She was a polished lady when it came to attire, dressed in a tailored white suit that matched her shoes and handbag. She addressed Barnaby in a rich, velvet voice.
