The Secret of the Ancient Alchemist

by Yasmin Esack

  “Neither can I.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He was murdered while on a trip to the Venezuelan hinterland.”

  “God! These sick-minded people really make me want to puke. Look, I can’t find Olsen’s data anywhere. Could you run a check on the island and see what you come up with.”

  “Sure.” Pearce sighed. “This is all so sad. I feel awful.”

  “Believe me, not as much as I do.”

  “Bye, Tom.”

  Pearce looked up as Steffi came through the door of his one room apartment in the quiet suburb of La Joya City.

  “There’s a photo of Olsen’s on the front page,” she said throwing a newspaper his way.

  “And, all the TV channels too,” he replied. “I didn’t think he was so popular.”

  Steffi switched on MSNBC. They both listened to a pre-recorded telecast from Hart.

  “His mission was to help this world, and, he will. I’ll make sure of that. Whoever did this heinous crime hates us. They hate our world. Julius Olsen was about to disclose the date of a new age, to free us from the bondage of hell. Whoever you are out there, you are a murderer of God, of salvation, and you are the mark of evil.”

  “Will you be completing the job of finding his date, Dr. Hart?” a reporter asked.

  “It’ll be my honour.”

  The News of the Day reporter continued speaking as the broadcast ended. “The Times has a photo of little Olsen. He’s causing quite sensation around the world. People are clamouring to have him. Tell us…”

  Steffi shut the set off. “Hart needs the date, Tim.”

  “I didn’t find a third number in Bentley’s email.”

  “You didn’t find the missing number?”

  “No. Seems Olsen didn’t send it to him. Hart says he moved his data out of his house. There’s a chance it may be on this island.”

  “What’re you going to do?” Steffi looked as sharp as ever in her blue cotton shirt and black fitted jeans but she didn’t feel that bright. Truly, she didn’t want to get involved in anything but Pearce was maniacal about the Inca date. She stopped for a moment noticing for the first time his sun burnt face. Glancing down, she saw that his sneakers were covered in mud. “Where did you go?”

  “I went to the Delta Amacuro in search of Bentley. That’s where he did a lot of his work.”

  “And?”

  “I met someone called Salazar. He told me Bentley was dead. He believes some guy called Ernesto killed him. Ernesto was paid by Foster to do it. Look Steffi, I need you to pay a visit to Mary Findley.”

  “Bentley’s lover? Why?”

  “I suspect she may know of Olsen’s data.”

  “How come?”

  “Marin told me that Olsen had disappeared for a while just prior to his death. He thinks he came to La Joya to speak to Bentley. I know Bentley kept some of his important stuff at Findley Estate. I’m sure Findley can help us find Olsen’s data.

  Chapter 83

  A chorus of birds broke the silence in the expanse of rolling plains that was Findley Estate. A strong wind blew cold and damp signalling the onset of rain. Steffi looked at the grand house standing in the centre of the abandoned estate. Built by Scottish and Italian craftsmen, the building was worn and old. Gone were the intricate weaves of its main balcony and the tower that once carried a foreign flag. The patterned window panes were mossy and cracked from heat and rain. The crafted front door seemed to house termites. Even the marble patio was dirty and stained.

  Mary Findley was at the front steps when she got out her car. This wasn’t a first encounter. They had met before at La Joya’s National Museum. Mary was a person few got to know. If there was ever was a stoic, she was it. But, at fort-nine, she had finally found true love and her torrid sessions with Bentley at her secluded property were now the talk of the town.

  “Hello,” she said in a voice that was weak. “Come on in.” She led Steffi to the veranda and sat in a lounge chair facing her.

  “You’re alone, Mary?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You think it’s too lonely here don’t you?”

  “It sure looks like it.”

  “I have neighbours. They come by a lot.”

  Mary’s life was much too isolated, Steffi thought. She had few friends, something that came with the isolation but, it was mainly her aloofness and intolerance of others that kept people away. A loner, Mary cared for little else than her own work and, of course, Bentley. Yet, to some, she was fascinating, intriguing and alluring.

  “When did you last see Dr. Bentley, Mary?”

  “I saw him a week ago at the museum. Last time we spoke, he was headed here.”

  “Bentley left his house in La Joya City at 2PM in his silver Range Rover. You’re saying he didn’t come here?”

  “No. He was supposed to but he didn’t and he’s not answering his phone.” Mary got up and walked a few feet away. The bright sun exposed her pain and anguish. Her voice was cracking. “Arthur came here with a man once, someone called Ernesto. He’s a specimen collector for SARDS, where Arthur does his research work.”

  “And?”

  “I believe this man has done something to Arthur.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I guess I shouldn’t have said it. I don’t have any proof.”

  From the tone in Mary’s voice, there was good reason to believe she knew that Bentley was dead. But, Steffi guessed Findley couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “Do you know anything at all about Olsen’s data, Mary?”

  “He took his stuff to SARDS in Colombia.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The question was unanswered. Mary Findley gazed as if searching for something from nowhere. She sat in her chair saying nothing more. In the distance, thunder rolled. To Steffi, it was an ominous sign. She could see kerosene lamps flickering in the wooden houses nearby. Dusk was starting to set on the village of San Jose, the village that Mary loved. She couldn’t help but feel Mary was hiding something. With a deeply worried mind, she got up.

  “Look Mary, sure you don’t want to come and spend some time with me? Get out of here for a bit.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” Tears welled in Mary’s eyes as she answered.

  Hours later, Steffi dropped her weight on Pearce’s worn armchair feeling the strain of her long journey. She looked up at him as he handed her a cup of tea.

  “Thanks, love.”

  “Whad’you find out?”

  “Olsen took his data to SARDS. Mary doesn’t have the missing number for the Inca date.”

  “I think she’s lying.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “She’s a strange woman, that’s why.”

  ”Maybe, you should speak to Hart. He may know something of Olsen’s visit to SARDS.”

  “I should.” Pearce dialled Hart’s number. Soon, he shut his phone. “Hart’s line is busy.”

  Chapter 84

  “It’s good to hear from you, Hart.” Avery Lengard was speaking in the palaeography room of the British Museum. “You must be getting anxious about the pages, especially the ones on matter.”

  “I know these things take time.”

  “They do, I’m afraid.”

  “Could these pages be forgeries?” he asked, his tone a reflection of a semi-battered man. So much had happened to temper his passion. It wasn’t just Olsen’s passing which had left him in pieces but Professor John Donnelly’s insistence on the missing gospel pages being false. Deep down, he was hoping they weren’t.

  “Of course. It happens all the time, spurious claims of ancient texts. That’s why I’m here, to verify them.”

  “I’m aware of that, but, from what you’ve seen so far, have you formed an opinion?”

  “There’s a chance they may be authentic. In that case, this’ll be a remarkable find. The Gospel of Mary Magdalene was central to Gnosticism and it would cement Magdalene�
��s importance to scripture.”

  “D’you have any idea why these pages went missing?”

  “Ancient texts when found are rarely complete, Hart.”

  “There’s no other ancient text that deals with matter. Do you know of any?”

  “It’s what makes this gospel so special. It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “No doubt heresy would have played a role in their disappearance. It would be insightful to find out exactly what was said in those pages. I haven’t done the translation of yours as yet.”

  “I hope I don’t have to wait long.”

  “No. It shouldn’t be too long again.”

  Hart felt encouraged. His tone improved considerably when he spoke again. “Do you know what dark matter is, Dr. Lengard?”

  “Dark matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t say I do.”

  “Dark matter is the mystery of the universe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we don’t have a clue what it is. It may be supernatural because it doesn’t follow any of the norms of normal matter such as reflecting light. It makes up more than ninety percent of the universe.”

  “Ninety percent of the universe is unknown to us?” Lengard was genuinely surprised.

  “I’m hoping the pages will have something on it.”

  “Well, maybe they will.”

  “Pages eleven to fourteen are also intriguing, don’t you think?”

  “What do you expect from them?”

  “Even more, Dr. Lengard.”

  “Like?”

  “Confirmation of a supernatural mind in us, a mind that gives visions. I know you are familiar with the gospel.”

  “Quite so.”

  “What would it is in line 10 refer to?”

  Lengard chuckled. “I’m as anxious as you are, Dr. Hart, believe me. We’ll know soon.”

  Placing the phone away, Lengard turned back to the gospel pages Hart had given him.

  “Here,” he said pointing as Carla Horsham looked on, “is the sort of grammatical usage common in Coptic writing as, for example, the use of Emphasis Pronouns like Thou art, or the Possessive Pronoun, Thine, or the Independent Pronoun, I, as in, I am the Son of God. Demonstrative Pronouns like this and that were also used, as in, this is the way. You can also look for Verb prefixes used in describing occupations like cloth-weaver or yoke bearer. I’m seeing evidence of this usage in Hart’s pages and evidence that it was translated from Greek.”

  “So, the philological knowledge of the language, the vocabulary and grammar can help identify forgeries as opposed to authentic documents.”

  “And, too, because of the shortage of paper, some words were abbreviated. See here. The writer used small, upright letters about 2-4mm in width. Mu is written in four strokes, rho has a small head, upsilon is tall and narrow.”

  “I can see that, Ave.”

  “Note the way the ink is preserved. It’d be difficult to do that in a forgery though, I must say, it’s not impossible.”

  “The insect damage and decomposition would also be difficult to forge.”

  “That’s true. Did you send off the papyrus fibres I managed to scrape out to the botanist, Jonathan Bradshaw, at the Smithsonian?”

  “Yes, I did, Ave. He says he has to place them under an electron microscope in order to determine the extent of decomposition of the cellulose. It’s going to take a couple of weeks.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “Have you done the translations, yet?

  “No, I’m waiting on Bradshaw’s results. I must have them first.”

  Chapter 85

  Far away in New York’s Julliard School of Music, a young voice called.

  “Master Reinholdt, Master Reinholdt.”

  Carl Reinholdt turned around. At sixty-five, he thought he had seen it all. The boy’s resemblance to Johann Bach first jolted him. The deep-set eyes and whimsical curve of his smile were almost unnerving. Reinholdt shook his head staring at his composure and intensity. He watched as Alejandro Ferelli placed his instrument to his shoulder and waited for his cue.

  “Please begin.” He commanded.

  Bach’s Violin Sonata in A Minor poured, filling every inch of the room with glory and passion that Carl Reinholdt understood too well. It wasn’t long before he lifted his hands in the air and spoke.

  “Alejandro, there is nothing more to teach you. You are the genius of this century, like none the world has ever seen. You can move on now to the great concert halls, playing for the world to see and hear.”

  “Thank you, Master Reinholdt but I want to compose,” Alejandro said.

  “Of course, yes of course!”

  Reinholdt’s silence lingered. Impatience sizzled in the young man.

  “Well, do you think I could, Master Reinholdt?”

  “Yes, but first, Alejandro, I would need more time to think about it. I have just under an hour left and there are more performances to assess. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Alejandro moved to another room as Reinholdt walked to the end of the long hall.

  “Play it again,” he said to the girl on the piano.

  The music of Liszt’s Maggiore thrilled his soul with its clarity and perfection. His eyes filled with tears as he watched the child’s small hands move effortlessly across the keys, playing a concerto few would hardly attempt. The little girl stopped ten minutes later and straightened up, placing her hands at her side.

  “Christina, you’re simply wonderful. When you play, the Greek gods listen. Liszt must be smiling. Be a good girl,” he said with a light heart, turning to his phone that rang. “Ya?” he answered.

  “Mr. Reinholdt, my name is Radan Olsen. Please listen to me. Someone is going to kill Alejandro. I believe it’s the Brotherhood. Do not let him out of your sight.”

  In a flash, Reinholdt dialled Santiago Ferelli.

  “Mayor’s office, can I help you?”

  “Mayor Ferelli, please. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Reinholdt prayed Ferelli wasn’t in a meeting.

  “Sorry, the mayor is not here now,” the reply came.

  “Do you have his private line?”

  “Sorry, I can’t give it out.”

  “This is urgent!” he shouted on the line.

  “I’m really sorry but I can’t give it out.”

  Deeply annoyed, Reinholdt shut the call. Bach’s Violin Sonata in A Minor sounded in the air again.

  “Alejandro’s still here,” he whispered. “How can I tell him?”

  In the hall, Reinholdt stared at piles of music sheets, records and dozens of reference books wondering what he should do. The music had long stopped when he got up and looked around. Alejandro was nowhere. Reinholdt rushed out and caught sight of the twelve year old moving to Lincoln Plaza. As he made a dash for him, a long line of cars slowed him in his tracks. In the distance, he could see Ferelli’s black Mercedes pulling to a stop in front of the plaza.

  “Santiago! Santiago!” He shouted at the top of his voice bumping into a priest. “Sorry,” he said as he ran across the street. It was summer and Lincoln Plaza was packed with tourists and sightseers who had come to New York. “Where is he?” he agonized not seeing Alejandro.

  From the crowd taking photos, Alejandro emerged and moved towards the car. Walking steadily, he neither heard nor saw Reinholdt running toward him.

  “Alejandro, wait!” Reinholdt shouted hopelessly as Alejandro opened the back door of the mayor’s car and got in. The car sped away.

  Chapter 86

  “Hi,” Alejandro said to his father placing his violin on the back seat of the car.

  “Everything went well today?”

  “Yes, very well, Dad.”

  “I’m glad.” Mayor Ferelli spoke as if the world rested on his shoulders. And, it did. The Indian Point nuclear plant was a constant source of worry to him but not as much as the failed attempt at evacuating par
ts of New York City.

  “Look Dad, quit worrying so much about the city and the spate of tremors,” Alejandro said, noticing his father’s drawn face. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

  “Why d’you say that, Alejandro?”

  “Well, Aunty Mandy had a painting once called The Dawning. Christina told me about it. There’s a date on it for a new age.”

  “Do you know if she still has this painting?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe, she does.”

  “Have a look.” Ferelli’s driver was taking the Long Island express to the Midtown Tunnel when he stretched his hand and handed Santiago his cell phone.

  Santiago stared at the image. “What the hell I got to do with a priest?”

  “Saw him staring at Alejandro. Looked kind of crazy to me.”

  “Maybe he’s an admirer. Alejandro has loads.”

  “You should run a check on this guy.”

  “Nah.” Santiago leaned back on the cushioned seat to rest the weight of his mind.

  “Where’re we going, Boss?”

  “Drop off Alejandro on Greenwich Street. I’m going to Queens.” He plucked his phone from his jacket and dialled a number.

  “Hello?” Mandy answered. She was the wife of the late artist, Francis La Croix. She came come upon hard times when La Croix passed away forcing her to take a job as a cashier at a super-market.

  “I’m coming over. I need to talk to you, urgently.”

  “Now? “she asked. “I’m still at work.”

  “There’s some traffic but, I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Mandy sighed. “Ok, I’ll be at home.” Staring at her watch, she realized she would have little time to prepare for Ferelli’s visit. Lifting her head now, she spotted her favourite customer. “Hey, Josh,” she called.

  Marin was standing at the checkout counter staring into the air, seemingly lost. At home at his Jackson Heights apartment, he had gobbled the remaining bits of his lunch and had darted to his fridge to check for items he badly needed. He had an obsession for detail even while at home but that was just how he was. It made life easier. Picking up a short list, he had headed to the store. He had walked through the aisles gathering the items he needed without taking time to browse bargains, as he would normally do.