Find my mother’s final place
Where there is a headstone to trace
This is the place where my soul must rest
Saint Mary the Virgin, where we were blessed
Her code of honour was always true
That courage now must pass to you
In the silence I’ll find peace at last
The Biblos Aletheia, the key to the past
It’s yours to decide
Whether to follow this ancient guide
But in secret I ask
That you undertake this task
Forgive me my dear
All will soon become clear
She frowned. Her face reddened, she regretted not burning the note there and then. She scrunched the paper up and threw it onto the table.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ she shouted.
She picked up her phone and called Darren again.
‘It’s a bloody poem!’ she snorted. ‘All that worry, and it’s just a bloody stupid damned poem.’
*
After a while, Ella calmed herself down and read the poem again. It made no sense to her. My mother’s final place. She guessed her father wanted his ashes scattered close to his mother’s grave. But she never knew her grandmother on her father’s side, and had no idea where she was buried. She considered just pouring his ashes down the sink. But the words nagged at her, called to her. There was something about them. But in secret I ask that you undertake this task.
It was too much for her to think about. She put the note away and made herself another cup of tea. She sat at the table and tried to get her mind off it by reading one of her books from the UL.
Bright sun beams shone through the window blinds. They moved slowly across the kitchen table as the minutes passed until they illuminated the wooden box that lay there. Ella had forgotten all about it.
‘You’re a handsome devil,’ she said and picked it up.
It was sealed by brass screws. She found a screwdriver in a drawer and went to work opening the box. When the last screw was undone she carefully pulled the lid off. Inside was something large and flat, it was wrapped in shiny brown paper. She peeled the wrapping back and found a small painting, about the size of a magazine.
It was an oil painting set in an elaborate gold coloured frame. The painting itself was a highly detailed and realistic portrait of a man, almost like a photograph. The man had long grey hair and a grey beard; his aged, wrinkly face had a serious, almost sombre look. But there was something warm and fatherly about him too. Dressed in black, the outfit he wore looked like something from medieval times. Circles of white frilly lace poked out of his sleeves and he wore a large intricate white collar that stuck far out from his neck. In both of his hands he held what looked like a box. No, it was a book, a book with a gold cover she realised, and on the cover was a large embossed triangle with dozens of other smaller symbols within it. Ella leaned in for a closer look and realised that they weren’t symbols at all but numbers in an unusual artistic font. In the background, to the right of the man, were dark grey stone castle turrets. To the left was a dark green landscape, a forest, and a meandering grey-black river. There was a small stone bridge over the river.
Ella sat back and contemplated her inheritance, she was feeling better now. She hoped the painting was worth something. It certainly looked old. Maybe it was by an old master, she wondered, or maybe the man in it was someone famous.
Maybe it was stolen.
She noticed something on the frame: a discoloured brass plate. After digging out some brass cleaner, she polished the plaque. In no time at all it gleamed like new. As she suspected there was a name on it. It read, Francis Perryvall. There was a number below the name, 1517.
Curiosity getting the better of her, she sat by her laptop in the lounge and powered it up. Firstly she Googled the words Francis and Perryvall. There were a few meaningless hits so she narrowed the search by putting the two words in quotes. Disappointingly there were no results at all. After a number of different searches involving Perryvall and surname, Perryvall and painting, Perryvall and famous, and so on, Ella concluded that although the name was popular in the 1500s in England, there were few people with it any more. And Francis Perryvall wasn’t anyone famous in any case.
Clinging to the hope that the artist was well known, and eager to learn if the painting was actually worth anything, she made a mental note to take it to Darren to research it further. Hopefully he could do something with it in his lab. Maybe they could x-ray it to find hidden details, or date it somehow. She hadn’t given up hope of a windfall just yet.
Still curious about the poem, she went back to the kitchen and read it over again. Other than the cryptic request itself, there was something else she didn’t understand: the strange words. She knew their Greek meaning, she had seen them before, but separately. A thought occurred to her.
Back at her laptop she typed the words into the search engine one at a time. First she tried Biblos, there were thousands of hits, they confirmed to her that the word was ancient Greek for book. Then she tried Aletheia. Another thousand-odd hits confirmed it meant truth. The Book of the Truth, she wondered.
The Biblos Aletheia the key to the past.
Something else occurred to her: the two words were capitalised. In the search box she typed Biblos Aletheia and put the words in quotes to narrow the search to that specific phrase. She punched the return button and a nano-second later she frowned at the result. There was only one direct hit with both the words together. She clicked on the link and a Web site opened up on the screen. It only contained four words, they were written in large bold black letters: The Truth is Coming. Beneath the text was a symbol: a large triangle with a large pentagram in the middle, in the centre of the pentagram was an eye. Ella recognised the eye, it was an Egyptian hieroglyph, The Eye of Horus, a symbol of power and protection. Surprised and a little confused by what she saw, she scrolled to the bottom of the page. There was no more text, no links, and no flashy graphics.
Having reached a dead end with the internet she went back to the painting that lay on her kitchen table. She flipped it over and inspected the back looking for any useful information. There was some old brown masking tape on one of the corners that stuck out further than the rest. She ran her fingers over it and felt a small hard object hidden behind. Carefully, she peeled off the tape to reveal the hidden object. It was a gold ring. Dulled from age, she turned it over in the sunlight. It looked like a signet ring, the face was flat and had a symbol on it. She examined it closely, it was a triangle with a star in the middle – no, it was a small pentagram. And at its centre was a tiny eye. A cold shiver ran up her spine. The Eye of Horus, she knew, was not the organ of sight, but an instrument of action.
In secret I ask. All will soon become clear.
She twisted the ring around in her hand and wondered what to do. Secrets had been kept from her; she had no doubt about it. But it was time to change that.
Time to find the truth; she knew exactly where she would start.
The truth is coming, she thought.
Chapter 7
1302hrs – London
TempestInvest was a highly successful global private investment company. Their plush, modern head office was located on the top floor of the Gherkin in central London, an iconic skyscraper which looked much like a huge tapered bullet, or perhaps a rocket from an old B-movie. The chief executive’s office was large and lavishly furnished; it boasted outstanding panoramic views of the southern part of the city. The Tower of London could be seen to the left, and the tip of Big Ben and Parliament could just be made out on the far right. Connecting them was the meandering River Thames. Small ships and ferryboats navigated slowly along the river, while larger vessels waited patiently for Tower Bridge to lift its huge iron arms and free their path.
Sir Arthur Anthony Tempest relaxed on his large, soft leather sofa by the window and watched the world go by. Cradled in his hand was a crystal glass that
contained one of the finest Scotch whisky’s ever made. He raised the glass to his nose, swilled and tilted it, and smelled the sweet, peaty aroma of the uisge beatha – the water of life, as known by its Gaelic creators. He had no idea what he was worth, he had stopped caring. Some said it was £200 million; others put his wealth at a cool half-billion. It was just numbers to him. His trust fund had made him a millionaire before he left education, and after that it just seemed unimportant.
Handsome and charismatic, Sir Arthur was seen as a dream catch by the many beau monde beauties he knew and socialised with. But he was not known to have any interest in settling down with just the one woman – quite the opposite. His thirst for the pursuit of beauty was like an addiction, a drug more powerful than any narcotic. But he kept his vices well hidden from all but his closest of friends. A clever and cunning man, Sir Arthur presented his public self as a kind and charitable character. He was highly respected by the high society that he mingled with.
He was also, it seemed to some, a genius in the world of finance. When it came to making investments he had the Midas touch. Over the years he had seamlessly navigated from one success to another, making fortunes as he went. In the quiet confines of the city’s private members clubs and societies many of his peers wondered what his secret was.
If only they knew.
Tenderly, he stroked the long soft red hair of the girl who had her head in his lap. Amber was her name. She was a new recruit from his modelling agency and he was showing her the ropes. He found her to be an enthusiastic learner. He would reward her well.
Of the many companies that Sir Arthur ran, his modelling agency was by far his favourite. It was also his most useful source of recruitment for his more duplicitous endeavours. Unbeknown to anyone other than his closest confides, he ran a highly secretive, and highly selective, private club. Prospective members were approached and given a brief taste of what they could expect. It was rare for anyone to refuse the offer of lifetime membership; those who did though, didn’t live long enough to tell the tale. Within the highly private and luxurious confines of the clubs, which were located in several major cities, members found themselves surrounded by every indulgence. It didn’t take long before new members became hooked on the pleasures of the flesh and whatever else was on offer. Members ranged from wealthy business-people to politicians, there were military commanders and spy masters alike, leading research scientists and journalists. Also on the books were international criminals, hit-men, hackers and underground rebels. The post-coital chatter would have been the envy of the CIA, had they any idea of its existence that is. But the cost of membership was high. For each member, willing or otherwise, became an asset, a tool of Sir Arthur’s to call upon in whichever way he saw fit. Assets were frequently reminded that there was only one way to leave his service.
Drunk with intense pleasure, Sir Arthur shut his eyes and rolled his head back in ecstasy as Amber busied herself on him. She was delightful, perfect in every way. Just the type that Sir Arthur wanted on his island.
A mobile phone rang, its impatient ringing tone demanded attention. Sir Arthur snatched it from his trouser pocket, irritated, and looked at the screen. There was no caller number, only a single name, but one he instantly recognised. The call was not coming over the phone lines but instead over the Internet. Anonymous and encrypted, it was secure from any eavesdropping. Reluctantly, Sir Arthur withdrew himself from his playmate and stood up.
‘Amber, my beauty, can you give me some privacy for a moment? Business calls.’ He fumbled to make himself decent as if the caller could somehow see him. He walked over to the window and stared out across the city.
Behind him, Amber tilted her pretty head to the side and pouted. Unable to get Sir Arthur’s attention she glided over to the private bathroom in the corner of the office. At the door she stopped and turned to face him once more, this time he looked over at her. Leaning on the frame provocatively, she teasingly exposed part of her curvy, smooth figure from under her red silk dressing gown.
‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ she said in her sultry French accent. She blew him a kiss and disappeared into the bathroom.
Fighting lustful instincts, Sir Arthur almost acquiesced to his urges. But the call was from a key asset. Pained, he answered it.
‘Hello my friend, thanks for me calling back,’ he said. The code-phrase let the caller know he was alone and that is was safe to take the call.
‘I died of laughter,’ the male caller replied with the corresponding code-phrase.
‘My boy, Calchas. Is all well?’
Calchas, the asset’s codename, came from the name of a clairvoyant from ancient Greece who had made various seemingly accurate predictions about the Trojan war. According to the myth, a rival soothsayer had predicted the very day that Calchas would die. But when that day arrived the prediction failed to materialise, and Calchas, mocking his rival, had a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He choked on his wine and died on the spot.
‘All is well indeed. Very well in fact. I have good news for you.’ The voice sounded calm but Calchas was straining to contain his excitement. ‘The trap has been sprung.’
‘Go on,’ Sir Arthur prompted. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘The Web site has had a visitor.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one with the symbol.’
‘A chance find?’ Sir Arthur asked, his hopes had been dashed before.
‘No. The visitor was directed to the page after a very specific Google search,’ Calchas said hurriedly. ‘The user was on a computer based somewhere here in England.’
‘What was the search phrase?’ asked Sir Arthur, hopeful but not wanting to jump ahead of himself.
‘Biblos Aletheia.’
The words hit him like a sledge hammer. For a moment time seemed to stop. Sir Arthur’s stomach jumped into his mouth, blood rushed to his head. Dizzy, he swayed on his jelly-like legs. Then his brain exploded into a million thoughts all at once. He clutched the window ledge to steady himself. Adrenaline rushed around his body, he felt giddy, elated. He felt like laughing.
‘It worked,’ he said and threw his fist in the air. ‘Well done, good work. Do you know who the visitor was or where they live?’
‘I have the IP address, I’ll be able to get the owner’s address but it will take a few days.’
‘No, you must work faster,’ Sir Arthur demanded.
‘It will cost some. I know a guy who can get it discreetly, keen as mustard. But he’ll need a fat brown envelope, if you know what I mean.’
‘I will cover it, whatever it takes. Just get me that address.’ When he ended the call his hand was shaking. Someone was looking for it. He knew it would work, he knew someone would look for it. His prey had wandered into the trap. Now all he had to do was find them. They would lead him to the prize, he would reclaim what was rightfully his.
Dry mouthed he wandered over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous dram of a 1926 scotch. A Dalmore 62 single Highland malt; the only remaining bottle of its kind. A privilege and a joy to drink, he swirled the yellow liquid around in the crystal tumbler and inhaled the sweet fumes.
‘Ipsa scientia potestas est,’ he said in toast to his own brilliance and raised his glass. Knowledge itself is power.
Returning to the long curved window of his office he gazed down onto the sprawling streets far below and beyond as far as the eye could see. Cars and taxis queued impatiently at traffic lights, there were buses and trains bursting full with commuters and tourists. The streets buzzed with thousands upon thousands of people of all colours and creeds, all shapes and sizes. The tall and the short, the pretty, the ugly, the rich and the poor.
‘Look at them,’ he sneered. ‘They scurry like rats. Selfish capitalists. Greedy and pathetic. Godless pests that must be culled.’
Sir Arthur despaired at the state of things. The world had become corrupted, rotten even. Faith had been replaced by greed; politicians were inept and self serving. No one
worked for the greater good any more; it was every man and woman for themselves. Everyone just wanted more; more money, bigger houses, better partners, more material things to make them feel better and successful. To have more was to be happier. But long, long ago he knew that it had been so different. So much better. And he knew he could restore it to the way it was. The way it should be.
‘Our time has come.’ He raised his glass once more towards the city and then downed the sweet liquid in one. ‘To my destiny.’
After wiping his lips, he snatched up his phone, opened the Skype application and tapped on a contact. It was time for action. ‘Hestia, something has happened,’ he said. ‘Something wonderful. We all need to meet, face to face. Get everyone together, we’ll meet at the hall. The time has finally come.’
Overjoyed with the news he almost forgot about Amber. He wandered over to the bathroom and found her relaxing patiently in the Jacuzzi. White bubbles frothed around her pert breasts in the candlelit room. She raised her flute of champagne and beckoned him over. He knelt by her side and cupped her soft face in his hand. He ran his thumb over her cheek and lips and then plunged it into her mouth. She sucked on it eagerly and smiled. Golden light reflected off his signet ring onto her cheek. He withdrew his thumb and, with both hands, pulled her soft, pretty face towards him. Greedily, he explored her mouth with his tongue. She was warm, moist and willing.
He liked this one. She was as perfect a specimen. She would become one of the chosen. One of the few who would be invited to the island. To Sir Arthur, it was all about the genes, a simple arms race, survival of the fittest. Soon the weak would be eliminated. Only the chosen would survive. And the true Gods would rule once more.
Chapter 8
1345hrs – London
‘You’ve been a naughty boy,’ Sarah tutted at William, waving her finger. ‘Albert is not pleased, not pleased at all. Not a great first impression I’m afraid.’
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