The Secret of Hades' Eden

by Graham J. Thomson

  Instantly Ollie’s mind raced to find the connections and patterns. ‘You think someone else read this report and went after James?’ he said.

  ‘Good man,’ William said with a grin. ‘You’re keeping up.’

  ‘Let me see what I can do,’ Ollie said and turned to his computer. ‘I think I know what you’re after.’

  Struggling to keep up, Ella leaned in to the computer screen for a better look. ‘And what exactly are we after?’ she said.

  ‘Someone found out that your father knew about the book,’ Ollie explained. ‘The question is how? Well, the interview notes would have been put on the PNC, the Police National Computer. All police officers can access it and, more importantly, search it. Some specialist units can even set up automated keyword alerts so they can track things of interest as soon as they come up. A powerful intelligence tool.’

  ‘And records of all the searches made and who made them are kept forever,’ William added. ‘Many bent officers who took money for information have been caught out this way. The watchers themselves are watched.’

  Ollie tapped rapidly on the keyboard. He worked so quickly the program struggled to keep up with his commands. Windows opened and closed, databases were searched.

  ‘Got it,’ he said and pointed to the record on the screen. ‘Look, there was an automated alert set up for the phrase “Biblos Aletheia”.’

  ‘Who was the user?’ William asked, but he already knew answer.

  ‘DC Anthony Pepper,’ Ollie confirmed.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘No, just him.’

  ‘But how does this help?’ Ella asked. ‘We already knew he was one of them.’

  Prepared for the question, Ollie navigated to the relevant part of the database. ‘It’s likely that they’ve been looking for the book for a long time. In fact that keyword search was added to the system over two years ago. They just didn’t get a hit on it until recently. But they were looking for other keywords too and it’s these that may be more helpful. What was their intelligence gathering tool is now ours.’

  Whopping with delight, Ollie copied all the keywords that DC Pepper had set up into an off-line document. The team recognised many of them: Biblos Aletheia, Rockcliffe Hall, Arthur Tempest. And there were over a dozen other new names too.

  ‘Holy mackerel,’ Ollie exclaimed. ‘It’s a treasure trove. This is unbelievable. How could they have been so stupid?’

  ‘They never planned on getting caught,’ William answered. ‘They never do.’

  ‘Any of those mean anything to you?’ Ollie asked.

  ‘Society of Eden,’ William murmured reading out one of the new names. ‘Not come across that one before. Let’s start there, see what you can find out.’

  Ollie opened up his Internet browser and began with a Google search. There were dozens of hits. Methodically, he went through each one. The first was the official Web site of the Society. A volunteer organisation, it claimed to be a registered charity. The introduction said that it offered those who volunteered the opportunity to escape the stresses of modern life and retreat to an idyllic nature reserve. The gallery section showed images of impossibly happy and attractive young adults walking amongst colourful gardens and forests. Others showed the same people mountain climbing, fishing off a boat in the sea and working on a vineyard. One noticeable photo was that of a beautiful, angelic blonde girl in a black bikini who was sat cross-legged on a white sandy beach looking out towards a deep blue sea.

  ‘Looks like my kind of holiday resort,’ Ella said.

  There was no indication of where the offices or site locations were. Ollie made a note of the charity number and then navigated back to the other search hits. Most were of no interest, he scanned over them rapidly. Then one blog entry caught his eye. A young woman calling herself Lena Korol, wrote that she had been a Society volunteer. After an initial interview, which she described simply as odd, they took her to their island. She said she never knew where it was, no one would tell her, but she described that it was a warm, sunny and beautiful place. She felt that it was somewhere near Greece as the terrain looked similar. The Society staff at the island, she described, were cold, secretive and sexually nefarious. She ended her rant with a warning that the Society of Eden was nothing more than a sex cult that provided fresh meat for its perverted members.

  ‘Strong words,’ William said. ‘Is there anything on her? She might be worth talking to.’

  In no time Ollie had found a news report relating to a Lena Korol. ‘Too late,’ he said as read it. ‘According to this she committed suicide a few months ago. After an overdose of pills and alcohol she took a bath and drowned.’

  Ella felt a cold shiver crawl up her spine.

  ‘A little too convenient,’ William said. ‘So who set this charity up then?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Ollie said. He tapped on the keyboard and accessed a Government database, seconds later he had the answer. ‘It was registered over twenty years ago, the founding benefactor was a Lord Tempest.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ William said. ‘The father of Arthur?’

  ‘Possibly, I’ll have to do some more digging,’ Ollie explained.

  Time flew and they had spent over two hours researching the intelligence before calling it a night, by which time, Ollie had built up quite an intelligence picture. It had been a shocking eye opener for Ella, she had no idea the level of information that could be found so rapidly. The number and diversity of databases that could be tapped for information was staggering. Nothing, it seemed to her, was private.

  The information was vast and complex, but one thing was apparent. Everywhere they looked, it all came back to one man. Sir Arthur Anthony Tempest.

  Friday

  Hemera Aphrodites ‘day of Aphrodite’

  Chapter 25

  0905hrs – New York

  Jack Starr sat alone on a park bench at the southern end of Central Park, New York City. He slid his phone into the inside jacket pocket of his black pinstriped designer suit and smiled to himself. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his cheeks. Breathing deeply to calm himself, he shut his eyes and sucked in the warm air. He’d won the bid. The money had been transferred from his offshore account. The deal was done.

  Slowly, Jack stood up, he stretched and ambled along the busy path that led out of the park. He felt giddy, both nervous and excited. Above him the morning sun shone brightly, the sky was blue and almost cloudless. Trees lined the park, there were a dozen shades of green. Dogs played excitedly on the expanse of grass with their masters. Joggers ran past him, sweaty and breathless. Mothers in tracksuits and trainers pushed their buggies speedily along, some chattered loudly on their phones as they went. A young woman in a tight, black jogging suit ran towards him. He admired her figure and smiled at her. She gave him the finger as she sped past him.

  Jack’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the caller name, it was his secretary. ‘Hi Suzie,’ he said.

  ‘Jack, where are you? Ms Blackwood is here to see you, she finally managed to get her divorce papers signed.’

  ‘Something’s come up. I won’t be in the office today.’

  ‘So what shall I tell her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just tell her I’m busy on an urgent case.’

  ‘She won’t be pleased that her hotshot lawyer has fobbed her off. I think she has a thing for you,’ Suzie teased and giggled.

  ‘Tough,’ Jack said and hung up.

  He exited the park and walked onto the busy streets of central New York. His instructions were clear, the pick-up would take place today. Remaining on foot, he headed southwards towards North Cove marina on the Hudson. Being a small marina, the boat he had to find, called the Stravaiger, a sleek 150 foot power yacht, would be easy to spot.

  In no hurry, he took his time to get there and made several anti-surveillance stops in shops and cafés. Not that he was an expert in such manoeuvres, but he felt he had to take some precautions, just in case. Assessing he was cl
ear of any unwanted interest, he confidently made his way across West Street, past the Irish Hunger Memorial and down onto the northern end of the marina.

  Scanning his eyes across the small wharf he quickly spotted the distinctive long black shape that was his target on the southern end. It was moored up by the last pier at the far end of the marina. As he walked towards it he passed several vessels of unbelievable size. They were like mini cruise liners, easily big enough to sleep twenty. On one such beast, men in striped navy blue and white sailor uniforms cleaned the salt off its decks. The wealth required to own one was beyond Jack’s imagination, yet here were six of them. Only a few blocks away were neighbourhoods where children sold drugs on the streets while their mothers sold themselves just to make ends meet. Jack shook his head. Despite modern advances, people still just did whatever was required to survive. Survival of the fittest, he thought.

  On the jetty by the stern of the Stravaiger, Jack stood and peered into the cabin. The lower level was empty, there was no one to be seen. Above him, at the rear end of the upper level, was a balcony. An Isle of Man flag hung limp from a varnished wooden pole. Several small dark portholes ran along the sides of the boat on both levels. But there was no sign of life on the vessel.

  ‘Hello, anyone there?’ Jack shouted from the pier. There was no response. Squinting in the sunlight he looked over his shoulder, there were a few other people along the jetty. He walked up the metal gangplank onto the stern of the Stravaiger.

  Jack whistled to himself when he took in his surroundings. Her designer had paid considerable attention to luxury. She was truly a millionaire’s toy. From above he heard shuffling and banging. There were muffled voices too, then the sound of a door opening.

  ‘Who’s there?’ someone shouted from one of the rooms on the upper level. His accent was unmistakably English.

  ‘I’m here for the pick-up,’ Jack shouted back. On the port side of the cabin was a wooden staircase. He climbed it.

  ‘One moment please,’ was the curt response.

  At the top of the stairs to his right, Jack saw a set of wooden double doors. One was slightly ajar; opera music from Handel’s Scipio quietly seeped out from the gap. He approached and cautiously surveyed the room through the narrow opening. Beyond was a lavishly furnished bedroom, the bed was unmade, clothes lay on the floor beside it. Jack’s pulse surged momentarily when he saw a naked young woman rush past his field of view. She had long, bright blonde hair; it was almost white, and hung down to the middle of her back. Her tiny waste curved down to her shapely bottom. She stopped by the edge of the bed and bent down to pick some clothes up from the floor. Jack’s wide eyes lingered on her slender figure before she moved away out of sight.

  Grinning to himself, Jack turned and walked over to the gunwale. He rested his arms on it and looked out to sea. He breathed in the salty air deeply through his nose and slowly blew it out through his mouth.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the Englishman said from behind.

  Jack turned around to face his contact. The fresh faced young man was barely over twenty. He had a tanned, handsome face and short black hair. The man was clearly from good breeding, thought Jack, aristocratic ancestors perhaps.

  ‘I believe you have something for me?’ Jack asked, but it was said more of an order, a demand.

  A nod, a tight smile. Then: ‘Follow me, please.’

  Jack tailed the young man along the port side of the upper level towards the bow and into a small room. Two of the walls were covered with state-of-the-art navigation and communications equipment. From a desk in the corner the young man took out a small lined notepad, he handed it, and a Mont Blanc pen, over to Jack. His hand shook slightly as he did so; he tried to hide his nerves by placing his hands behind his back.

  Using the wall by the door as a surface, Jack drew a large triangle on the pad. He handed the pen and pad back to the young man. Within the triangle the young man drew a pentagram and passed it back to Jack. Jack completed the sign by drawing an eye in the very centre of the pentagram. He handed the pad back to the contact, and pocketed the pen.

  ‘Good,’ the young man said visibly relieved. Beads of sweat had collected on his forehead.

  ‘Now, where is my case?’ Jack demanded brusquely.

  The man moved over to one of the wooden panelled walls and pushed hard on it. A hidden door swung open, behind it was a large metal safe. He tapped in a code on the digital keypad and then pulled open the thick metal door. Inside was a black carry case, he lifted it out and dropped it on the floor.

  Jack frowned. He took hold of the handle and lifted it. He strained, it was deceptively heavy. ‘How am I going to carry this back?’

  ‘The handle pulls up,’ said the man helpfully. ‘It has wheels too. You can just pull it along.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I need to check it first,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ the man said, he shook his head and laughed nervously.

  Crouching down, Jack turned the bevel of the combination lock to the arrangement he’d been sent earlier. The lock opened. He unzipped the case and slowly opened it up. Inside were dozens of clear plastic bags, each was filled with a pinkish powder. His heart skipped a beat when he realised how much of it there was. No wonder it was heavy. On top of the bags was a small electronic device, a single green LED flashed on and off letting Jack know that the case had not been opened since it began its journey, until now. Next to the device was a smaller blue bag, about a quarter of the size of the others. Jack took out the small blue bag, closed and locked the case, and stood up.

  ‘This is for you,’ he said proffering the bag.

  The young man’s eyes bulged. He accepted the bag and pocketed it. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Are we done now?’ It was more of a wish than a question.

  ‘Indeed, I think that concludes our business,’ Jack replied coolly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ He grabbed the handle of the case and disembarked.

  As he dragged the case along the jetty, Jack smiled to himself. Roughly he calculated that he had just paid less than a tenth of the market value for something he already had buyers lined up for. By the end of the day he would be a very wealthy man.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the number; it was the office again. He ignored it. Ms Blackwood could get lost. They could all get lost. For Jack was about to take early retirement.

  *

  High above the city an unmanned plane circled in a wide figure of eight pattern like an eagle riding the thermal winds. A grey dome hung down from its fuselage like an eye. Inside it was a powerful camera that remained fixed on its distant target. It could read a car number plate from seven miles away. A thin beam of microwaves sent the live images up into space where a satellite transmitted the data back down to the command centre on Earth.

  In the back of an unmarked van which was parked on a New York side street, Special Agent Brad Kozlowski watched his large flatscreen monitor. The black and white thermal image was presently fixed on a berthed yacht. The digital map on another screen told him he was looking directly at one corner of North Cove marina. Thermal imaging made for strange viewing, warm objects that emanated heat were dark, while cold objects were shades of grey and white. Eerie grey shadows were cast on the ground in areas shaded from the sun.

  Kozlowski had programmed the camera to synchronise with the GPS data from the target’s phone tracking. For the last hour it had automatically followed the target’s phone, he had barely had to touch the joystick. He just sat back, watched the footage and enjoyed the remains of his pizza.

  An overweight workaholic who was fuelled by a steady diet of junk food and caffeine, Kozlowski was just about the best surveillance commander the CIA had ever had. When he sunk his teeth into a target, he never let go.

  ‘No change,’ he said into his radio.

  Gently, he tweaked the joystick and zoomed in on the target area. There was still no sight of the man who had boarded the yacht. But a translucent red circle that was superimposed on the scr
een showed him the position of the target phone. It was still over the yacht.

  The circle moved, with it the camera followed. The dark figure of a man could be seen walking away from the boat on the jetty heading westwards towards the city. Kozlowski zoomed out.

  ‘All call-signs, this is Alpha-one,’ he said into the mic. ‘Zulu has left the boat. Repeat, target has left the boat. Heading west, wait out.’

  The crosshairs remained fixed on the target, the camera followed the shape of the man with impressive precision. But Kozlowski was poised ready to take the controls just in case the target disposed of his phone.

  ‘Zulu appears to be pulling a suitcase behind him. Can anyone get eyes on?’

  ‘Alpha-one, this is Tango-one. I have eyes on,’ a voice crackled over the radio.

  The agent on the ground, call-sign Tango-one, was dressed as a jogger. Pretending to stretch off the lactose in his legs he watched subtly through his designer sunglasses as the target walked straight past him. The target stopped by St Joseph’s Church and waited, he held his free hand up to his face to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight.

  ‘Alpha-one, this is Tango-one. Zulu is carrying a black suitcase . . . He’s gone past Pumphouse Park onto South End Avenue. Approaching a cab.’

  Alone in the half-light of the van, Kozlowski’s eyes were fixed on the screen. A stone’s throw from the target, across the other side of West Street, was a stark reminder of why he loved what he did and why it was so important: it was Ground Zero, the site of the Twin Towers. ‘Roger that. Charlie-one, are you in position?’

  ‘Roger Alpha-one. We’re ready.’ Sat on his motorbike a block away from the target on South End Avenue, call-sign Alpha-one turned the ignition on and revved the engine. Another agent, call-sign Delta-one, climbed onto the back of the bike.

  ‘This is Tango-one. Zulu is in the rear seat of a city cab with the suitcase.’ He relayed the cab’s number plate to the team. ‘All call-signs, go, go, go.’