Indisputable Proof (23 page)

Anat looked momentarily hurt. “Ah well, they’re bad for the health anyway.” He loosed a strained chuckle. Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression solidified. “Again, I ask: what is your interest in this Gordon Nunnery and what is a Sodarian?”

“Sudarium,” Tolen corrected him. “It’s a relic held in a church in Oviedo, Spain. It’s purported to be a cloth that wrapped the face of Jesus Christ immediately following his crucifixion.”

“You’re not talking about the Shroud of Turin, are you?”

Tolen shook his head, no.

“Then I’ve never even heard of this Sudarium. As for Gordon Nunnery,” Anat paused as if tentative about saying more, “he was part of an assembled group that was here for one day last year.”

“Did this group also include Boyd Ramsey and Richard Mox?”

Anat again looked over Tolen’s shoulder, obviously to get confirmation from Kappel. “Yes, they were here.”

“There have been two recent murders,” Tolen continued. “One was an archaeologist in Costa Rica, and the other a church security guard in Spain. A radical group calling themselves the ‘True Sons of Light’ claims responsibility for both deaths. This group has a self-prescribed charter of destroying relics supposedly tied to Christ. They contend His existence is a fable, and they wish to stop the charade by eliminating false artifacts. Gordon Nunnery and Richard Mox were somehow involved. The only connection between Nunnery, Mox, and Ramsey is that they were all in Switzerland for one day last year, and you’ve just confirmed all three were here at the mansion for some ‘event.’ I need to know the circumstances of this gathering.”

Anat’s eyes hardened. “You realize I’ve answered your questions so far because, frankly, I have nothing to hide. I’ve barely met these men and know nothing of a radical group or these two murders. I could easily send you on your way. We’ve already alerted the local authorities, and the guard you temporarily disabled is waiting upstairs in the kitchen heavily armed in case our conversation becomes uncivilized.”

Tolen spoke in a low voice holding Anat’s gaze. “Given the international flavor of these murders, Interpol is involved. If needed, I’ll return with a search warrant and a squad of agents to go through your mansion. Or, you can give me the information I need, and I’ll be on my way. I’m not here to disrupt your life, Mr. Anat. I’m simply gathering facts to enhance our investigation. I have no illusions that you would knowingly support the activities of a radical group, but I believe you unknowingly brought people together which may have spawned their activity.”

Anat seemed to digest Tolen’s words for a moment.

He watched Anat’s body language carefully.

Anat relaxed and sat back in his chair. His next words surprised Tolen.

“Are you a religious man, Mr. Tolen?”

“Each man searches for his own truth.”

“Yes, well put,” Anat reached into the desk drawer again, this time fishing out a bottle of Bowmore Scotch and a small glass. The label was dried and peeling. It was apparently well aged.

“An 1850 bottle of Bowmore sold for 29,400 pounds at an auction about five years ago,” Tolen commented after seeing the label.

Anat forced an impish smile. “I know.”

Even Tolen was somewhat taken aback. This was a man of sublime taste who went after whatever he wanted.

Anat looked to Tolen. “I assume since you’re on duty...”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Tolen waved a hand.

Anat continued. “Like most, my faith had been ingrained since childhood. Yet there comes a point in a man’s life when he’s faced with his own mortality,” Anat paused, brushing the tip of his nose as if a stray hair had fallen across it. “Almost two years ago, I was diagnosed with a most unpleasant disease; a form of terminal cancer. I won’t go into the particulars, but I was given roughly 18 months to two years to live. You can do the math. I’m already inside death’s window,” he said somberly. He paused and poured himself two fingers of Scotch. Without hesitation, he slammed back the liquid and returned the glass to the table.

Anat’s words brought a chilling image of Tolen’s own father lying in a coma at the Florida hospital.

“I spend a great amount of time in this wine cellar as a doctor has told me that the cool conditions may slow the growth of the cancer. Is it the truth? Who knows? But what have I got to lose?

“Several months after receiving the grim news, I made a decision. You see, there is one great mystery that science universally accepts we will never be able to solve: the age-old question of whether there is life after death. Religions tell you there is. Many believe the soul continues after death, but they have the same great crutch: belief. There is life after death because they
believe
there is. Yet there has never been one bit of evidence to prove our soul continues on in an afterlife.

“They point to the Bible as their proof, but the Bible is a book; a book whose chapters were assembled by men. It contains no more proof than the Egyptian Book of the Dead contains proof to assist the departed in the afterlife. These are texts contrived by man, not by gods.”

Anat spoke faster now. “I want evidence: cold, hard, indisputable proof that there is, in fact, life after death. I want peace of mind when my time comes. I do not want some religious pundit telling me that my soul will go to heaven if I believe. I want to
know
my being will continue in the afterlife. I
have
to know.” A passionate glow blazed in the man’s eyes.

“Given my time constraint and my need for understanding, I decided to engage some of the world’s finest professionals in their field. I assembled a group of archaeologists, mathematicians, philosophers, biologists, physicists, and men and women of various other disciplines at my estate last year and made them an offer. They had one task: prove the existence of an afterlife. I did not care how they did it, or who did it, but someone had to be prepared to show me conclusive evidence.” His eyes saddened somewhat. His voice pleaded. “I want to know the truth, Mr. Tolen. I want to know what will happen to my soul when I leave this body.”

“And you thought a philosopher might hold the key?” Tolen asked.

“Why not? It’s a riddle mankind has been trying to solve since the beginning of time. If the biologists and physicists cannot, perhaps some of the deepest thinkers can. There is an answer. I know it. There has to be a way to prove it.”

“What was the offer?” Tolen asked, his mind reeling.

“The one who could provide proof would get everything I own; approximately $30 billion, less a few million for me to live the rest of my days. Discretion was paramount. I was not looking for publicity, so one leak to the press, and the entire deal was off for everyone.”

“How many were privy to this offer?”

“I solicited 500 people from around the globe. One hundred attended the gathering I held here at the mansion, and they learned my true intent as well as the rules of engagement at the meeting. This estate has 122 rooms, and they were put up for the night after I provided dinner and made the offer. They were sent on their way the next day. Each received one of my Gurkha Black Dragon cigars. I assume that is how you tied me to these people.”

That explained why Bar had not discovered where Ramsey, Mox, and Nunnery had stayed in Switzerland. “You created a competition, pitting the participants against each other.”

“I didn’t care how they did it or what alliances they formed.”

Thirty billion dollars was enough motivation to make even a passive archaeologist commit murder, Tolen thought. He took a moment to assimilate this new information before asking, “Surely, you must have known the temptation of such a huge reward would drive people to extremes…even murder. Don’t you feel any responsibility for the mayhem which was sure to ensue?”

“What mayhem?” Anat looked genuinely surprised. “I never endorsed their actions; just offered the prize.”

“And allowed them to make the decision of how the end justifies the means.”

Anat’s words turned malevolent. “You are not going to dirty my hands with your sanctimonious assertion I had something to do with the deaths of those people. Besides, CIA Agent Samuel Tolen, I certainly would not support a radical cause which tries to destroy artifacts. Quite the contrary, I am looking for proof of an afterlife, nothing more.” He paused, biting his bottom lip. “This concludes our conversation. Good day, Agent Tolen.”

CHAPTER 38

September 13. Thursday – 10:58 a.m. Dietikon, Switzerland

Nicklaus Kappel escorted Tolen from the building. Walking through the manor, they passed the German security guard in the kitchen. He had his head tilted back, sniffling. A female in a cook’s uniform was tending to his bloody nose with a red-stained cloth. The guard glared and mumbled obscenities in German as Tolen passed them.

Just prior to departing, Tolen had asked Anat for a complete list of the participants at the meeting last year, but the man refused. Tolen did not argue. There was not enough time to vet the list anyway, and with the information Anat had provided him, he was beginning to formulate a new theory.

How Boyd Ramsey had garnered an invitation to the gathering last year, Anat would not say. Tolen suspected it had something to do with his analytic abilities, and the fact Ramsey was a bit of a renaissance man who also held degrees in Biology, Philosophy, and Asian Humanities. It was odd to think Ramsey would accept Anat’s offer, although, even for an agnostic, $30 billion is one hell of a motivator.

Tolen discovered the taxi driver had been sent on his way. Therefore, Kappel arranged to have Tolen driven back to the airfield in one of Anat’s limousines. To Tolen’s surprise, Kappel climbed into the limousine with him and settled into the black leather seat far across the way. He had noticed Kappel’s extreme body language. Every time the man was put in a situation where he drew close to someone else, he became nervous and backed away. The man had an expansive personal space bubble. Tolen had never known anyone with such acute aphenphosmphobia.

Now, sitting across the way, Tolen saw the back of Kappel’s right hand. There were a series of small circular scars.

“Have you worked for Mr. Anat long?” Tolen asked in German.

The German responded in English. “Thirteen years.” He paused. “I want to apologize for my behavior when you came to the door. I was only doing my job.”

“I understand,” Tolen paused. “Mr. Kappel, were you included in the offer?”

“Call me Nicklaus, and no,” he chuckled. “It doesn’t matter, because it’s an impossibility. The eternal question is answered for each of us only in due time. Just because you tempt scientists and doctors with an outrageous reward doesn’t mean they’ll be successful. I’ve even advised Mr. Anat of my opinion, but he refuses to listen.”

“Does he normally take your advice?” Just then, Tolen’s phone rang. He elected not to answer in front of Kappel.

“He’s open to suggestions and heeds my input when he deems fit, but impending death makes rational men irrational. He follows his own counsel these days.”

For the rest of the drive, Kappel remained quiet. When they reached the airfield, Tolen was dropped off and thanked Kappel for the lift.

It was a bright, clear morning, and the airstrip was bustling with activity. In the distance, he saw the Learjet and began walking toward it. He was consumed in thought about Simon Anat’s bizarre offer and Nicklaus Kappel’s comments regarding his boss when his phone rang.

“Hello, Bar.”

“Hey, I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I’ve confirmed that Claudia Denoit from Reims, France, did fly into Switzerland on the same day as the others last year. She’s a geophysicist, by the way. That’s quite an eclectic group of professions all flying into Switzerland one day and out the next. Did you find out what they were all doing there?”

“Yes,” he responded as he reached the stairs to the plane. He briefly explained Anat’s condition and his offer for proof of an afterlife.

“Wow, didn’t see that one coming,” Bar exclaimed after Tolen finished. “Oh, I decided to check on the travel of some of the other people, specifically the victims, and guess what? Dr. Phillip Cherrigan was also there.”

“In Switzerland?” Tolen’s surprise was evident in his voice.

“Yep. According to records, he
and
his wife, Margaret, were there, but something seemed out of sync. I found a credit card receipt at a gas station in New Jersey for Margaret Cherrigan the night she was supposed to be with her husband in Europe, so I had Interpol send me surveillance video from the Swiss airport. Dr. Cherrigan can be seen walking away from the boarding gate with a woman. She looks very similar to his wife: long blonde hair, svelte figure, but it struck me that she was acting suspicious. I ran her image through the facial recognition database. Turns out it’s not his wife after all. It’s your buddy, Dr. Jade Mollur.”

“Jade?”

“Also, it appears Dr. Mollur is broke. Dr. Cherrigan was funding their archaeological activities. Once he was murdered, his wife shut down her access to the funds. If you and Diaz hadn’t come along, once she left that jail in New Jersey, she didn’t have enough money to catch a cab. She’s practically destitute.”

Tolen had no response. He scaled the steps and entered the cabin of the Learjet. Reba Zee was sitting in one of the passenger seats reading a magazine. She waved at him and headed to the cockpit.

“Tolen, you there?”

“Yes, I’m here, Ms. Bar,” he said, feeling deflated. “Anything on Boyd Ramsey?”

“No,” she said flatly. “We know he flew into Spain in the summer. He didn’t try to conceal his movements at all, but then he just disappeared. The next we know, his fingerprints are at the Cathedral de San Salvador crime scene where Javier Diaz was murdered and the Sudarium stolen, then at the Costa Rican murder scene of Dr. Phillip Cherrigan, then on the communiqué sent to the Spanish press. As we discussed, each instance had a fingerprint from the ring finger of his left hand.”

“There’s one more person I need you to check on: Nicklaus Kappel,” Tolen spelled out the name for her. “He’s Simon Anat’s personal assistant. Give me his background and recent travel. I’m sure Anat has a private plane.”

“Where are you headed now? We only have ten hours before the Sudarium will be declared stolen, and I guess it goes without saying Vakind is anxious for some good news.”

“I’m returning to the Isle of Patmos.”

After hanging up and informing Reba Zee of their next destination, Tolen considered his options. The news about Jade was disheartening. She and Dr. Cherrigan had obviously been in attendance at Simon Anat’s gathering last year, which meant they were privy to the offer. That explained her fervor to continue the search even after Dr. Cherrigan’s death. So much for altruistic, or even archaeological, reasons, he thought to himself, wondering if she had killed Cherrigan and tainted the crime scene with Ramsey’s fingerprints. Even if she was not the murderer, she was obviously after the $30 billion, and Tolen had unknowingly been drawn into her hunt. Without Tolen and Diaz and the ability to travel at no cost on the CIA’s private jet, Jade Mollur would still be in Morristown, New Jersey, sitting on a street corner. She probably staged the car crash to make it appear she was a victim of an attack by the ‘True Sons of Light’ in order to get their attention.

To Tolen’s chagrin, it was painfully obvious that Dr. Jade Mollur was far from what she appeared to be.

Yet as pieces to the mystery slowly fell in place, greater and equally perplexing questions arose: how would the discovery of a cache of objects which belonged to Jesus Christ satisfy Simon Anat’s proof of life after death? How did the ‘True Sons of Light’ and Boyd Ramsey fit into all this?

Still, the most frustrating question remained: where was the Sudarium, and what was the medical laboratory technician, Aaron Conin, doing with threads from the relic? Obviously, he had conducted, or planned to conduct, tests. The Sudarium was said to have the bloodstains of Christ on it. If Ramsey, or whoever hired him, was trying to confirm that the blood on the Sudarium belonged to Jesus, they would first need a conclusive sample to match with it, but none existed. Besides, Anat wanted indisputable proof of life after death, not confirmation that Jesus existed.

One thing was certain: he had found the motivational trigger. Thirty billion dollars would drive a man or woman to do many deviant things, including murder.

Also, the date discrepancy still had him completely baffled. Conin had a sample of the Sudarium on August 24
th
, six days before it was stolen from the church in Spain on August 30
th
.

The answer suddenly hit Tolen like a shot.
It didn’t make sense because it wasn’t possible!

Tolen walked into the cabin where Reba Zee was checking the instrument panels and gauges.

“Change of plans,” Tolen said. “I need to go to Oviedo, Spain.”

“You’re the boss!” Reba Zee declared happily, as if she enjoyed these sudden shifts in destination.

Tolen considered Diaz and Jade waiting for him back on the Isle of Patmos. Given Jade’s level of deception, it was conceivable Diaz’s life was in danger. He picked up his cell phone and called Diaz.

****

Diaz sat on the bed drumming his fingers on the top cover. He had lost patience hours ago.

Jade held a piece of paper as she paced from door to window and back again. She had been doing so continuously for the last 25 minutes. The paper contained the translated text from the roll in the second stone jar. She had been studying it and talking to herself for an hour, first at the table and now hastening back and forth across the room. Diaz thought he could see track marks in the carpet, and it was getting on his nerves.

When his cell phone rang, he answered it, not recognizing the international phone number. “Si?”

“Diaz, it’s Tolen. Please answer me with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ responses: is Jade still there with you?”

“Where are you? We’re losing valuable time.”

“Diaz,” Tolen’s words hardened. “Don’t say another word. Just listen to me.”

There was a peculiar tone in the American’s voice which caught Diaz’s attention; something grave. He curtailed any further outbursts, waiting for Tolen to continue.

“ ‘Yes’ or ‘no’ answers only,” Tolen reiterated. “Are you the only one who can hear me at the moment?”

“Yes.”

“Is Jade there with you?”

“Yes,” Diaz responded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jade giving him a curious stare. She had stopped pacing and was standing in the middle of the room.

“Two things: first, I understand your concern about our condensed time. I have a strong lead I’m following. Please contact the Cathedral of San Salvador and arrange for one of the docents or priests to show me the crime scene at the Cámara Santa. I’ll be at the church in three hours.”

Diaz did not like it, but he knew from Tolen’s tone there was no use in arguing. “Si, Señor.”

“Second, I’ve uncovered information that implies Dr. Mollur has not been completely truthful with us. I suggest you be on guard.”

Surprised, Diaz cast a wary eye toward Jade then broke off the gaze before she noticed.

“Given what I’ve just told you, do not disclose my activities to Jade. Tell her I’ll be back in a few hours. When you contact the church in Oviedo, do so without her knowledge. I don’t want her to know where I’m going.”

“I understand,” Diaz said. The accusation that Dr. Jade Mollur was somehow involved was startling, and Diaz was still reeling from the news when the line went dead.