Indisputable Proof (37 page)

Anat picked up on the thread of the conversation. “Ultimately, we decided to do what we do best. We leveraged the one thing we had, and which most people in the world didn’t.”

“Money,” Tolen said.

“Yes, money, Mr. Tolen,” Anat said with a smirk. “We got the idea when a mutual acquaintance of ours passed away from a lingering illness. We thought, ‘what if we offered a fortune to anyone who could prove the existence of life after death?’ Would so-called professionals and scientists in varying fields of discipline be willing to take such an obscene challenge? Frankly, we had our reservations whether anyone would undertake the challenge, but as it turns out, mankind is as greedy as it appears. As daunting…no make that, as impossible…as the assignment we laid out was, over one hundred people took the bait. Can you believe it? Those idiots were so blinded by greed they failed to recognize the implausibility of our request. Life after death…what arrogance would lead someone to think they could substantiate such a concept? They would stand a better chance of discovering alien life or the existence of Nessie in the Scottish loch.”

“Yet it was this insatiable greed,” Ganhaden said, “that started a truly magnificent show. With Mr. Anat playing the role of the terminally ill billionaire desperate for knowledge of his continued existence after death, we gathered the masses, made the offer, and sat back to watch the events unfold.”

The reality struck Tolen. “It was all nothing more than a game?”

“The term ‘game’ is somewhat roguish,” Veers added with a high-pitched chuckle. “No one else could have pulled it off.” Her tone was flippant.

“Obviously, Kappel had no knowledge of the charade,” Tolen said as they continued their slow pace down the gallery. He could feel his anger stirring.

“Correct,” Anat replied. “Like the others, he thought I was dying and believed the reward to be real. Kappel was in the perfect position. I had tasked him with monitoring the activities of the potential claimants. They were to check in with him as to their progress. His strategic alliance with Pascal Diaz was most surprising and, frankly, brilliant. In retrospect, it was one outcome we never saw coming. In many ways, it made the experience that much more intriguing. Pity to lose such good help, though.”

Tolen considered the circular scars on the back of Kappel’s hand which appeared to be the result of someone snuffing out a burning cigar: a clear sign of Anat’s abuse. The two men had obviously felt no love loss toward each other. Tolen stopped and turned toward the three. “Do you take no moral accountability for what you’ve done?”

“What we did, my good man, was not illegal. We had no control over the ripple effect,” Ganhaden added.

“What transpired surprised even us, Mr. Tolen,” Veers added with a salacious smile.

Tolen’s rage flared. “You stoked the fire of man’s most deep-seated desire, and preyed upon the participants’ greed. You offered the reward knowing full well what the ramifications could be. People would do anything to earn billions of dollars, including cold-blooded murder.” He could visualize Reba Zee lying on the airplane cabin floor, sprawled in a puddle of her own blood. Tolen had discovered only after the fact that, besides the known deaths, many others had died in the pursuit of the prize. A physician in Amsterdam had his assistant purposely stop his heart so he could experience death. Unfortunately, the process went too long, and the doctor died. Another man attempted a form of transcendental fasting in the snow-covered Alps in order to obtain “spiritual oneness” and film the spirits which would appear around him. He froze to death with the video camera still in his hand. An occultist-turned-astronaut in China launched himself aboard a private rocket in hopes of filming heaven, which he believed to be masked just beyond the dark side of the moon. Other reports continued to roll in. To date, the CIA had associated 19 deaths with Anat’s offer; rational people driven to irrational behavior for an outlandish monetary reward.

“Nevertheless, the legal system doesn’t see it that way,” Anat said sternly.

“So you flew me here to brag about your efforts? Why? What makes you think I won’t kill you?”

“We did our research, Mr. Tolen,” Veers said. “You’re a prudent man who is not prone to excessive threats or unrestrained acts of aggression. Still, we temporarily took your weapon in case insanity set in.”

“And just in case you still feel the need for violence,” Ganhaden added, “Mr. Anat has a plethora of video cameras filming us at this very moment, some with very tight shots. Your career would be over, not to mention the fact that killing three billionaires would certainly land you in one of our finer European jails. Also, there are five heavily armed men waiting outside the steel door who will enter this room on a moment’s notice.”

“I bet Interpol would be very interested in your art collection. I’m sure the Hungarian government would not take too kindly that you have some of their most prized possessions,” Tolen threatened.

Anat smiled stiffly. “You and I both know I have authorities in my pocket. With one phone call, I could throw up a wall of red tape which would prevent any search and seizure for months. By then, all Interpol would find is an ornate hallway with reproductions of paintings from the Louvre, but they’d never find a single original masterpiece. I’ve been doing this far too long, Mr. Tolen, not to have thought of every contingency.”

Tolen knew Anat was right. They stopped in the middle of the corridor, and Tolen faced the three billionaires. “Then why am I here?”

Anat was the one who replied. “As I mentioned, Pascal Diaz made a claim that he had met our challenge.”

“By the way, do you have any idea where the good Mr. Diaz is these days?” Ganhaden asked in a jovial tone.

Tolen glared at the man without responding.

“It’s not important,” Anat said dismissively, “but what is important is the information Pascal Diaz had in his possession. You see, he had contacted me in late August with a fascinating, if not fictitious, claim. He said he had a report based on an analysis of white blood cells reconstituted from the dried blood on the Sudarium. Now, I have a minor in biology, Mr. Tolen, and I seem to recall that, once a white blood cell has dried, it dies, and no useful data can be gleaned from it. This would be especially true of the type of data required to substantiate Diaz’s assertion that he could prove the divinity of Jesus Christ and therefore prove His teachings of heaven and an afterlife were true. At the time, I thought the man was crazy; just another religious zealot. I told him I wouldn’t accept any of his information unless he could prove to me that he could reconstitute the white blood cells, which, of course, he was unable to do.” He paused. Tolen suddenly felt an inward satisfaction growing.

“While I never examined the report in detail,” Anat continued, “and Diaz took the only copy, I must confess, I’ve grown more and more curious about his claim.”

It was Ms. Veers’ turn to speak. “We’re intrigued by the data Mr. Diaz possessed, and frankly, we believe you were made privy to this so-called proof.”

“Surely, you understand our fascination,” Ganhaden said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “My good man, we’re willing to pay handsomely for the report, even given the ludicrousness of Diaz’s claim.”

“Pascal Diaz still has the report. Good luck finding him,” Tolen said, turning away and heading back toward the door.

“We don’t take this knowledge lightly,” Anat called to him. “Every piece of artwork in here is yours if you provide the information we’re asking for. This collection is valued at over six billion American dollars.”

Tolen continued walking.

“I’ll throw in the estate, too,” Anat shouted as Tolen moved further away.

“And Mr. Ganhaden and I will each throw in an additional $5 billion,” Shauna Veers said in a high voice with growing desperation.

Tolen paused and slowly turned. He looked to the threesome, each wearing an expression of twisted anticipation, waiting for him to succumb to their gluttonous offer of wealth. No longer were the three billionaires jovial, bantering with him in witty repartee. They had become stoic, and desperation etched their faces. It was remarkable how the tables had suddenly turned. He now held the advantage.

Tolen looked around at the artwork, up at the ornate arched ceiling, and down the long hallway, as if appraising it all and taking in the grandeur. It was an exquisite collection. No, it was more than that. It was the most fantastic collection he had ever witnessed outside of the Louvre. He could not begin to fathom the history and prestige of the assembled artwork spread before him.

Tolen could hear his father’s words:
Material things don’t make the man. It’s his actions that forever define him.

“Sorry, lady and gentlemen. As you so aptly put it, the proof you seek is impossible to quantify. Your combined fortunes could not buy knowledge which was never meant for mankind. You’ll just have to wait and see like the rest of us.” He turned and continued toward the door.

“You’re lying!” Anat screamed. “Pascal Diaz had the proof. Where is he? What did you do with the lab report?”

Tolen spun, locking on Anat. “Do you know about my father?”

“Yes,” Anat said. “Jasper Tolen is lying in a coma in Florida. My sources tell me the man has a living will with a DNR stipulation, yet you haven’t carried out his wishes. It appears you’re struggling to let him go.”

Tolen felt a clawing sadness. “That’s right.” He paused. “Don’t you think if I had this proof you’re asking for that I would let go? I would free the man’s soul.” Tolen lowered his voice, speaking slowly. “The proof you seek does not exist, and it never will.”

With that, he turned. He reached the door, but it remained shut before him. In a moment, there was a buzz, a click, and it slowly swung open. Five armed men stood at the door blocking his way. Tolen turned and looked at Anat, Veers, and Ganhaden as they approached. They stopped when they reached him.

Anat started to say something, but hesitated. He waved a hand at the armed men, and they separated, allowing Tolen to pass. “My driver will return you to the airport. You’re booked on the next flight back to DC. I believe Dr. Mollur will be happy to discover you’re okay.”

Tolen made his way down the spiraling staircase. He never looked back.

****

In the limousine, Samuel Tolen watched the last of Simon Anat’s estate recede in the distance.

Much had transpired during the five days when he had teamed with Dr. Jade Mollur and Inspector Diaz and traveled the globe in search of the cache of Jesus’ earthly objects and the Sudarium. It was an assignment he would never forget for both its triumphs and failures, when his own personal agenda had nearly undermined their success. Ultimately, it had turned out to be a sojourn of both duty and enlightenment.

Nothing would ease the pain of Reba Zee’s death or the deaths of all the innocent people caught up in the deadly game orchestrated by the three billionaires, but Tolen was now able to take some solace in the fact that, with all their collective money, they could not obtain the one thing they craved.

For himself, he no longer needed the proof.

Now, in the back of the limousine approaching Zurich International Airport, Tolen considered Anat’s comment about his father.

You haven’t carried out his wishes. It appears you’re struggling to let him go.

Tolen drew in a deep breath and exhaled.

The limousine pulled into the unloading area, and Tolen climbed out. The driver rolled down the window and held out a boarding pass to a flight destined for Washington, DC. He never said a word. Tolen took the ticket and proceeded inside the airport. Tolen glanced at the security area where passengers were congregated, slowly passing through into the concourse. Then he looked to the ticketing counter at the other end.

For whatever reason, at that moment, Samuel Tolen vividly recalled something his father had said to him in the dream as they were in the boat fishing. “
I’ve got to go, now. It’s been time for me to go
.”

Tolen moved to the ticketing counter. After standing in line a few minutes, he presented his boarding pass to the airline agent at the counter. “I’d like to exchange this for a ticket to Jacksonville, Florida, U.S.A.”

EPILOGUE

September 19. Wednesday – 5:09 p.m. Cairo, Egypt

The following day, Egyptian First Lieutenant Ishaq el Sha’er was called down to the basement in the evidence collection area at the police station in Cairo. It was the end of his shift, and he was ready to go home, so he hoped to conduct whatever business was necessary and be on his way.

Manu Bustaniq, the warrant officer in charge of evidence collection, was waiting for him at the counter. “What do you want me to do with these?” Bustaniq said, holding up two large, opaque, sealed plastic bags.

To el Sha’er, they looked like two pillows. “What are they?”

“The clothes of the man and woman you arrested on the Giza Plateau last Friday morning: the American and the British woman. The major general had us give them fresh clothes.”

“They were not charged with any crime. Have them burned.”

“Yes, sir, but I would like to point out one thing,” Bustaniq said, pulling apart the seal on one of the bags. He removed a pair of dark pants. He pointed to the cuff of one pant leg. “Were you aware of this?”

At first, he saw nothing but dark material. El Sha’er leaned in to take a closer look. Then he saw a single, wet drop. “It’s some kind of fluid.”

“I’m not sure, but I believe it’s blood,” Bustaniq said, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “It stayed fresh inside the sealed bag. Maybe we let the American go too quickly.”

“There’s not much we can do now,” el Sha’er commented. “Still, reseal the bag to keep it fresh and send it to Mr. Pakhom. I’d like to know if it is blood and who it may have belonged to.”

****

Three days later, el Sha’er walked into the Yousev Laboratory. It was a private facility which performed forensic tests for the Cairo police.

“First Lieutenant el Sha’er, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Mr. Pakhom, the chief technician, greeted him and led him to his office, closing the door behind them.

“Likewise, although I have to admit, I am a bit confused. I received a message to come here but received no clarification why.”

“Please, have a seat,” Pakhom pointed to a nearby chair as he took a seat at his desk. “It’s in regard to the blood sample on the pants leg your warrant officer brought us several days ago. Was this evidence for an active case?” Pakhom’s brow furrowed.

“Actually, no,” el Sha’er saw no further need to elaborate.

“Ah, very good, very good. It had me worried,” Pakhom nodded.

The man was acting most unusual. “Is there a problem with the sample?”

“Well, yes, it’s been contaminated.”

“Who contaminated it?”

“Ah, now
that
I have no idea,” Pakhom chuckled. It was an uncomfortable laugh. “It was tampered with before it was delivered to our laboratory.”

“What are you talking about?” el Sha’er felt ballooning frustration. “Tampered with in what way?”

“Please,” Pakhom motioned with his hand toward a report on the desktop. He picked it up. “I believe someone is playing a joke on the police department, although I must confess, I don’t know how they did it.”

“Mr. Pakhom,” el Sha’er said firmly. He was hovering on the edge of anger. “Tell me exactly what you’re talking about.”

“Well,” Pakhom started, somewhat nervously, “the blood is most definitely human. It appears to have splattered on the man’s pant leg, but when we analyzed the chromosomes from the white blood cells, they are…wrong. There’s no other way to describe it.”

“How is it
wrong
?”

Pakhom continued. “It’s an impossible, inconceivable combination. I personally ran the test four times to confirm the results.” Pakhom was waving his hands in the air to exemplify his mystification. His breathing had become erratic and audible.

What is wrong with this man?
el Sha’er thought. “I have no more time for games, Mr. Pakhom. Explain.”

Pakhom drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay, I shall do my best. Are you familiar with human chromosomes?”

“Familiar, yes. An expert, no.”

Pakhom sifted through the report until he found the information he was looking for as if to confirm the data one last time before saying it aloud. “Every human gene has 46 chromosomes: 23 from the mother and 23 from the father. The 23 from the mother are composed of 22 autosomes and an “X” sex chromosome. Likewise, the father gives each of us 22 autosomes and either an “X” or “Y” sex chromosome. With the mother’s “X” chromosome, and depending on which chromosome is donated by the father, the result is a combination of either XX, which makes a person female, or XY, which makes them male. This is a fact. There can be no deviations.”

This man is teaching me grade school biology
, el Sha’er thought as he felt his frustration building again. “Get to the point.”

“Well,” Pakhom swallowed hard, “the white blood cells in this sample had a total of 24 chromosomes instead of 46. It included the usual 23 that came from the mother’s side and then a “Y” sex chromosome. This “Y” sex chromosome resulted in the person being male, but because it lacked the other 22 autosomes, it suggests the man whose blood is on that pant leg was fathered from a source
other than a human male
. Or,” Pakhom chuckled awkwardly, “
wasn’t fathered at all
. Neither case, of course, is possible.”

After Pakhom finished, el Sha’er nodded slowly and stood. “Now I understand. The sample is corrupt. You may dispose of it, Mr. Pakhom.”