The Secret of the Ancient Alchemist (27 page)

“
You bungling ass! What have you done now?”

Chapter 59

“
How dare
KD shut his phone on me? Idiot!” LaPlotte fumed, fearing the
ancient secrets would be known.

“
I’ll
burn those heretic pages,” he said, “and purge the world of demonic
ideology and fantastic claims once and for all. Hart will rot in
hell.”

He knew
he shouldn’t have made the call to KD but was desperate to know if
Hart was dead. Laplotte stood at the Louvre’s damaged
Medieval Base of
the Dungeon
, the sight
of which distressed him more than KD did. The base, a cylindrical
structure surrounded by towering walls, was built by Philippe
Auguste to defend the Seine in the thirteenth century. From it, the
Louvre was borne and it was of immense importance. It was popular
with visitors as it gave them a chance to walk around the moat of
the medieval fortress and pass to Salle Saint-Louis.

Now it was
cracked and LaPlotte despaired. His Jesuit ancestors must be
screaming, he thought. It was here, before the crack of dawn
centuries ago, that many were inducted in the Order of the Oath to
annihilate disbelievers, the savages who perpetrated heresy. Today,
it was the induction point of his order called the Brotherhood.
Many members had military backgrounds as did its founder, Ignatius
of Loyola.

He sighed. It
was at a meeting carded for the end of the month that a decision
about destroying the gospel pages would have been made. It was too
late to find another site. The meeting would have to wait. Even
with powerful water pressure jets and many more restorers at hand,
the task was never going to be completed on time.

“
Continue,” he said to his workers with a wave of his hand,
heading back to his small office in the Cour Caree.

LaPlotte felt
pain in his leg as he climbed the steps to his office wondering how
many more miles he would walk before his job was over and done.
Catching his breath at the top of the staircase, he moved to his
room. With an old Rudd key, he unlocked a safe and stared at the
ancient pages of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene. He wiped his hands
dry and, putting a pair of latex gloves on, placed them on his
desk.

“
He who
has ears to hear, let them never hear of these pages,” LaPlotte
cried. “They’re hideous, an abomination of the sacred!”

He switched his
desk lamp on. The light made it easier for him to decipher the
etched lines of the pages. With his nimble fingers, he arranged the
pages in order. He grabbed a hand lens and passed it over page
fourteen, a page he had left out on his desk earlier on. He came so
close to the page that his glasses reflected the Coptic writing. A
learned man in many ways, LaPlotte didn’t need to question the
authenticity of the papyri. He did date the fragments and had
chemically analysed the pigment. The translation he did himself,
and, except for a few lines of faded words, he was sure of what he
had in his possession. Neither did he need to question the identity
of Mary in the gospel. It was Mary Magdalene, the woman of mischief
who caused him much grief. Now, there she was in the ancient text
seeking wisdom from the Lord and an explanation for a vision she
had of Him in a dream.

His phone rang
now. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“
Mr.
LaPlotte?”

“
Why are
you calling me, Foster?”

“
Something went wrong.”

“
What do
you mean? Is Hart dead, just like the fool, La Croix, who wanted to
discredit our renaissance art? Why’d he call Rembrandt an ass for
painting The Baptism of the Eunuch? It is exquisite, perfect. Mais
Non, La Croix called it blasphemy.”

“
Be calm,
LaPlotte.”

“
Calm
myself you say? Hart wants to destroy my belief. I will not let
him! Is he dead?”

Foster exhaled.
“He isn’t yet but I’ll take care of everything. I just called to
tell you be careful. The police are now involved in this
matter.”

“
Do not
call me unless Hart is dead.”

“
I
won’t.”

“
I’m
waiting on your call, Foster.”

LaPlotte
switched his phone off and carefully put the papyrus pages away
again. He glanced at his watch. It was better to head home, he
thought.

Chapter 60

In his chateau
on Avenue du General de Gaulle, he sat waiting on news of Hart’s
demise. Except for a housekeeper and gardener who came by three
times a week, there was no one else in his house. LaPlotte’s wife,
a flirtatious socialite, had died young and childless.

It felt
quite hot that evening. His eighteenth century home had no air
condition and he had to make do with a fan. Dressed in a brown silk
gown, he sat in an embossed armchair and gazed out at his French
garden which he cherished. The hedges were immaculately trimmed as
it was for eons. The perfect, symmetrical
parterres
bloomed with bright flowers of marigold, tulips
and asters. The lion fountain, his pride and joy, sat centrefold,
its mouth wide and treacherous with water.

His loneliness
cheated him from enjoying the fruits of his ageing life. Still, he
took comfort in the fact that heresy would become a thing of the
past. He didn’t even worry about the missing pages for it was a
foregone conclusion that they would never be found.

His leg
started to hurt again but the pain wasn’t as much as the pain that
came from the documents he had in his hand. One was from the
Journal of
Archaeology
and the
other was
The Naples Document
. Both claimed that the writings of an Incan Jesuit cleric,
Blas Valera, existed. Valera was a key person to the Spanish
because he was half Inca, half Spanish. He spoke the native
language and wrote Quipu. Valera documented many things. The most
despicable to LaPlotte was that the Inca learnt nothing from the
Spanish. They already knew Christian truths. Valera had been
imprisoned many times for his radical statements and may have been
killed when he attempted to go to the Pope.

“
They
should’ve killed the savage sooner,” LaPlotte said
aloud.

For years,
LaPlotte feared Valera’s Quipu writings would be found. He gasped
the day Arthur Bentley said he had. He had held discussions with
the archaeologist about their authenticity. Bentley had indicated
to him that the Inca had the ability to prophesy and heal and that
Olsen had decoded Valera’s Quipus. All LaPlotte wanted was to get
hold of the material. They would be soon stolen from Bentley’s lab
at SARDS in Colombia as he had ordered. He did not know how to read
them and it didn’t matter. All that did was his mission to destroy
the lot and to rid the world of Olsen and Hart.

As he got up to
get a glass of water, his right hand touched the button of his
sensitive TV remote. LaPlotte was stopped dead in his tracks. He
stared at the image of Foster surrounded by a barrage of reporters
on CNN. Not far from him, KD stood handcuffed.

“
General
Foster, did you order the killing of Thomas Hart?” a reporter
shouted at the top her voice.

Dressed in a
dark suit and silk tie, Foster glared at her. “I did not!”

“
Kevin
Drake has given testimony to that effect. Are you saying he’s
lying?’

“
He is
and I have nothing further to say to anyone at this point and I
won’t until I speak to my attorneys.”

He could see
Foster moving towards the exit of the FDI headquarters. He heard
another reporter shout out.

“
Is there
a French connection to this whole affair? Is Mr. Michel LaPlotte,
curator of the Louvre, involved?”

Foster walked
out the building looking straight ahead. LaPlotte was glad Foster
ignored the question. He switched the television off. As he turned
to get the glass of water, he saw a police car approaching his
wrought iron gate.

Chapter 61

“
We’re
almost there,” the Peruvian driver said. The man’s voice pulled
Hart from his thoughts. How far was he from getting the missing
pages, he wondered. Had Cathy succeeded in cornering the Frenchman?
Laplotte was no fool. He was undeniably a man of a thousand faces.
He could slip out of anything. Still, Cathy was a fox, a
trap-setter, wise to the world of men. She was bold, yet graceful
and charming. He had started to get that look in her eyes, he
noted, and he didn’t mind at all. He was soft-hearted when it came
to women and had a great fear of misleading them. But, this time it
seemed real. He was drawn to Cathy in ways he never before
experienced. Maybe the chemistry was right or maybe it was in her
easy manner. He found himself thinking of her. A strange occurrence
for him. He would bet on her capabilities any day. Laplotte would
not escape this time. He was sure. His anxious thoughts didn’t last
long. His phone beeped. It was Cathy.

“
Laplotte
is dead, Tom.”

“
Dead?“

“
He shot
himself in his bedroom.”

“
What’s
going to happen now?”

“
I didn’t
quite expect this, Tom. Laplotte had used a room in the Louvre with
an old safe. I’m sure the pages are in there.”

Hart felt
as if thunder rolled in his head.
Could the realm truly be the portal to
another world?
He would
know soon. He collected himself as Cathy’s voice poured through the
line again.

“
Listen,
Terrance Nash of the Federal Department of Investigations is on his
way. He’s investigating LaPlotte’s role in the attempt to
assassinate you and the murder of Angela Keller, the woman who died
when you were shot. Foster is out on bail. The keys to LaPlotte’s
safe are in the hands of the French police. Nash will get
them.”

“
I hope
so, Cathy.”

“
Be calm.
You’re almost there.” She ended the call.

Sitting in the
back of the car, he moved through the town of Trujillo. The town
was the first to be captured by the Spanish. He saw the Moche
motifs that typified the town as he headed to the ancient Peruvian
city of Chan Chan. He figured that, within the confines of the
ancient city, he would find proof of supernatural matter.

He would
leave no stone untouched in his quest for unearthing the mysteries
of life. Gods had come to earth and walked among common people
speaking of their worlds and teaching them of their path. This was
the land of the Sun God,
Inti
.

His excitement
teemed as he drew closer to the city. Ten minutes later, he walked
along Chan Chan’s citadel where Renaldo Villando stood waiting for
him. Renaldo came from a shamanic lineage. He was dressed in jeans
and a green poncho. A red chullo covered his head. His attractive
smile shone from a distance as did his eyes that were dark and
alert.

“
Mr.
Hart?” he called out. It wasn’t difficult to find Hart with his
blonde hair blowing in the wind. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Renaldo held his hand out.

“
Same
here,” Hart replied.

“
We have
to sit on the ground.” The thirty-five year old chuckled. “There
are no seats around.”

Hart sat and
pulled his knees close to his chest, as he liked doing. He felt the
warmth of sun on his face. A peaceful aura encircled him. Above,
ospreys flew high in the sky and chameleons slithered though sparse
bush. A few feet away, an Australian couple was admiring the Chimor
artefacts in the Tschudi complex of Chan Chan.

“
What can
I do for you, Mr. Hart?”

“
I’m
interested in your culture.”

“
You mean
healing?” Renaldo pressed. “I’m not a curandero yet. It takes years
to become one. You need a curandero shaman for healing and
medicines from the Amazon jungle, like Ayahuasca and San Pedro
cactus.”

“
No, I’m
not here about healing, Renaldo. I came to get
information.”

“
About?”

“
Let’s
begin with the Inca prophecy. I know you’re Q’ero.”

“
The
world would change, Mr. Hart.”

There was no
mistaking it, Renaldo was certain.

“
Who
was
Inti
,
then?”

Renaldo removed
his hat to reveal a head of thick, black hair. As he looked over
the ruins of the Chimor Empire, it seemed like he wanted to speak
but couldn’t find words.

“
Just
give me your thoughts,” Hart prodded.

“
I’m
thinking of how best to answer you. Our culture is different from
yours. This life is but a moment in time. We think more of the
great beyond. That’s why you see so many sacred places. It is
said
Inti
stepped
into our time.”

“
Stepped
in from where?”

“
He was
sent to earth by Viracocha. He arrived at a cave in Pacaritambo
carrying a golden staff. We don’t know how he got here.”

“
What did
he do with the staff?”

“
He
created the Temple of the Sun.”

“
Tell me
about the staff, Renaldo. I want you to think
carefully.”

“
It was
golden. The Temple of the Sun wasn’t built by humans because it’s
was an observatory to observe Pleiades, the constellation of
stars.”