Promethea (11 page)

             
I was getting impatient. Father Bauer was sounding more and more crazed with each statement he was allowed to make. His attempts to weave around the truth were no longer pleasant. I knew that my urge to unearth his true intentions could no longer be contained.

             
“Father Bauer, what are you trying to say?” I asked him irritably.

             
“We attempted to intervene if you call that an intervention. It was probably God’s plan all along. We were just pawns in the Almighty’s grand design. He had already provided mankind with all the right tools needed to summon Christ’s second coming, through the strides we’re making in the field of…” He paused abruptly, as if trying to stop himself in the very last minute.

             
“Yes?!” Signs of impatience were evident all over my face.

             
“Science.” He said. “Resurrection through genetic engineering
.
”

              The interrogation room’s door swung open in full force; Adam had crashed in, furiously angry. He could no longer stay restrained in the confinements of the other room, watching the mad priest’s plot unfold without his involvement. He was somewhat a religious man himself. At least significantly more than I ever was, which is why Bauer’s radical revelations triggered this rather flashy intervention.

             
I knew, for a fact, that he must have opposed the bishop’s views to a great extent. It was a time where virtually nothing could remain hidden from public for too long. And with all that what was going on in the world right now, people needed not yet an additional dent on how they viewed faith and religion. Clerics had simply lost that type of luxury: to cause yet another severe crisis of faith.

             
Nowadays, conventional organized religions were on the back foot, as people indulged in every known form of earthly pleasures. Human beings needed an outlet for their constant daily struggles: terrorism, unemployment, insurance, loans, mortgages and even child support. It all led to a very real kind of hell, one that they did not have to die to bear witness to. Gradually, the lines outside of bars became longer than those outside of churches. And as opposed to lottery tickets, sales of all kinds of Holy Books’ were not exactly thriving. Matrimony was hardly ever a preference; it was all replaced with the relative comfort of non-formal relationships. Yet even when the fewer masses held and the less church bells tolled, there were still a few pockets of blind resistance in some parts of the world.

             
Adam had stepped inside the all-grey, concrete finished, interrogation room. He was dragging along a black steel chair, which he slammed menacingly to the floor, adjusting it in place, before sitting on it in a backward upright position.

             
Bauer, on the other hand, did not flinch. Earthly justice was no longer even his frailest concern. He had already faced all kinds of psychological horrors in the past few months that even the hint of a hundred lifetimes in prison could no longer stir the dimmest of fears within him. He had believed that real terror still awaited him later in the afterlife, where he would stand alone, addressing his maker to answer for all the crimes committed in his name. This was what had caused him real fright. This was the reason why he had stepped forward and contacted the only person he trusted. It was a frail attempt to slightly rectify what he had done. Even if he believed that any effort made to avert the forthcoming Armageddon was futile.

             
“I never expected to be an accessory to doomsday.” Father Bauer murmured. He sounded both sincere and apologetic; even if those sentiments were absolutely worthless by the time he stands trial.

             
“Father Bauer.” I scornfully smiled. “The spear of Vienna does not contain any traces of Christ’s DNA. In fact, it was crafted 10 centuries later, as you already know. Your fanatics have committed theft and murder for absolutely no reason.”

             
Father Bauer gave little attention to my remarks. In fact, I suspected he still considered himself trapped in one of his recurring hallucinations; a truly dreadful state of mind he was in. I very much doubted Bauer’s abilities to converse, or to be even completely certain of our presence.

             
Bauer’s silence and long pauses did not appeal to my partner, neither did my lenient approach to the interrogation. He bolted straight out of his chair and lifted his fist upwards before hurling it down, almost breaking his hand. The blow was exceptionally loud. It was accompanied with a distinctive sound of fractured bones and snapping cartilages. Adam must have broken a finger or two in the process.
I have never seen him this angry.

             
“ANSWER HER, GOD DAMN IT!” He yelled in such a commanding threatening tone that reminded me of yet another Austrian, Karl Schuster.
Did their brief time together get the best of him?
I looked at my partner trying to remind him that any forced confession was not going to stand in court. No matter the circumstances, he had to curb his temper.

             
“We… they… are in possession of the Roman spear, even if the Vatican is not aware of it. Russo had already replaced it with an accurate replica.” Bauer then stopped, hesitant to disclose one last bit of information. “Your recommendation letter, it played a role in the procedure.” He said nervously.

             
Adam receded to his chair in disbelief. He could not accept the fact that they were both meddled and toyed with by this clergyman and his deceiving impious impostor friends. The obscene philosophies they were spreading resembled those of an extreme demonic cult, not an Abrahamic religion. How were they even granted esteemed positions in their respective and respected churches and dioceses? It was a day of firsts, a chain of outrageous revelations.

             
But then again:
Is human cloning even possible?
Adam wondered. He had never even heard of a relevant scientific breakthrough. He had even always considered such notions to be the stuff of fiction rather than reality. He never thought that the day would come when he would have to deal with such moral implications first-hand. Such ethical dilemmas should not have risen for at least a future generation or two, he kept thinking.

             
“Is it even possible?” He inquired.

             
“There’s a good chance it is.” I timidly replied.

             
Needless to say, I was the one buying all the books back at home. Adam’s intellect was purely intuitive, he was always the quickest to draw remarks and point out anomalies. There was always the chance that he was the smartest person in any given room; the one with the sharpest intellect and cracker of the wittiest puns. Yet with all these due credentials, he had always considered the act of reading as a tedious and boring affair. He only saw value in being street smart. This was the only way he could deal with criminals, he had always said.

             
I, on the other hand, being always envious of his superior cognitive abilities, could only rely heavily on my relentless pursuit of knowledge. It might have all begun with a simple debate with Emily, but by the heavens, this passion, like wildfire, was insatiable. So when it came to this particular question, I was certain I could provide an ample feedback.

             
A few years back, the renowned Harvard school of medicine genetics professor, George Church, made headlines when he claimed that he was fully able to recreate a Neanderthal baby. His only gripe was stumbling upon the right woman, one who would be willing to bear and deliver such an offspring. Church was one of the many brilliant minds that worked on one of mankind’s greatest achievements: The Human Genome Project. Yet his intentions were strictly and purely noble. The geneticist explained that the key to cure certain diseases such as cancer and HIV lied in synthetic biology and studying how the human genome evolved.

             
Later and in the same year, another peculiar breakthrough took place. Japanese scientists disclosed what was yet another leap forward in the same controversial field. They were able to clone a mouse from a donor’s
single drop of blood
, using the same method Dolly the sheep was conceived by in Edinburgh more than two decades ago. The conceived mouse had a normal life span and even a healthy offspring.

             
What many may have missed, however, was the fact that humans and mice were actually so much alike; we are both warm-blooded mammals with the same basic bodily functions and major organs. We also possessed similar hormones and nervous systems that behaved analogously. Mice and rats actually shared so many physiological and behavioural traits with human beings that pharmaceutical companies already use the rodents for many drug-testing purposes. Obviously, it was just a matter of time before a random rebellious scientist, one that possessed some more relaxed ethical boundaries, was able to build on the foundations made available by such and similar innovations.

             
“Do you know who is behind this? Have you ever met this
light bringer?”
I asked Bauer, who was looking oblivious as if there was nothing more he could possibly offer.

             
“It was all through Russo. He was my only connection.” He shuddered.

             
“Do not expect us to believe that you only came here for a mere confession. There must be something else you’re not telling us.” Adam intruded.

             
Bauer crossed his brows in a serious attempt to concentrate, nervously stroking his uncharacteristically dishevelled beard and tapping on the table with his fingertips. He travelled alone to a dark forgotten recess of his mind, shedding a light on the entangled creases of his brain. It was evident that he was making quite an effort in his dire attempts to remember.

             
“There was a name… Yanis Koufakis.” Bauer muttered. “I overheard he was the lead scientist working on the Promethea Project.”

             
“
The Promethea Project?
Why assign a heathen reference to what you consider a holy crusade?” I asked dubiously.

             
“Prometheus was the Titan who brought the torch of light to the human race, Promethea was a name worthy of the woman who would replicate such an astounding spiritual fate. Yet I am now afraid that it was not the seed of Christ that they were after. It must have been the seed of the unholy… The Antichrist. Fitting, how he was born from the womb of science.” Bauer answered.

             
“Is there any chance you are aware of their location?” Adam countered the shaky priest aggressively.

             
“They should be based on a remote eccentric Greek island called Tinos… this is it.” Bauer said. “I have now given you everything I know.” He concluded.

             
I gave Adam a remorseful glance as we both stepped outside the interrogation room. “It is all my fault. I shouldn’t have convinced you to send that letter.” I said regretfully.

             
Yet Adam was prudent. He placed a stray lock of ginger hair behind my ear and caressed my bangs.

             
“You should no longer fret as long as I am around, freckles.” He said playfully. He ensured me that everything was going to be alright and that he would do everything in his power to mend this. My once tensed facial features reacted to his vows; they gradually relaxed with each soothing oath he took upon himself.

             
Adam then reached for a passing colleague across the hallway, asking him if he could arrange logistics for our imminent Greek trip.

              The outlandish ambiance of the exotic city of Athens lived up to my unusually high expectations. The ancient city of three thousand and four hundred years of ripe age was studded with hints of its glimmering glorious past and splendid glory. It extended outwardly and soundly around the defiant withering Acropolis, which bore witness to a long extensive list of significant history-defining events. From that soaring high vantage point, lush fields of green were all there was to be seen. I was truly taken by how stimulating was the cradle of western civilization, as I stood there, inspired by the one true birthplace of democracy.

             
The influence and political weight of modern day Greece bore little resemblance to its past magnificent past, however. Its lingering financial problems were dire and very real. Nowadays, the very foundations of the country laid in shambles, as Greeks still struggled to face the worst financial crisis in both recent and old memory. Suffice to say, whatever was left from its glorious national pride, it sat loosely on very ancient foundations. Yet, it was only with meagre individual effort that true hope still remained: I was most impressed by how their houses seemed to gleam under their sizzling seductive sun. Citizens, here, have fixed vast sheets of ray-capturing cells to produce energy and battle their soaring utility bills; it was a worthy drop in the bucket.

             
My only gripe, however, was that they city was typically a ghost town this time of the year; the annual exodus of Athenians to the vast golden Greek beaches was already well underway.

             
“Koufakis is a compatriot of another prolific Greek Cypriot scientist called Panayiotis Zavos.” Adam’s reassuring voice rose softly. Apparently the Cypriot was making incredible strides of his own, in the field of human cloning. His work was so controversial that his peers and countrymen criticized him publically for his bold approach to this exceptionally provocative branch of science.

             
“According to these reports” Adam continued. “Zavos repeatedly refused to hold any meetings with Koufakis, strictly objecting to his
dangerous ideologies.
Needless to say, we ought to be extra careful with any man deemed too extreme for Zavos.”

             
Rafina was a key Greek seaport, which was also our temporary destination. The maritime hub, while not as vital or as extensive as the Port of Piraeus, served as a connection between the Greek mainland and the many wonders of the exotic Aegean islands. Here, hundreds of people stacked in endless rows all around us, as they awaited the arrival of their corresponding ferries. They seemed eager, willing and happy to exchange what was a yearlong worth of savings for a month-long worth of pleasure. Yet their restless wait for the mighty boats lingered, it stretched for almost half an hour more than we had hoped. As for our trip, it was also far from being enjoyable. We were to endure endless sessions of seasickness and exhaustion, as we wrestled the waves for four long hours, just to reach our destination.

             
Ultimately, the giant ferry had decelerated by a massive concrete quay wall. And once settled, its captain signalled for his assistants to lower its one giant squeaky metal door and allow for the descent of the flurry of both young and old upon the quiet wharfs of Tinos. For some odd reason, the spectacle reminded me of the story of Jonah and the whale… Perhaps Bauer’s interpretations were finally getting the best of me.

             
The island of Tinos was one of the largest of the Cyclades, the famous archipelago that sprinkled the Aegean Sea. It did not lay very far from its flamboyant and popular cousin either; the youthful ever-partying Mykonos, which could actually be well seen from where we stood here on shore. Yet the island’s location was not the only thing that opposed that of Mykonos, which was the principal destination for young promiscuous lovers and those looking for wild unrestrained affection. Here… life was a lot simpler and more spiritually contained.

             
This truth became even more obvious by the time two Greek officers came to pick up our luggage and assist us in our journey. It was then when I noticed an extensive red carpet that stretched along a lengthy sloped stone road ending well beyond our reach. On it, numerous pilgrims, predominantly women, crawled in humiliation, on their hands and knees all the way to a magnificent white shrine-like structure about half a kilometre uphill. I pulled Adam’s shirt to point his attention to the mysterious scene, which was apparently all too familiar to the natives.

             
“Do you know what this is?” I asked.

             
“This is the church of Our Lady Tinos.” One officer exclaimed.

             
“It is a form of prayer and supplication; an act of appreciation for when prayers and pleas have been answered. People are simply showing God gratitude and humility.” The other explained.

             
Though unconvinced, I chose not dwell on the peculiar event any longer.

             
During our bumpy ride to the hotel, I was more than impressed by the islanders’ immaculate and unusual craftsmanship. They had impeccably carved their mountains like jigsaw puzzle pieces allowing for a rudimentary, yet effective roads network. Here, from the mountainside, I saw how their stepped sloped pathways curved and weaved around a main central peak, where they were terraced and fortified from one side by extending stonewalls. Across these manmade steps, more than 60 villages were sporadically spread. Each village contained many humble churches, chapels and monasteries, which were so much in abundance that they competed with the houses in sheer numbers. Together, they all glimmered in a characteristically Greek, strictly white and blue, charming ensemble.

             
It took us a while before reaching our hotel, but once we got there, its courteous owner gave us a quick synopsis of the place’s heritage. He had explained to us how he turned, what was supposed to be a two-story old lady’s house, to the cosy hotel that it was today. Every place here had a history, a story behind it and I certainly liked how our room paid homage to the captivating Greek nature that surrounded it. The architect had used exposed natural stones, wooden rafters and Mediterranean ceramic patterns to adorn the beautifully incepted interiors all around us.

             
The next day, we headed for the local police station, where Yorghos Kanellis greeted us with open arms. The sun-kissed moustache-flaunting overweight friendly Greek Deputy was our law enforcement connection here in Tinos. He invited us in to his comparatively small, yet adequate office at the local police station.

             
“We have been trying to track Koufakis ever since we received your correspondence. We know he is here, even if he is laying his head low.” He revealed.

             
“Do you know what exactly is he up to?” I asked Kanellis who took one deep last gasp from his cigarette before tossing it to the floor and squashing it beneath his sturdy black leather boots.

             
“Only what you have told us in your arrest warrant.” He said, as he exhaled one long continuous cloud of toxicity. “He did not draw any attention to himself, and People here… they are religious, quiet and very friendly. They are mostly villagers, fishermen and craftsmen. They usually only mind their own business.”

             
His words triggered the memory of those believers crawling all the way to the distant white church in my head. I found the act to be a bit
too
excessive
. “Religious, yes, we saw the worshippers by the wharf. Is this a common theme in Orthodox Greece?” I asked.

             
“Only here in Tinos, it’s a local tradition of some sort. If you wish, I could take you up there before you leave.” He proposed gleefully.

             
I looked scornfully at Adam, who was more than willing to accept our host’s inadequate offer. I wondered what his true intentions were at the time. Was it just plain curiosity? Or did the spectacle actually move him enough that he felt an unstoppable urge to reconnect with his faith.

             
“We are here for a reason, Sir, we cannot afford to waste time.” I replied sternly.

             
Kanellis may have tried to look understanding, but I could tell that he was most definitely apathetic. He simply did not care much about the pitiful problems of the outside world, as he himself was sheltered from most of its troubles. Life here was simple, an endless cycle of repeatable activities. Yet with each false nod of empathy he gave, came out a word, spurting out of his mouth, that revealed a bit more of the terrible ideological misconception that he had hidden deeply within.

             
“I have to tell you, Germans are the real reason why we have our financial problems.” He said carelessly while sipping his foamy Greek Frappé through a long red plastic straw. “They never really wanted to help us, so why should we help them or care about their stolen items?
Entaksi?
” He then paused for a brief moment. “And you know… they also bombed our Acropolis in World War II!” He exclaimed.

             
“
They’re Austrians.”
Adam countered, as I sunk my face deep into the palms of my hands. “The spear was stolen in Austria… but we’re here for an endless list of other reasons and we urge you to cooperate.” He continued.

              The Greek looked subtly annoyed. He supped the last sip of coffee in an obnoxiously loud fashion then placed the large empty glass on the desk in front of him. He took his time, reaching slowly for his old phone, as he skimmed through a long list of contacts, calling them one by one in what seemed to be a friendly family chatter more than a professional call.

             
Behind us, most of his officers ran riot. They were already fully consumed by a basketball rivalry that was on television, cheering loudly and placing bets in a large empty colourful seashell that was conveniently placed by the remote control in front of them. The two teams playing were running in outfits of vivid red and lush green. I sighed, looking at my partner and wondered if Kanellis and his officers were actually paying us, or the whole situation for that matter, any attention.

             
“Well my friends, you’re in luck.” Kanellis said, putting back his phone next to the empty coffee glass as he reached to grab his car keys. “Our field officers have been able to locate your man, he was seen heading towards downtown this very second.”

             
Just like that?
Sometimes, the oldest methods are the most effective, perhaps.

             
Minutes later, we found ourselves in front of a seemingly busy local business. Kanellis took a slow full tour around the place before tapping the brakes to stop the car. Our tyres screeched not too loudly in response.

             
Outside, there were a handful of men, local Orthodox priests, in their distinctive black attires and long, fuzzy grey beards. They stood under a large neon sign that was missing a few letters. The sign, reading
φαρμακείο
, which was Greek for pharmacy, radiated a hazy bluish glow, which indicated that the drugstore was open for business.

             
It was a busy time of the month, as the pharmacists inside tried to accommodate the needs of the many senior residents who were already here in vast numbers. They all stretched their tired arms and weary tendons to get what was due out of their periodically insured prescribed pills. Among the crowds, a significantly younger peer stood rather quietly. He talked to the drugstore owner softly and in private, before disappearing together in the dark back-end of the store.

             
“That is him.” Said the Greek Deputy, pointing his chubby rounded finger outside one of the car’s windows. “That is Koufakis.”